■^'•^vTr-„ 
 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
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 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/icantornellylucyOOburn 
 
Ew JooKs FOR Children. 
 
 ^ • »» 
 
 " CAN & CAN'T " SERIES. 
 
 By the Author of " Nursery Bible Books," 
 in "Words of One Syllable. 
 
 Three Volumes, 16mo, beautifully Illustrated and Bound. 
 
 ''I CAM," or Charlie's Motto, 
 
 ''I'LL TRY," or Sensible Daisy. 
 
 "I CAK'T," or Jfelly and Lucy. 
 
 The Three in handsome box, - - - - Price, $3.00. 
 
 Nursery BIBLE BOOKS. 
 
 In Words of One Syllable. Four Volumes 4to, Illustrated 
 with 10 full-page Engravings printed in Oil Colors. 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 
 
 THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 
 
 BIBLE STORIES from the Old 
 
 Testament. Two Series. 
 
 Tlie Four in handsome box, - . - - Price, $6.00 
 Or separate, per vol., - . - . . t' 1.50 
 
 "BY AND BY" SERIES. 
 
 By Mrs. Fkederick Field. Tty-ee Volumes, 16mo, beauti- 
 fully illustrated and bound, 
 
 *' BY and BY," or Harry Leonard. 
 
 "I DIDjY'T hear," or Alice Leonard. 
 '' I FORGOT," or Will Leonard. 
 The Three in handsome box, - - - - Price, |3.00 
 
 Any of the above sent by mail, post-paid, on reo ?ipt of the 
 price, by 
 
 LEAYITT & iLLEN BROS, Publishers, ISew York. 
 

6 4 
 
 OAK AND CAN'T" 
 
 M%mMWwmif^:. 
 
 mw^M'BMW^ 
 
 By the j^uthoi| ol 
 
 I CAN," "I'LL TKT," " NURSEBT BIBLE STOItlES, IN 
 WOBDS OF ONE SYLLABLE," "ERNEST," ETC. 
 
 1^PP?T^>TPP 
 
 Leavitt & Allen Brothers. 
 
4 i 
 
 I CAN'T; 
 
 9 9 
 
 OR, 
 
 N 
 
 ELLY AND 
 
 J 
 
 UCY. 
 
 y 
 
 3^ij the itulhoii of 
 
 "l CAN," "i'LL try," "nursery BIBLE STORIES, IN 
 WORDS OF ONE SYLLABLE," " EPcNEST," ETC. 
 
 j^Ew Yoi\K : 
 LEAYITT & ALLEN BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 8 HOWARD STREET. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
 
 LEAVITT & ALLEN BROS., 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, 
 
 E. O. JENKINS. 
 STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER, 
 20 N. WILLIAM ST.. N. Y. 
 
TZ6 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It is not the I Can't of feebleness and irres^ 
 olution that is represented in this story, but the 
 I Can't of defiance and rebellion, which refuses 
 to acquiesce in God's appointments, and sets itself 
 up against His will. Nelly is one of those self- 
 willed characters who fancy that they caftnot be 
 crossed, and have a hard battle to fight before 
 they learn that I Can't is a vain and useless re- 
 ply to the messages of Gods providence, and the 
 strokes of His hand. Such stubborn wills must 
 yield at last, and it is well when they bend as 
 Nelly s did, before they are crushed by some over 
 whelming blow. 
 
 622691 ,,,„,,Ao 
 
 4 1 6 6 K* 2 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 - - 
 
 I 
 
 
 Nellt 
 
 * 
 
 II. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Going to the War, . 
 
 m. 
 
 
 The Parting, 
 
 IV. 
 
 • 
 
 Loneliness, 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 V. 
 
 JJ 
 
 Ruth, 
 
 « 
 
 m 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 ^ 
 
 The Power of Death 
 
 VII. 
 
 
 New Duties, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 • 
 
 Aunt Betsy 
 
 - 
 
 
 Peace, 
 
 IX. 
 
 i« 
 
 9 
 
 21 
 
 . 83 
 
 43 
 
 - 54 
 75 
 
 - 88 
 100 
 119 
 
IT'S NO MATTER. 
 
 Ltjltj, 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Mother's Last Words, 
 
 III. 
 
 The Father and Daughter, - 
 
 IV. 
 
 A Surprise, - - - 
 
 V. 
 Nelly's Home, - - - 
 
 VL 
 
 The Return, - 
 
 PAGE 
 
 -127 
 138 
 
 - 150 
 
 177 
 
 - 189 
 201 
 
I CAN'T. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 NELLY. 
 
 ^' "1VT"0, Daisy, I can't bear it ; it is impos- 
 _, -L^ sible !" said Nelly, despairingly. 
 
 The two sisters were standing together at 
 the window, looking out at the pouring rain, 
 which was beating pitilessly down ; the sad, 
 November rain. But it was evident that 
 neither saw the rain or anything without ; or, 
 if they saw it, they did not notice it, save that, 
 perhaps, it added a shade of gloom to their 
 already gloomy thoughts. The faces of both 
 were sad ; but the expression of the two was 
 very different. Daisy's look was calm and 
 
I O NELLY. 
 
 resigned, and a certain peace pervaded her 
 aspect, though it was evident that her eyes 
 were heavy with recent tears ; but Nelly had 
 a restless, almost a fierce expression in her 
 black eyes and in the very attitude of her 
 whole figure, that told of a mind ill at ease, 
 and reminded one of the pictures of hunted 
 creatures, when they turn in a desperate mood, 
 and hold their pursuers at bay. 
 
 " No," she continued, *' I cannot and will 
 not bear anything more. It is too much. I 
 Avill not be left alone, just after this great sor- 
 row, when my heart is almost broken at losing 
 mamma ;" and her tears broke forth afresh. 
 ** I am sure we have had nothing but sorrow 
 and mourning ever since I was married. Who 
 would believe I was a bride, to see our black 
 dresses and our sad faces ? and now, when I 
 thought I was going to have a little bit of 
 comfort, and that Frank would devote himself 
 to me, to comfort me and cheer me up a little, 
 to have this dreadful war all go wrong, and 
 have him possessed with the idea that he must 
 gc and fight. No, I cannot bear it. It is 
 
NELLY. 1 1 
 
 enough to kil. any one. Ke must not and 
 shall not go !" 
 
 Daisy thought of her own precious hus- 
 band, who had been eighteen months in the 
 army, with only one short week at home to 
 get a glimpse of his wife and baby, and a pang 
 shot through her heart. But her calm e3^es 
 looked with pure pity, not with reproach, upon 
 her sister. 
 
 " I know it is very hard, darling. Who 
 should know it better than I ! But if it is his 
 duty " 
 
 " It isn't his duty. There are plenty of 
 other people to go. The unmarried men ought 
 to go ; they haven't all gone by any means. 
 And it is different with you, Daisy ; you have 
 your baby and papa and Lucy, while I am 
 away from you all." 
 
 " Why can't you come home, dear, while 
 Frank is away ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't want to. If I am Mrs. Leigh- 
 ton, I want to he Mrs. Leighton, and to have 
 a local habitation and a name. With our 
 beautiful rooms all arranged at Frank's fath- 
 
12 NELLY. 
 
 er's, and everybody in the town so glad to 
 welcome me and make my acquaintance, I 
 don't want to go right off and come home 
 to live. I never did approve of married 
 daughters coming home. Of course, I don't 
 mean you, Daisy (as a shadow flitted across 
 her sister's face at this inconsiderate speech) ; 
 you Aad to come home to take care of poor, 
 dear mamma, and now papa couldn't get along 
 at all without you. But nobody needs me, 
 and I wish to stay in my proper place." 
 
 Daisy only said, quietly, " I dare say you are 
 right, dear." At that moment a tall young 
 man came up the steps, and Nelly, quick in 
 every movement and impulse, flew to meet 
 him, exclaiming — '' Oh, Frank, there you are ! 
 I have been watching so for you ! I have a 
 thousand things to say to you ! How wet 
 you are ! How could you go out without an 
 overcoat ! Come right upstairs to the fire in 
 our room !" 
 
 ** Yes, dear. Don't say the thousand things 
 all in one breath, please ; and just let me brush 
 off" a few of these drops here, before going 
 up. 
 
NELLY. 13 
 
 The two went up-stairs in close conversa- 
 tion. Daisy still stood at the window, looking 
 out, while her tears fell fast. " Oh, mamma, 
 this home is, indeed, desolate without you," 
 she murmured. " You were the only one wh j 
 deeply sympathized with all my heart-aciiu 
 and anxiety about Theodore ; with my joy in 
 my baby, and with every feeling I have ever 
 had since I was a little child. * No love like 
 mother-love !' The world seems so different, 
 now that you are gone ! But, oh, may I never 
 forget your sweet and peaceful death ! After 
 all, what matters this life and its soi"rows, 
 when we are hastening swiftly on to that glo- 
 rious eternity where you are now ? Mother, 
 I would follow in your footsteps! I would 
 imitate your faith and love ; and I will be 
 faithful to the sacred charge you gave me on 
 your dying bed ; I will take your place with my 
 sisters as much as I can ; and my birdie, my 
 little Mary, as she bears your name, may 
 she grow up to be like you ! Would that 
 her grandmother's spirit might be her guard- 
 ian angel !" 
 
14 NELLY. 
 
 Just then the pattering of little feet was 
 heard on the stairs, and the little one, as 
 though she knew her presence was needed to 
 cheer her mother's burdened heart, came 
 bounding in, and ran up to her, exclaiming — 
 " Here mamma ! Me find mamma ! Me so 
 glad !" and laughing gleefully. 
 
 " My pet, mamma was away from her baby 
 a great while, wasn't she? She'll come right 
 away now and give Mamy her dinner ;" and, 
 taking her baby in her arms, she \vent out 
 with a brightened countenance. 
 
 Mingled joy and sorrow had fallen to the 
 lot of the Bell family in the tAvo years that 
 had passed since Daisy's first return from the 
 South. A second v/inter passed on the plan- 
 tation had thoroughly restored Mr. Morton's 
 health, but a residence at the South had be- 
 come very uncomfortable for Northerners ; 
 and in the spring the war broke out, and Mr. ^ 
 and Mrs. Morton were obliged to travel north- 
 ward as speedily as possible. So they came 
 back to the old home, and there the little Mary 
 was born, and was welcomed with the peculiar 
 
NELLY. 1 5 
 
 joy that always halls tlie first grandchild. 
 That joy was, however, suddenly modified to 
 the young mother by the decision of her hus- 
 band to join the army. He was moved by a 
 strong conviction of duty, and Daisy, v/ith her 
 strict conscientiousness, would not say a word 
 to keep him back. They both felt that, as she 
 could be left so comfortably under her moth- 
 er's roof, surrounded by those she loved, it 
 was not right for them to shrink from the 
 separation, when so many widov/s v/ere giving 
 up their only sons, sons leaving their mothers, 
 husbands their wives, fathers their children — 
 all giving up their choicest and best to go and 
 fight the battles of their country. Calmly and 
 submissively they parted, each striving to 
 comfort the other, and then turning away to 
 walk in the path of duty with trust and forti- 
 tude. 
 
 Daisy soon had her mind and her hands full. 
 Her mother's slow but sure decline com- 
 menced not long after Theodore left. It was 
 so gentle as to be almost imperceptible, and 
 everything went on in the household as usual. 
 
1 6 NELLY. 
 
 But day by day she grew weaker, and the 
 cares and duties that fell from her hands drop- 
 ped into Daisy's keeping more and more, till 
 at last the sainted mother was confined to her 
 room and then to her bed, and the shadow oi 
 watching a beloved one's hopeless decline fell 
 upon the whole family. 
 
 The chief burden came upon Daisy, for 
 Nelly was absorbed in her approaching mar- 
 riage, and Mrs. Bell hastened it on, for she had 
 a fancy for seeing Nelly married before she 
 died. Lucy was at school, and did not realize 
 her mother's situation. They could not bear 
 to alarm her, for her gaiety and her pictures 
 of outside life came like a refreshing breath of 
 open air to the still, stricken household. So 
 Daisy assumed the care, as she always took 
 up everything that was to be done for others, 
 and was more than rewarded by the sweet 
 and holy communion she enjoyed in the sick- 
 room with her mother's pure spirit, that seem- 
 ed to grov/ daily more refined and exalted. 
 Nothing earthly had power to trouble Mrs. 
 Bell now. She could see only the mercy in 
 
NELLY 17 
 
 every dispensation ; the silver lining of the 
 cloud seemed to be turned towards her all the 
 time, and she uplifted Daisy's soul with her 
 own into such an atmosphere of light and love, 
 that even the most trying events seemed to 
 have lost their sting. Theodore's heroism and 
 self-denial and cheerfulness were dwelt upon, 
 till physical danger and even death seemed 
 but slight things in comparison with a noble 
 soul that would live in glory for ever. Char- 
 lie's absence and labors for Christ, instead of 
 being a crushing bereavement, were a fund of 
 happiness to his mother; she never wearied 
 of looking from the v/indow where she had 
 last sat with him, and pouring out her soul in 
 prayer for him and for the souls for whom he 
 was laboring ; and a light from the other world 
 seemed to come in on her face with the sunset 
 glow. Her husband and daughters were a 
 constant joy to her, and her little grandchild 
 a never-failing amusement ; and so the days 
 glided by, each one bringing her consciously 
 nearer and nearer to the grave; and when 
 at last the end came, and the sweet face was 
 2 
 
1 8 NELLY. 
 
 still in death, all had been so peaceful and 
 happy that the whole family were elevated to 
 a new plane, and felt as though the doors of 
 heaven had been opened to give them a vision 
 of its peace and beauty as the beloved one 
 passed in. 
 
 It was all over now, and the reaction had 
 come. It seemed hard to go back to the com- 
 mon duties and pleasures of life, after linger- 
 ing so long on the border land between earth 
 and heaven. Daisy felt so prostrated and 
 grief-stricken that she had scarcely power to 
 keep up and cheer the others. Perhaps it was 
 good for her that just at this time a fresh 
 trouble came to poor Nelly, calling out all her 
 sisterly S3^mpathy, and reminding her of her 
 promise to her dying mother, that she would 
 never fail to help and comfort her sisters as 
 long as she lived. 
 
 The war was at its most disastrous period 
 to the Union cause. Misfortune after misfor- 
 tune had befallen our arms ; one great brave 
 army after another had gone forth only to be 
 shattered and crushed without avail, and the 
 
NELLY. 19 
 
 nation was all in mourning and almost in de- 
 spair. A fresh call came for volunteers, and 
 many a one who had held back before, now 
 felt that his time had come, and that every one 
 who could go was bound to do so at this crisis. 
 Among this number was Frank Leighton. 
 With his youthful bride, and everything smil- 
 ing upon him that this world could give, he 
 yet felt unhappy when he thought of his coun- 
 try's need, and could not rest in his comfort- 
 able happy home while his country was bleed- 
 ing. He thought of the whole matter very 
 seriously, and finally made up his mind he 
 must go ; and a few days after the funeral of 
 Mrs. Bell he broached the subject to Nelly, 
 and asked her opinion. Poor Nelly was en- 
 tirely unprepared for the announcement, and 
 received it with a passion of tears and a decla- 
 ration that she never, never could consent, and 
 that he must not think of it again. It would 
 kill her to be separated from him. 
 
 Frank was surprised and sorry. He had 
 hoped for sympathy and strengthening in hig 
 resolution. But he gently put the matter by, 
 
20 NELLY. 
 
 asking her to think of it before she made up 
 her mind so decidedly. Nelly did think of it, 
 and talk of it with almost intense excitement 
 and determination to oppose it with all her 
 might. 
 
 In a few days more Mr. and Mrs. Leighton 
 
 left M and the family, and returned to 
 
 their pretty home, where they had passed but 
 a few weeks after their marriage before they 
 had been summoned to the dying bed of their 
 mother. Nelly's spirits rose as she found her- 
 self again in the beautiful house of her hus- 
 band's parents, where all petted her so much, 
 and everything was so luxurious and elegant. 
 She thought she could easily persuade Frank 
 out of his romantic notion of patriotism, and 
 that they would still be happy. She mourned 
 for her mother most truly, but it was not in 
 human nature to be wholly sad with a devoted 
 bridegroom by her side, who could not do 
 enough for her happiness. So Nelly's spirits 
 revived, and she looked for many happy days. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 T was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in the 
 Indian Summer, when Mr. Leighton and 
 his young wife strolled down into the woods 
 behind their lovely country home, to pass an 
 hour in gazing at the sunset reflected in the 
 quiet lake, and communing together of things 
 past, present and to come. Everything had a 
 charm for them when thus enjoyed together, 
 and many a grateful hymn had risen from those 
 tranquil woods when the two hearts had been 
 so full of joy that the lips could not be silent, 
 but must give praise to the kind Author of all 
 this hcippiness. 
 
 But this afternoon they walked on in silence. 
 
 (21) 
 
22 GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 Frank seemed oppressed and sad, and Nelly, 
 after several ineffectual attempts to divert him 
 from his meditations, walked on by his side, 
 too much offended by his inattention to make 
 an}^ further effort to be agreeable. They 
 paced up and down their favorite path, while 
 the glory of the setting sun v/as poured around 
 them, the lake smiled at their feet, and the 
 mild, dreamy beauty of the dying year seemed 
 to try to woo them from their preoccupied 
 mood. Not a word was said till the sun had 
 dipped below the golden haze ; then Nelly 
 said pettishly, " I'm going in, Frank. It's 
 chilly and disagreeable, and I can't see the 
 charm of walking back and forth here — good- 
 bye !" 
 
 She turned in the direction of the house, 
 but Frank, roused from his reverie, suddenly 
 stopped her by taking both her unwilling 
 hands in his, and saying, *' Don't go, Nelly ; 
 forgive me for being so negligent of you. My 
 mind is so full of what is coming, and I could 
 not bear to burden you with it till it was 
 absolutely necessary." 
 
GOING TO THE WAR. 23 
 
 " With what, pra}^ Frank? I am sure we 
 have nothing to trouble us, since you gave up 
 that insane desire of going to the war !" 
 
 " Don't talk so, it hurts me to hear you. I 
 have never told you that I had given it up, 
 and, Nelly, I never give up what I believe to 
 be my dut}^" 
 
 " But, Frank, you have not said anything 
 
 about it for a whole week. I thought ** 
 
 but here poor Nelly's pride gave way, and she 
 clung to her husband's arm, merely repeating, 
 " Don't go ! please don't go ! I can't spare 
 you!" 
 
 " Poor child !'' said Frank, gently ; and he 
 led her to a little rustic seat overlooking the 
 water, where they had spent many happy 
 hours since their marriage. Nelly sobbed for 
 a moment on his shoulder, but then she dried 
 her tears, for she was not given to crying, and 
 resuming her bright, commanding manner, 
 she said, " Now, Frank, you might as well 
 give it up. You can't go ; for I won't let you ; 
 you promised to take care of me, and if I can't 
 live without you, it's your first duty to stay 
 with me." 
 
24 GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 " Not ray first duty, dearest ; there is a duty 
 to God that stands even higher, and that is 
 pulling at my conscience now. Listen to me ; 
 during the last week thousands of brave fellows 
 have laid down their liv^es for you and me, to 
 preserve to us our homes, our government, 
 our liberty ; thousands more have left homes 
 as dear as this, and wives as precious, and 
 cheerfully marched off to danger and death ! 
 Can I sit here in inaction, taking my own 
 pleasure, while others are bleeding for me? 
 No, Nelly ; I should be less than a man and a 
 Christian if I did. Surely it would not be 
 loving one's neighbor as one's self, to be enjoy- 
 ing selfish pleasure here, indifferent to the 
 groans and the blood that are being so freely 
 expended. These quiet woods, this lovely 
 home, your dear companionship, are not for 
 me novv^ ; m}^ heart is on the battle-field where 
 this terrible struggle is going on. I cannot 
 rest here ingloriously, shamefully at my ease 
 I miust go, God and duty call me." 
 
 Nelly's heart sank very lov/ as she saw his 
 earnestness, and felt how powerless she was 
 
GOING TO THE WAR. 25 
 
 against his strong convictions of duty; but 
 she had one more argument read}^, and said 
 faintly, *' If it would do any good, I might be 
 v^illing, perhaps; but everything fails now; 
 the armies only go out to be sacrificed, v/ith- 
 out any result. You v/iil do no more good 
 than the thousands v/ho have gone ; you will 
 only fall like the rest, and who will be the bet- 
 ter for it !" 
 
 " It is indeed a gloomy time, dear ; but that 
 very thing makes me feel so strongly that I 
 ought to go. At the beginning of the war, 
 when there were plenty who were eager to 
 enlist, and enthusiasm was high, I did not feel 
 the obligation upon me ; but now it is difficult 
 to get volunteers. The sky is all dark, and 
 everything discouraging. Now is the time 
 when brave men ought to stand in the breach, 
 and if they fall, die gladly and gloriously for 
 their country !" 
 
 " Don't talk so, Frank," said Nelly, shud- 
 dering. " I see you are gomg ; I have no 
 power to move you. My wishes are as noth- 
 ing to you. But I never, never can be recon- 
 
26 GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 ciled to it. I can't see it as you do, and I 
 can't see why I should have to be so very 
 wretched, when so many other people live on 
 happily. It is very strange and very terrible. 
 I can't bear it." 
 
 " Nelly, don't say I have no regard for 3^our 
 v/ishes. I shall not go unless you consent to 
 it, but I know you v/ill give 3^our free consent. 
 You will gladly sacrifice your own feelings 
 and happiness to the good of your country. 
 You will be the one who will strengthen and 
 uphold me the most in my resolution, and 
 comfort my parents when their only son is 
 gone. It is not easy for me to go, dear ; you 
 will help me, I know." 
 
 The young man looked at his beautiful bride 
 with such an expression of suffering and en- 
 treaty as he said this, that all her better feel- 
 ings were roused. She threw her arms around 
 his neck, exclaiming, " Forgive me, Frank ! I 
 will do anything you Vv'ish ; but oh ! it is so 
 hard to give up all our happiness. Is it 
 wrong to be happy? It seems as though it 
 must be, everything is being taken from me so. 
 
GOING TO THE WAR. 2/ 
 
 JSIaiTima is gone, and now you are gone ; what 
 can I do r 
 
 " No, indeed, darling, it is not wrong to be 
 happy," said Mr. Leighton, much affected. 
 '■ But crosses will come ; we cannot expect 
 unbroken prosperity." 
 
 '* But to have everything taken at once," 
 said poor Nelly. "Must it always be so ?" 
 She looked really crushed, as though this 
 new viev/ of life had quite taken avv^ay her 
 strength and courage. 
 
 " Everthing v/ill not be gone, dear, and, 
 besides, I shall come back ; do not consign 
 me to the tomb at once." Nelly shook her 
 head mournfully. It was no use trying to 
 persuade her that she would not be wholly 
 bereft. Frank took higher ground. 
 
 '' But, even if all were gone, dearest, it 
 would only be what many a Christian has 
 endured, and kept faith, and courage, and 
 even joy. We are not to think it strange, you 
 know, if * fiery trials* do try us. The cross is 
 the portion of all who bear the name of Christ. 
 When we took that name upon us, the cross 
 
28 GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 was inscribed upon our banner. It was our 
 Master's signet, and must be ours. ' If any 
 man will come after Me, let him take up his 
 cross and follow Me.' " 
 
 ** I always thought that meant little dailj^ 
 crosses. Of course every one has enough of 
 those. But I never knew that we must ex- 
 pect to give up all earthly happiness." 
 
 '' We must be willing to do it, dear, if so 
 God wills. When He deprives us of our 
 happiness, we must not think it strange. Re- 
 member that Jesus had a lot of privation and 
 sorrow, and then you will see that this world 
 is not our home, and that we must expect to 
 find it something as He found it, a place of 
 trial, a school to prepare us for our real 
 home beyond. When we have once learned 
 this lesson, dear Nell, we shall not expect un- 
 mixed pleasure, or demand it as our right. 
 But we shall find that God has strewn all sorts 
 of sweet comforts along our way, which will 
 come to us all the more gratefully, because 
 we are not reaching out after them and gi asp- 
 ing them all the time. The happiness that 
 
GOING TO THE WAR. 29 
 
 \ve seek with desperate eagerness, either flies 
 from us, or turns to ashes as we touch it ; but 
 the happ^Iness we receive as God's free gift, 
 not as our right, comes and nestles in our 
 hearts almost unknown to us, and is true 
 peace. Do you understand my preaching, 
 Nelly?" 
 
 " Oh, you talk beautifully," said Nelly, who 
 was leaning against him, drinking in all that 
 he said like a draught of comfort that must 
 last her a long while. '' But this is all so 
 strange to me. I have always been so happy. 
 But I see ; I must try to remember; the cross 
 is our portion, the cross is our portion ; I must 
 repeat that to myself, and it will teach me 
 new views of life." 
 
 " Poor child ! you are young to learn the 
 lesson ; but since God has ordered it so, He 
 knovv^s best, and we shall thank Him for it 
 one of these days. But now, dearest, bright- 
 en up ! I am not going to-morrov/, nor the 
 next day." 
 
 "When, Frank? Tell mc just how long I 
 shall have you." 
 
30 GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 Mr. Leighton, with an effort, said, " I am 
 afraid it must be next week, as soon as I can 
 get ready." 
 
 " One week more," said Nelly, looking at 
 him with her deep black eyes, whose expres- 
 sion had changed so much in one short hour. 
 They looked so sorrowful ; but no tears fell, 
 and she was gentler than her husband had 
 ever seen her before. It cut him to the heart 
 to see her so subdued, but he hoped for the 
 best, and that the separation would be only for 
 a time ; at any rate, he had faith to leave both 
 their fates in the hands of the all-merciful 
 Father. He felt he was doing right, and felt 
 sure that Nelly's Christian principle and na- 
 tive strength of character would carry her 
 unharmed through the trial. 
 
 The news had to be communicated to 
 the father and mother that night. It was a 
 terrible stroke to them, for Frank was their 
 pride and joy, their only son ; but they were 
 full of patriotism, and would not say a word to 
 dissuade him from his resolution. Nelly clung 
 to his arm, and did not leave his side a moment. 
 
GOING TO, THE WAR. ^l 
 
 Her expression of subdued, patient sorrow- 
 was very touching, and almost overcame her 
 husband's composure. 
 
 " I shall leave you with mother," he said ; 
 " it will be such a comfort to me to know that 
 you are together." 
 
 The two women looked at each other, but 
 neither could speak; and no one attempted 
 any further conversation till the aged father 
 took down the family Bible for the evening 
 worship. Then the feelings that could not be 
 expressed to each other, found vent before 
 God. The parents found comfort in com- 
 mending their son to His care, and the young 
 husband and wife, more truly united in their 
 self-sacrihce than ever before, bowed their v/ills 
 to the will of God, and were at peace in this 
 great trial. One of them had learned, for the 
 first time, the meaning of the cross, and was 
 in sympathy with the Saviour as never before. 
 She was astonished at her own calmness, and 
 at the peace she felt in giving up all to God, 
 and leaving herself in His hands. No rebel- 
 lious " I can't," arose in her heart, but she 
 
32 
 
 GOING TO THE WAR. 
 
 was willing" to go through ever3^thing God 
 might appoint. Her will was bowed, for the 
 time. She did not know how stubborn it 
 was, and how it would rise again. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 TTlHAT last week passed, Nelly scarcely 
 -*- knew how. She felt stunned most of 
 the time, and went about quietl}^ as though 
 oppressed by some terrible nightmare. But 
 once in a while, especially when she first 
 waked in the morning, and opened her eyes 
 v/ith that bright consciousness of joy whicli 
 the healthy and the happy often feel as their 
 first waking sensation, a sudden darkness 
 would seem to envelop everything, a presenti- 
 ment of coming evil would weigh her down, 
 and then the whole crushing truth would 
 burst upon her. She was unwilling to grieve 
 
 (33) 
 
34 THE PARTING. 
 
 Frank by any exhibition of her feelings, but 
 as soon as she was alone, she v/ould beat 
 against her hard fate as a bird against the 
 bars of his cage. Then controlling herself by 
 a great effort, she would go down and meet the 
 family at breakfast, for she was unwilling to lose 
 a moment of her husband's society ; but when 
 he had left the house to attend to the numer- 
 ous cares that devolved upon him, on leaving 
 his business at such short notice, then Nelly, 
 aware that the family were engaged in a dis- 
 tant part of the house, would go to her room, 
 lock her door with an excited trembling hand, 
 and throwing herself on the bed, would give 
 full vent to her passion. She sobbed, and 
 groaned, and even screamed. She fancied it 
 did her good to take a sort of revenge upon 
 herself for her forced calmness at other times, 
 and she threv/ her arms wildly about, and 
 sobbed out, " Oh ! I cannot, cannot bear it ! I 
 will not take it so quietly ! He shall not go 
 and leave me ! Oh, dear, what shall I do !'* 
 She would have been very much ashamed if 
 any one had known of these paroxysms. In 
 
THE PARTING. 35 
 
 the very midst of them she would say, " Oh, 
 dear ! I never acted like this before ! \¥hat is 
 going to become of me?" and then she would 
 sob more wildly than ever. 
 
 Poor Nelly ! The billows had never rolled 
 over her before. She had never beat up 
 against a hard wall of fate that would not 
 move, even for her persistent, struggling, 
 figltting will. She had never known that her 
 will was obstinate before ; for at home every- 
 body had yielded to her, and everything had 
 gone smoothly with her. Her impulses were 
 generally good and noble, and her affections 
 warm ; and with her happy, dashing ways, 
 she had been a general favorite, and had never 
 been seriously opposed. It was a new thing 
 to her to have to yield, to bear quietly the 
 very thing that she dreaded most ; and her 
 whole nature rose up in opposition to it. 
 
 " No, I will never give my consent, and he 
 said he would not go without it," she would 
 cry, with a fresh burst of sobs ; and then, 
 quite exhausted, she would lay her head on 
 the pillow, almost wishing she could die, and 
 
36 THE PARTING. 
 
 never come back to this troublesome world. 
 But after lying quiet with only a few faint 
 sobs that were like the dying aw^ay of the 
 tempest, a voice would seem to whisper, 
 " Why do you struggle so against your fate ? 
 You know it is settled, and you imist bear it. 
 Why do you repeat in this useless way that 
 you cannot?" "Oh, yes, I must, I must!" 
 poor Nelly would cry ; ** What a hard, stbny 
 word must is ! Why am I so hedged about in 
 this tight place, where I cannot get out ? Why 
 must I bend my will so ? I can't do it ! I can't 
 give up all I have !" and a fresh burst of grief 
 and passion came. 
 
 But this could not last. " Must," is a stern 
 teacher, and the stoutest will will bend to it 
 before long. It was not long before Nelly 
 was on her knees by the side of the bed, beg- 
 ging blindly for comfort in her trouble, and for 
 light to show her the meaning of it. Then 
 the cross would rise before her eyes, with 
 the Saviour hanging on it. The image was 
 the talisman that brought peace to the troubled 
 waters. " Oh, yes, the cross ! I had forgotten ! 
 
THE PARTING. 37 
 
 the cross is my portion, and the portion of all 
 Christians. It is nothing strange that is hap- 
 pening to me. I will take the cross ! I will 
 clasp it to me, and not expect anything else ;* 
 and fervent in her new enthusiasm, as in her 
 passionate resistance, Nelly wished she had 
 one of those old crosses set with nails, that 
 the monks vised to wear, and could Avear it in 
 her bosom, that whenever she set her heart 
 on earthly happiness, she might press it, and 
 be reminded that suffering, not pleasure, is 
 the lot of the Christian. 
 
 Thus poor Nelly went from one extreme of 
 feeling to another, and w^as tossed to and frO; 
 and had to struggle hard for self-control. 
 Daisy had borne troubles greater and more 
 wearing, v/ith such meekness and humility, 
 that they had not been able to disturb her 
 deep peace, and had only drav/n her nearer 
 to the Crucified One. Nelly had her raptures 
 of devotion, but, alas, they were succeeded by 
 hours of gloom, and by repeated fits of rebel- 
 lion. She found that submission will not 
 spring up all at once in a heart that has al- 
 
 4 
 
38 THE PARTING. 
 
 lowed self-will, and pride and obstinacy to 
 have full sway in it. 
 
 The last morning came. There was but 
 little time for leave-taking", and it was better 
 so. Frank made all his preparations with a 
 grave, sad face, and Nelly helped him as well 
 as she could. She would not have pained him 
 by any display of passionate grief, and she 
 could not either, with that grave face watch- 
 ing her with so much tenderness. When the 
 hour of parting came, Frank drew his wife to 
 the bedside where they had knelt together 
 every night and morning, and there, while 
 his voice trembled only a little, he prayed to 
 God to keep them both till they should meet 
 again; and if not here, then, in that world 
 where there is no parting. One scalding hot 
 tear fell on Nelly's cheek, not her own, one 
 long embrace, and he was gone. 
 
 She ran after him. " I may go to the gate 
 with you !" 
 
 "■ Yes, dearest, do !" 
 
 She went down with him, hand in hand, 
 but stood aside in the hall, while he bade fare- 
 
THE PARTING. 39 
 
 well to his parents, and received their blessing. 
 Then taking his hand again (it seemed as 
 though those last few moments would be a 
 comfort to her always), she went to the car- 
 riage with him, and walked, still holding his 
 hand, to the gate. He kissed the hand before 
 he let it go, said good-bye in a choking voice, 
 and turned away, as the carriage drove off. 
 But she cried in a ringing tone, though the 
 tears were pouring down her cheeks, '' Look 
 back, darling ; I shall wave my handkerchief." 
 And as long as the carriage was visible, she 
 stood waving, and he watched and blessed 
 her. 
 
 She turned slowly back to the house. A 
 strange calm seemed to be over everything, 
 and to extend to herself. The sun shone just 
 as brightly as ever, the sky was as blue, and 
 the first light snow on the evergreens was as 
 dazzlingly pure and bright. Nothing was 
 changed, and yet it seemed a different world 
 to Nelly — all the thrill, the bounding joy of 
 life seemed gone ; it was a world to be patient 
 in, to be cheerful and calm, and wait for somQ- 
 
40 THE PARTING. 
 
 thing better, but never to be ecstatic or ex- 
 travagant with pleasure in again. 
 
 So Nelly felt, as all feel, v/hen the first great 
 shock of their lives comes, and makes them 
 realize that this w^orld is fleeting and cannot 
 satisfy. 
 
 Nelly shrank from going to her own room, 
 their room. She turned into the parlor, but 
 the aged couple had disappeared. She was 
 sure they were on their knees before God in 
 their closet. But Ruth, the old nurse, who 
 had taken care of Frank when he was a baby, 
 and was less a servant than a friend, from her 
 long and faithful ministry, was watching for 
 Nelly, and came forward to meet her. '* Poor 
 lamb ! I'll not go away, and let the house 
 seem vacant to her Avhen she comes into it," 
 the old woman had said to herself, as she look- 
 ed through the window with full eyes, and 
 saw the young wife coming up the avenue, so 
 slowly and thoughtfully ; *' her step is differ- 
 ent enough from when she would come in with 
 Mr. Frank! My :ieart aches for her, poor 
 child !" 
 
THE PARTING. 4I 
 
 So Ruth met " Mrs. Frank/' as she always 
 called her, and said warmly, " God bless him, 
 and bring" him safe home to us, in His own 
 good time !" 
 
 *' Oh yes, Ruth. Now I wish I could go to 
 sleep and not wake up again till he comes 
 home. Oh, how I wish I could!" and the 
 young wife sighed heavily. 
 
 *' Don't say so, dear ! Think of the precious 
 time ; you Vv^ould not be willing to lose it. 
 There isn't any too much time in this world. 
 Think of all there is to be done !" 
 
 " But I don't know of anything to be done,'* 
 said Nelly. 
 
 " Oh, my dear young lady, don't say that. 
 You with all your talents, and your education, 
 and your station, you have a great deal to do ; 
 but I need not talk so to you. You know it 
 all as well as I do. You are tired now." 
 
 ^' Oh, Ruth, I am so tired," said poor Nelly. 
 " Why does all this happen, Ruth ?" 
 
 " It's all right, darling, we may be sure of 
 that," said Ruth; and as she saw the young 
 face turned so piteously to her for sympathy, 
 
42 THE PARTING. 
 
 her motheriy tirms were opened, and Nelly 
 laid her weary head on the faithful breast and 
 wept uncontrollably. 
 
 " There, there," said Ruth, as though she 
 were soothing a child. "He'll come back, 
 dear, and then we shall be so happy." And 
 her tears mingled with Nelly's, for him who 
 was the dearest object in the world to her. 
 She adopted Nell}^ into her very heart from 
 that moment, and made a vow that her happi- 
 ness should be her first object ; and Ruth's 
 vows amounted to something, for she was a 
 person of unusual strength of character ; and 
 as we have already seen, of unwavering Chris- 
 tian faith. " It's all right," was her favorite 
 expression, and in the midst of trials and per- 
 plexities she comforted herself and all about 
 her by that simple form of words. 
 
Evenings at Home. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LONELINESS. 
 
 " \/ OU had better go and lie down, Mrs. 
 -^ Frank," said Ruth, as a step sounded 
 on the stair, and Nelly hurriedly raised her 
 head and tried to conceal her tears. 
 
 Mr. Leighton entered the room, and said 
 affectionately, " Yes, my daughter, do go and 
 rest ; I have left }■ our mother to take a nap ;" 
 and he laid his hand kindly on her head. 
 
 Nelly stood rather in awe of her new father, 
 for though very kind, he was rather distant. 
 Now, however, she put up her face to his and 
 idssed him, which seemed to please the old 
 gentleman very much, and saying, " I will try 
 to sleep, sir," she went out. 
 
 (43) 
 
44 LONELINESS. 
 
 Mr. Leigbton wiped his eyes. " We must 
 be very kind to her, Ruth," he said, and left 
 the room to seek relief among his favorite trees 
 and flowers. 
 
 Ruth followed Nelly up-stairs. It was well 
 she did, for the empty room, with everything 
 in it telling so plainly of the one who was 
 gone, was too much for Nelly's composure. 
 In another moment she would have flung her- 
 self on the bed in one of those paroxysms of 
 grief that had become too common with her. 
 But Ruth's knock at the door stopped her, 
 and she said, rather angry that any one should 
 interrupt her, " Come in." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mrs. Frank ; may I put the 
 room in order, while you are going to sleep ? 
 Mr. Frank asked me to put away these things 
 for him." 
 
 Ruth, with that qnick intuition that comes 
 from a sensitive and kind heart, knew that it 
 was not good for Nelly to be alone just then. 
 Nelly saw her intention, and was thankful to 
 avail herself of it. She suffered herself to be 
 tucked up in the bed, and, soothed by the 
 
LONELINESS. 45 
 
 kind figure that moved quietly about the 
 room, arranging everything and apparently 
 taking no notice of her, she watched Ruth till 
 her eyelids drooped, and she fell fast asleep. 
 
 " Poor thing/' said Ruth, as she bent over 
 her tenderly ; ^' she is but a child anyhow, and 
 it's hard for her to lose him so soon after her 
 marriage. But it's all right ; it's for her good 
 and his too, though we can't see it now." 
 
 She darkened the windows and stole out on 
 tiptoe, leaving the door ajar, that she might 
 look in and see how the sleeper fared from 
 time to time. 
 
 Nelly, thoroughly exhausted, slept soundly 
 till Ruth came to tell her it was dinner-time. 
 Then she got up, feeling wonderfully refresh- 
 ed, and even quite hungry. She had no time 
 to stop and think in the hurry of dressing for 
 dinner, and went down looking so bright and 
 cheerful that Mrs. Leighton, who had a sad 
 headache, and looked pale and suffering, said 
 it was a real cordial to see her, and Mr. Leigh- 
 ton brightened up the instant she came in, and 
 even began discussing Frank's route, and tell- 
 
46 LONELINESS. 
 
 ing her how far he was on his journey by this 
 time, and when they v/ould hear from him. 
 Nelly felt that she was a comfort, and it did 
 her good. She exerted herself to cheer and 
 amuse, and the dinner was not altogether a 
 sad one, though none of the three dared to 
 look at Frank's empty place, and if their eyes 
 fell upon it, they turned them away as quickly 
 as possible. 
 
 Mr. Leighton proposed a ride after dinner. 
 He said he was sure it would do his wife good 
 to take the air, and, besides, she could call and 
 see her two old women who had the rheuma- 
 tism ; she had not seen them or taken them 
 anything for a whole week." 
 
 *' That will get her out," lie said to Nelly ; 
 " nothing short of that would induce her to stir. 
 The poor women are comfortable enough, 
 but she must have something to divert her 
 thoughts." Mrs. Leighton had gone up-stairs 
 quite briskly to put on her things at her hus- 
 band's proposal, saying, " True ; I had forgot- 
 ten them in my own anxieties. Jane, get a 
 nice basket ready for Aunt Betsy." 
 
LONELINESS. 47 
 
 Nelly really enjoyed the ride. She was 
 truly a child in her susceptibility to every new 
 impression of pain or pleasure. The well- 
 cushioned carriage moved aJong so easily, the 
 horses were so swift and sleek, the day was so 
 glorious, and the old people SvO kind and so 
 disposed to pet her, that she felt it was very 
 nice to be the petted daughter of wealthy par- 
 ents, and enjoyed the ease and luxury very 
 much. 
 
 The going home without Frank, though, 
 was hard. They had ahvays taken him up at 
 the depot, and returned so gaily to enjoy 
 Ruth's choice little suppers. They all sat 
 very quietly on the ride home. As they went 
 in, a note and a bunch of flowers were handed 
 to Mrs. Frank. Her husband had sent her 
 this token from the first city he passed through 
 on his route. It was sweet to be thus remem- 
 bered, and Nelly almost felt as though he were 
 with her once more. 
 
 So the first day passed, better than she had 
 feared. She was not alone, for Ruth was sure 
 to have some errand to her room, and at bed- 
 
48 LONELINESS. 
 
 time attended to her fire, and tucked her up 
 as though she had been a child. It was very 
 soothing to be so waited upon, and Nelly felt 
 comforted and slept well. 
 
 But as day followed day there were many, 
 many weary hours. Especially in the twilight, 
 when the occupations or amusements of the 
 day were over, and she had been used to be 
 so happy with Frank, she felt her loneliness 
 keenly. She v/as ashamed to seek the society 
 of Mrs. Leighton, for she knew the old lady 
 was taking a nap in her easy-chair, or chatting 
 with her husband over the events of the day, 
 and Nelly had been so calm and cheerful be- 
 fore her, that Mrs. Leighton gave her credit 
 for wonderful fortitude, and rather leaned on 
 her for support, than thought of offering it to 
 her. Ruth was busy in the kitchen at that 
 hour. Nelly longed to go and join her there, 
 but propriety forbade that Mrs. Frank should 
 enter that domain. So she sat by herself be- 
 fore the glowing embers, with every comfort 
 around her, but oh, so lonely ! She looked at 
 the fading western sky, then at the glowing 
 
LONELINESS. 49 
 
 fire, then around upon her books, her work, 
 her pictures, all her little comforts. All was 
 so still, so dead, it struck a chill to her heart. 
 
 *' Oh, how cheerful and nice it used to be at 
 home in the twilight," she thought. *' Can I 
 ever forget those evenings, with mamma on 
 the sofa, and we children all so busy talking ! 
 How nice it was ! and afterwards, too, when 
 we were grown up !" and she fell into a fit of 
 musing, and tasted over again the sweet mem- 
 ories, as a hungry man might dream of food. 
 Home pictures rose before her, one after an- 
 other. In all, her mother was the central 
 figure, but Charlie and his pranks, Daisy, Ar- 
 thur, baby Lucy, all figured largely. Sud- 
 denly she roused herself with a start. 
 
 " All gone !" she exclaimed ; " mamma dead 
 — Charlie in India — the rest of us scattered — 
 Daisy and I widows, perhaps — oh, why must 
 I be so alone ? I can't ! I was never made to 
 live alone — I must go home, I must go some- 
 v/here. I cannot bear this!" 
 
 Streams of tears relieved her sad heart. 
 * But I promised Frank I would stay Iiere. 
 
 4 
 
50 LONELINESS, 
 
 This is my home now, and I must stay here. 
 But how can I, without him ? I am so lonely !" 
 
 The shadows were deepening in the room, 
 as poor Nelly sat in her easy-chair, and looked 
 out into the dark with a heart as dark. 
 
 " I am all, all alone !" she repeated ; " and I 
 never could endure it ; I want some one to be 
 near me. I can't be alone !" 
 
 She stretched out her arms in the darkness, 
 and felt utterly weak and helpless. She would 
 not have allov/ed any one in the house, or per- 
 haps in the world, to know her feelings. Her 
 pride was utterly gone ; and she felt that she 
 could not bear her lot alone, but must have 
 some one to lean on. But v/ho? There was 
 no one in the world to go to. 
 
 Was there any comfort anywhere ? Nelly, 
 humbled and helpless, bereft of earthly idols, 
 and feeling that she must have sympathy and 
 support, fell upon her knees in the darkness — ■ 
 *' Oh, Jesus," she murmured, with streaming 
 eyes, " come to me ; I am weary and heavy 
 laden. Oh, please be so near that I can know 
 you are here and feel your presence !" 
 
LONELINESS. 5 1 
 
 Who was it that hfted up the tired spirit 
 and gave it peace? — that imparted to the 
 stricken soul a feeUng of resting on an arm 
 more tender than a mother's, strong enough 
 to bear up the world, unfailing as eternity ? 
 Nelly knew who it was. Her soul was up- 
 lifted by a power entirely outside of her own 
 will. She gave up all to that One v/ho was 
 by her side. She prayed with trust and peace 
 for Frank, for herself, for all her dear ones, 
 and, rested and happy, no longer alone, she 
 sat for a long time afterwards softly singing 
 praises to the blessed Saviour. 
 
 " Oh, blessed Jesus, Thy will be done ! I 
 can be alone ; I am happy, for Thou art with 
 me !" Nelly said half aloud, as at last she left 
 her room to go down -stairs. She was so 
 gentle and so pleasant to the old people, that 
 they loved her more than ever before, and said 
 to e::ch other that night " What a sweet creat- 
 ure Nelly is ! Frank has, indeed, a treasure." 
 
 Nelly's room and the old easy-chair were 
 hallov/ed to her after this. When she v^as 
 overpowered vv-ith sadness, and felt as though 
 
52 LONELINESS. 
 
 she could not go on cheerfully any longer, and 
 keep a bright face while her heart was rest- 
 less with anxiety and fear (for Frank was at 
 the front now, and might be in a battle any 
 day), she knelt in that same spot, which seemed 
 to her right under the wings of the cherubim, 
 and cried again for the boon that was never 
 refused — for the sensible presence and the 
 comforting love of her Lord. 
 
 Religion was a new thing to her now. She 
 had accepted it as a matter of course in her 
 childhood. No one could grow up under 
 Mrs. Bell's guidance and be utterly indifferent 
 to it. But this world had always been so full 
 to overflowing of charms and pleasures to the 
 bright, handsome girl, that spiritual joys were 
 known only afar off and dimly. Now the 
 night of sorrow revealed all those stars that 
 had passed unnoticed in the sunny day. If 
 any one had told Nelly that she could be 
 happy or even resigned in her present circum- 
 stances, she would have thought it impossible. 
 But God v/as teaching her that she could bear 
 anything that it vras His will to send, and that 
 
LONELINESS. 53 
 
 none of His children might say " I cannot," to 
 anything He should appoint. 
 
 It was just what Nelly needed. The sad 
 hours and the perfect quiet, the lack of praise 
 and admiration and society, upon which she 
 had depended very much in days gone by — 
 all were teaching her hard, but wholesome 
 lessons of quiet submission, of placing her 
 treasure in heaven, and keeping her heart 
 there. If her mother's spirit hovered ovei 
 her, she was glad of the discipline her child 
 was receiving, though it cost many tears and 
 struggles. God will not leave us to ourselves 
 to grow worldly, self-willed, to be wrapped 
 up in earthly joys, innocent though they be, 
 till we forget that this is not our home. He 
 will disturb our pleasures, and empty us from 
 vessel to vessel, till we are ready to take up 
 the cross and bear it after our Master wher- 
 ever He wills. 
 
 
^^s 
 
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 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 EUTH was a great comfort to Nelly, as 
 she had been to the whole family for 
 nearly forty years. Her very presence, as she 
 moved about the house with her white hair 
 and her soft, white cap and her still footstep, 
 was soothing in itself. A sweet look of un- 
 selfish love was always on her face, and she 
 was always busy with head and hands doing 
 something for others. And then all her in- 
 stincts were so refined. In the midst of her 
 multiform cares, the vase of fresh flowers for 
 the centre of the bountiful table was never 
 forgotten; and on Nelly's little work -stand, 
 (54) 
 
RUTH. 55 
 
 covered with its snowy napkin, the roses and 
 geraniums were daily renewed by Ruth's taste- 
 ful fingers. When flowers were gone, bright 
 leaves and mosses took their place, and Ruth's 
 windows were filled with her beloved plants, 
 which she found time to tend through the 
 winter. Everything about the house felt her 
 care, and would have missed her thoughtful 
 attention. She had an eye for everything, and 
 everything moved on with perfect regularity 
 under her direction ; and yet there was noth- 
 ing mechanical in her daily tasks, for little acts 
 of love were ail the time breaking through 
 the monotony of household routine, like flow- 
 ers through the dry leaves in the forest. Lit- 
 tle surprises for each one, the earliest flowers, 
 the sweetest fruit, some favorite delicacy to 
 tempt a wavering appetite, a touch here and 
 a touch there, showed that Ruth's heart was 
 as busy as her fingers, and gave each one of 
 the family a peculiar feeling of gratitude and 
 tenderness towards her. Mr. Leighton v^^ould 
 as soon have thought that the world could fly 
 from its orbit as that his little daily comforts 
 
56 RUTH. 
 
 could be neglected — that his slippers, his news- 
 paper, his spectacles, his bright fire could ever 
 be wanting, or Ruth not be apparently entirely 
 at leisure to attend to him whenever he asked 
 any little service of her. Mrs. Leighton often 
 declared that she could never keep house 
 without her, and always added, "And v/hat a 
 nurse she is. There never was anybody like 
 her in sickness." 
 
 But, after all, it was Frank who knew Ruth 
 best. He had been her charge through his 
 childhood, and, childless widow as she was, 
 she had poured out upon him the whole wealth 
 of her heart. It was her joy and delight to 
 do everything for him, and surround him with 
 all the pleasures and treats that a kind woman 
 can so well furnish to a boy. Many were the 
 nice little suppers she concocted, the picnics 
 for the woods, the lunches for mountain ram- 
 bles. His clothes were always forthcoming, 
 in perfect order; his guns and fishing-rods 
 and treasures of every kind were guarded as 
 sacred objects, and, in fact, he was hedged 
 about with comforts and kindnesses, till he 
 
RUTH. 57 
 
 would have hardly known how to exist with- 
 out Ruth ; and all his boy friends knew and 
 prized her almost as much as he did. 
 
 And when ne left home for school and col- 
 lege, her care still followed him, and was round 
 him like an atmosphere, and his visits home 
 were times of feasting- and jubilee. No mat- 
 ter how many college-mates he brought with 
 him, there was always room and refreshment 
 ample for all, and the freest and most generous 
 hospitality, and no additional care or bustle 
 was apparent. His mother was entirely free 
 to drive or sail, and enjoyed his friends as 
 much as he did, and Ruth was always the 
 same, watchful of his comfort, unfailing in her 
 attentions, and making everything so fair and 
 so comfortable about the old house, that the 
 young man would say enthusiastically, as he 
 went to her for some new service, ^' Ruth, you 
 are the greatest manager and the most superb 
 housekeeper that ever was known. I don't 
 go anywhere where everything goes on so 
 beautifully. How lovely the flowers were on 
 the table ; and your ice cream was such a sue- 
 
58 RUTH. 
 
 cess! But don't tire yourself all out, will 
 you !" 
 
 Ruth would look at him with a fond smile, 
 and say, *' No, Mr. Frank ; I never feel tired 
 when you are at home. You bring sunshine 
 with you." 
 
 " Oh, Ruth, you spoil me !" the young man 
 would say, gaily ; and Ruth, more than re- 
 warded for any additional labor or care, went 
 on her quiet way with a happy smile, and 
 gladly rose early and sat up late to make sure 
 that everything should go right, and that Mr. 
 Frank and his friends should have a " royal 
 good time," as she called it. 
 
 No wonder Frank lov^ed Ruth, and told his 
 young wife she v/as the best friend he had in 
 the world next to his parents, and that she 
 must love her dearly. And Nelly needed no 
 urging to do this. The first friendly glance of 
 Ruth's mild eyes reminded her of her own 
 gentle mother, and she loved and trusted her 
 from that moment, and was quite ready to be 
 loved and petted in return. And when Frank 
 left her for the perils of the battle-field, and 
 
RUTH. 59 
 
 poor lonely Nelly was stretching out her 
 hands for sympathy, Ruth came in v^^ith her 
 motherliness to fill up many a dreadful gap. 
 If she had been obtrusive in her sympathy, or 
 even expressed it at all, Nelly would have 
 shut herself up behind the fortress of her pride, 
 and refused to be comforted. But Ruth never 
 said that she noticed anything. When Nelly 
 had exerted herself to be bright and cheerful, 
 and had succeeded in passing a tolerably 
 pleasant evening, forgetting how lonel}^ she 
 was in her effort to entertain and amuse the 
 old people, and then came up to her room sad 
 and tired, that was Ruth's time. A gentle 
 knock at the door, and the dear old woman 
 came in, and took care of Nelly as though she 
 had been a tired child. She seemed to bring 
 an atmosphere of comf )rt with her, and though 
 she said not a word about the tears that were 
 flowing, and pretended not to notice them, 
 every tuck that she gave to the bed-clothes, 
 and every poke to the fire, was full of sympa- 
 thy, and did Nelly good ; and when she left 
 at last, Nelly felt so thankful to her for her 
 
Co RUTH. 
 
 sympathy, and so thankful that she had not 
 said a word about it. It was good to have 
 somebody before whom she did not mind cry- 
 ing, who understood it thoroughly, and did 
 not think she ought to keep up and control 
 herself. 
 
 Great was Nelly's dismay, then, when one 
 morning one of the servants came to call her 
 instead of Ruth, and said that Mrs. Tolman 
 was " sick a-bed." Nelly hastened to Ruth's 
 room, and found it v/as too true. She was 
 quite ill, and entirely unable to rise. Mrs. 
 Leighton, very much disturbed, was sitting 
 by the bedside. Ruth was evidentl}^ suffering, 
 and looked distressed in mind as well as body. 
 She drew Nelly to her, and Avhispered, " Please 
 get her away. She is so troubled, it worries 
 me. You stay with me, dear." 
 
 Nelly was inwardly very unwilling to pro- 
 mise, for she knew nothing of sickness, and 
 had always disliked a sick-room of all things ; 
 but her love for Ruth overcame her selfish 
 feelings, and she said " Certainly, dear Ruth," 
 and soon succeeded in inducing Mrs. Leighton 
 
RUTH. 6l 
 
 to go down to breakfast. As soon as she liad 
 gone, Ruth said feebly, " I don't need anybody, 
 dear ; don't let Mrs. Leighton come back ; you 
 look in once in a while ; that is all — now go." 
 
 Nell}^ remonstrated, but it was of no avail. 
 Ruth, in that quiet way of hers that suffered 
 no appeal, insisted on being left alone ; and 
 Nelly left her, feeling very anxious, and as 
 though her only support in her troubles had 
 suddenly given way. 
 
 The doctor pronounced Ruth's disease of a 
 serious nature, and looked very grave as he 
 spoke of her delicate constitution and advanc- 
 ing years. Ruth saw him alone, and Nelly 
 had no doubt that she learned from him the 
 exact truth, for when she went in to see her 
 after he had left, Ruth's first question was, 
 *' Can Mr. Frank come to see me ?" 
 
 Nelly gave a start of mingled dread and 
 pleasure. " I don't know, Ruth, dear ; but I 
 will write him at once if you wish it. Oh, how 
 nice it would be if he could come!" 
 
 " Don't wait to write," said Ruth, quietl3% 
 '* telegraph him, please ;" then seeing Ncl]3''s 
 
62 RUTH. 
 
 look of horror, which she in vain tried to con- 
 ceal, she said " I am very sick, dear ; and I 
 v/ant to see Mr. Frank very much. If he can 
 come home for a day, ask him to come." 
 
 She felt too ill to say more, and turned with 
 a sigh to the wall. Nelly stood aghast for a 
 moment, but summoning all her resolution she 
 said, *' I shall send for Frank right away, dear, 
 and he'll come, you will see ; don't you worry 
 about it at all ; he'll be here very soon." 
 
 Then calling an attendant, she hurried to 
 Mr. Leighton, and said, " I don't want to 
 alarm you, sir, but Ruth thinks she is very 
 sick, and wants Frank sent for!" 
 
 " She does !" said the old gentleman, in such 
 an accent of surprise and alarm that Nelly was 
 really frightened. " Then she is going to die, 
 for I never knew Ruth to give up before. We 
 must send for Frank immediately. Poor boy, 
 it vnll be sad nev/s for him ; and what will my 
 poor wife do ?" 
 
 A telegram was sent, and Nelly returned, 
 almost bev/ildered, to Ruth's chamber. She 
 had fallen into a heavy sleep, and Nelly was 
 
RUTH. 62 
 
 startled to see how badly she looked. She 
 was just going to run to call somebody, when 
 she stopped herself. " Who is there to call ? 
 There's really nobody but me ! Ruth said I 
 must take care of her ! How dreadful it is ! 
 What can I do ?" 
 
 She sat down, feeling perfectly helpless, to 
 watch Ruth. The quiet of the sick chamber, 
 with nothing audible but the heavy breathing 
 of the sleeper, oppressed and appalled her. 
 She felt as though it could not be herself, so 
 strangely placed. " I can't take care of her/^ 
 she thought ; " I never took care of a sick per- 
 son. But then she asked me to. Oh, what 
 could I do without her, if she were to die ? I 
 can't live without her here. She has been my 
 greatest comfort since Frank went away. Oh, 
 no, I couldn't exist without her. Oh, what a 
 world this is !" 
 
 Ruth woke ; and as soon as she sav/ Nelly, 
 opened her arms with such an expression of 
 affection and delight, that Nelly ran to her at 
 once. ^' Dear child ! You are so good to stay 
 with me. Have you sent for him?" 
 
64 RUTH. 
 
 " Yes, Ruth ; we shall hear from him very 
 soon. I know he will come, and then how 
 happy we will be. You feel better, don't you, 
 Ruth?" 
 
 " Not much, dear ; but it's all right ; ddrfi 
 look so troubled. It's all right, you know." 
 
 Nelly did not like to trouble her by saying 
 that she thought it was all wrong ; but she did 
 think so, nevertheless. Ruth said, '^ Go away 
 now% dear, and send Susan to me. I v/ant to 
 tell her how to manage while I am sick ; I can 
 talk to her awhile now." 
 
 " Oh, don't, Ruth ; she'll get along very well 
 with the house; pray don't tire yourself." 
 
 " No, I won't ; but I vf ant to see her a few 
 minutes. Go, dear, but promise me you will 
 be where I can call you." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Nelly; and, caUing the 
 servant, she went to her own room. Lonely 
 enough before, it seemed to have taken a new 
 gloom in the last few hours. She sat dov/n 
 to think, and her thoughts were very melan- 
 choly. 
 
 *' Who could have believed that my last 
 
RUTH. 65 
 
 comfort could be taken from me in this way ! 
 It seems as though everything went v/rong 
 with me. Here is Ruth so ill, and no one to 
 take care of her but me. And I thought when 
 I was married I should have such an easy, 
 such a charming time. Oh, how different it 
 all is from what I expected. I can't under- 
 take to bear all this. I don't believe it's neces- 
 sary for me to be with Ruth. She only asked 
 me to be within call. I can't possibly take 
 care of her, for I don't know how. I am sure 
 Susan can do it a great deal better." 
 
 Nelly rocked back and forth in her rocking- 
 chair, utterly rebellious at the state of things 
 around her, and yet feeling that she could not 
 escape from it. ** I can't bear it ! I can't get 
 along without Frank ! I can't take care of 
 Ruth !" she kept repeating to herself, in a 
 vexation and anger at the appointments of 
 Providence that were very childish. She felt 
 ashamed of herself all the time, but still she 
 went on saying to herself that she could not 
 do what she knew all the time she could and 
 must. As she sat thus murmuring and com- 
 
(:/^ RUTH. 
 
 plaining, and fretting herself more and more, 
 Susan knocked at the door. " Please, ma'am, 
 Ruth says, can you come and see her ?" 
 
 " I can't go just now, Susan. You stay 
 with her." 
 
 " She doesn't want me, ma'am ; and Mrs. 
 Leighton is calling me. I must go down;" 
 and Susan hurried away. 
 
 Nelly, with a sigh, left her comfortable 
 chair, and went to Ruth's room with a weary 
 step and most discontented face. In the few 
 hours since she had left her, Ruth had grown 
 weaker, and now, instead of stretching out 
 her arms to embrace her young mistress, she 
 said, in a faint voice, " Sit down where I can 
 see you, dear." 
 
 Nelly, self-reproached and full of sympathy, 
 sat down by the bed. 
 
 "You have not heard from him yet?" said 
 Ruth. 
 
 " No ; but you know, Ruth, he was quite a 
 distance from the railroad. But he will be 
 sure to answer soon ; and I know he will come 
 "ight on.' 
 
RUTH. (i'] 
 
 " I hope so," v/as the answer. Then, after 
 a pause, Ruth said, " There are two or three 
 things I want you to do for me, dear." 
 
 *' Certainly," said Nelly ; " I will do any- 
 thing you wish." 
 
 ** I want you to take a box that you will 
 find on the shelf in my closet, and keep it as 
 long as you live. All his playthings are in it. 
 I have kept it ever since he was a little fellow, 
 and never have allowed anybody to touch 
 those things. Promise me that you will keep 
 them always." 
 
 Nelly promised, v/ith tears in her eyes. 
 These were, then, the faithful Ruth's greatest 
 treasures — a box of old playthings ! Truly there 
 were few hearts as devoted and true as her's ! 
 
 " There is a Cologne-bottle in my drawer," 
 added Ruth, " that he gave me when he went 
 away to college. I give that to you. Keep 
 it in your room in memory of me. And there 
 are two little match-boxes ; I bought them 
 to give to you when 3'Ou should go to house- 
 keeping. Will you put them in your house 
 and use them for my sake ?" 
 
68 RUTH. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, dear Ruth ; and you shall see 
 how pretty they will look. You must come 
 and live with us !" 
 
 Ruth shook her head. " Now, dear, read me 
 a few verses in the Bible, and sing me a hymn.'* 
 
 Nelly, who had an excellent memory, re- 
 peated the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel 
 of John, and sang two or three sweet Sunday- 
 school hymns, of the kind that Ruth most de- 
 lighted in. Before she had finished them, 
 Ruth was in a heavy sleep. 
 
 ^' Oh, dear, how I wish Frank would come !" 
 sighed poor Nelly. Ruth evidentl}^ thinks she 
 is going to die, and they all think so. How 
 dreadfully Frank will feel ! How dreadful it 
 is for all of us. What if she should die now, 
 while I am here alone?" and she shuddered, 
 as Ruth groaned and started in her sleep. 
 
 The door softly opened, and Mr. Leighton 
 and the doctor came in. They looked anx- 
 iously at Ruth ; the doctor felt her pulse, but 
 she did not wake. He said to Nelly, " How 
 long has she slept in this way ?" 
 
 " Not long," said poor Nell3^ installed in 
 
RUTH. 69 
 
 her place as nurse entirely against her own 
 will. 
 
 " I will not wake her/' said the doctor. 
 *' Give her this and this — and feed her with 
 wine and brandy as often as she will take it." 
 
 Mr. Leighton said, " Doctor, will you come 
 in and see my wife ? She is quite ill and con- 
 fined to her bed ;" and, before they left the 
 room, he kissed Nelly's brow, and said, " You 
 are a great comfort to us, dear. I don't know 
 what we should do without you now !" 
 
 Nelly was on the point of saying, " But, sir, 
 I can't take care of sick people. I never did, 
 and I don't know how ;" but, without waiting 
 for a reply, Mr. Leighton was gone. Her 
 duties, disagreeable and distasteful as they 
 were, were laid upon her without any consent 
 of her own. Everybody seemed to take it for 
 granted that she would step into the place 
 of nurse at this emergency, and be a support 
 and comfort to them all ; and yet she felt 
 utterly unable and unwilling to do anything 
 
 * 
 
 of the kind. 
 
 She was very miserable as she sat in the 
 
70 RUTH. 
 
 utter stillness in Ruth's room, a silence only 
 broken by the heavy breathing of the sleeper. 
 She thought her lot was a very hard one ; a 
 very cruel one, in fact ; she had no mind to be 
 shut up in a dark room, with the responsibility 
 of a serious case of illness on her hands. Two 
 or three times she half rose from her chair, 
 and said, '' I can't do it — it's im.possible. I 
 have a great mind to go home !" and then the 
 absurdity of such an idea, and the thought of 
 what Frank would say to it, restrained her, 
 and she sat down again to chafe under her 
 hard fate, and wish, with bitter longing, that 
 Frank would come. 
 
 It never occurred to her how utterly selfish 
 her feelings were, and of how little conse- 
 quence her comfort was, compared with the 
 great event that was hastening on to transfer 
 a pure spirit from earth to heaven. 
 
 She was roused from her bitter, rebellious 
 musings by Ruth's faint voice, " Have you 
 heard anything from him yet, dear ?" 
 
 " No, Ruth, not yet. It's strange ; but never 
 mind ; we shall hear soon." 
 
RUTH. 71 
 
 * It's all right," said Ruth, gently ; but 
 a deep sigh followed the words. " Mrs. 
 Frank"— 
 
 "Yes, dear!" 
 
 " Will you come here, right by me and pra j 
 — a very short prayer — I could not follow a 
 long one" — 
 
 Nelly stood irresolute for a moment. She 
 was just about to say, *' I can't, Ruth ;" but 
 Ruth had closed her eyes and folded her 
 hands and was waiting, and there was nothing 
 to be done but to grant her request. 
 
 But what could she say? How could she 
 pray at all, feeling as she did then. A sense 
 of remorse swept over her, as she realized how 
 far she was from God, and from submission to 
 His will. How could she say, " Thy will be 
 done." 
 
 But she did. With a despairing feeling that 
 she must submit at last, she knelt down and 
 strove to pray for Ruth, and put herself in 
 R.uth's place, and say what she would wish 
 said. She prayed for recovery, for submission 
 to God's will, and for Frank's return. It was 
 
72 RUTH. 
 
 a short prayer, but it evidently satisfied Ruth, 
 for she pressed Nelly's hand, and said, " God 
 bless and reward you, dear child," and then 
 Ruth was asleep again, suddenly, and Kelly 
 resumed her watch. 
 
 Her wicked, rebellious frame of mind had 
 been shaken by that little prayer. She could 
 not go on complaining as she had done, when 
 she saw Ruth's sweet submission, and realized 
 that they were all in God's hands, and that 
 He was bringing this trouble upon them. 
 Her undisciplined heart still said, " Why need 
 it be so?" but she was more ready to answer, 
 " No matter why. It is so ordered, and I must 
 submit. It is of no use saying I can't, for I 
 must. There is no help for it. I must make 
 the best of it, and do all I can. I suppose it 
 must be best, or it wouldn't be so ; but oh, 
 dear, it is very hard !" Here she was wan- 
 dering off into her old murmurings ; but she 
 checked herself suddenly, and said, " I must 
 not do so. God has seen fit to put me in this 
 hard place, and I must behave myself like a 
 woman, not like a fool." 
 
RUTH. 73 
 
 So saying, Nelly rose from her seat with an 
 air of determination, and began arranging the 
 room, and setting the bottles in a row on the 
 shelf But Ruth immediately opened her eyes 
 and said, feebly, '' Must you do that now, dear? 
 I would like so much to be quiet." So poor 
 Nelly had to sit down again, in forced inac- 
 tion, which was the hardest duty in the world 
 to her. The room was so dark she could nei- 
 ther read nor sew, and the only change for 
 her was in administering the stimulants to 
 Ruth from time to time. She had plenty of 
 time to think that day and the next and the 
 next, for Mrs. Leighton was ill and unable to 
 relieve her, and Ruth evidently desired her 
 presence so much in the day-time that Nelly 
 could not leave her. The maids sat up at 
 night, and Nelly rested well ; but still it was 
 a hard time for her ; and hardest of all was it 
 that they did not hear from Frank. 
 
 At last, when Ruth had been gradually sink- 
 ing for three days, and the doctor gave scarce- 
 ly any hope of her recovery, the telegram 
 came from the army. Frank had been out on 
 
 7 
 
74 RUTH. 
 
 a scouting- party, and had just received the 
 sad news. He would be on his way at once 
 having received a furlough for a few days. 
 
 Ruth's face w^as eager and excited when she 
 heard the news, and she asked for the stimu- 
 lants very often that da}^ It was evident that 
 she v/anted to cling to life long enough to see 
 Frank once more. But she was growing 
 weaker every hour, he could not arrive till 
 the next evening, and it v/as very doubtful if r 
 she would last through the night, the doctor 
 said. 
 
 They were not sure whether Ruth knew 
 that her end was so near. When the clergy- 
 man asked her if she was ready to go, she said, 
 " Whenever it is the will of God, sir. He will 
 do what is right ;" and that was all. Nelly 
 had repeated her short prayer several times, 
 and when she bade Ruth good-night and went 
 to bed as Ruth insisted she should, there vv^as 
 nothing peculiar in Ruth's manner to intimate 
 that she knew it was the last farewell. But in 
 the night a summons came to her door, " Ruth 
 is d3dng and wants to see you." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 "AXELLY had a great struggle before she 
 ---^ could force herself to go mto the pres- 
 ence of death. The messenger returned hast- 
 ily to Ruth's chamber, and, left alone in the 
 darkness, Nelly shuddered with fear and dread, 
 and set up her will against this new call of 
 duty. 
 
 "Oh," said she, shivering, "I cannot be 
 there. It surely is not necessary. I have 
 never seen a person die — not even mamma. 
 Nobody at home thought I need make the 
 effort, and surely I need not now. It makes 
 no difference, I will not go in, for I cannot en- 
 
 (75) 
 
y^ THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 dure it. There are plenty of people to take 
 care of dear Ruth. I can do nothing for her, 
 and I can't bear to see her die. I never could 
 stand such things. Daisy does not mind them, 
 but they affect me so dreadfully." 
 
 Ashamed of herself all the time for her self- 
 ish cowardice, she lay shuddering and crying, 
 and persuading herself that it was impossible 
 for her to be of any use. But in a moment 
 a peremptory messenger ended this sinful 
 delay. 
 
 "Ruth says, Please come quick, ma'am. 
 She must see you !" and the messenger was 
 gone as before. 
 
 '■'■ Oh, how wrong I have been !" exclaimed 
 Nelly, remorsefully, and hurried to dress her- 
 self, trembling all over with great nervous ex- 
 citement. She went to Ruth's room without 
 trusting herself to pause for an instant. The 
 dying woman was looking towards the door 
 eagerly, and smiled and stretched out her 
 arms v/hen Nelly came in. Nelly ran to her 
 embrace. Ruth said nothing for a moment, 
 but, then, as Nelly hung over her and said 
 
THE POWER OF DEATH. 77 
 
 " Did you want me for anything, ^ear Ruth?" 
 she gathered all her forces, and said slov/ly 
 and faintly, with eyes full of wistful longing, 
 ''Love Frank — I shall never see him." 
 
 The strongest affection of the faithful heart 
 had been devotion to her young master, and 
 now the hardest trial in leaving this world was 
 that she must go without seeing him. Her 
 sweet, patient, loving spirit was all ready to 
 take flight to a better world. No doubts 
 clouded her mind ; the perfect trust that had 
 met all the troubles and perplexities of a long 
 life with a simple " It's all right," was hers 
 still. It did not fail her now. She knew that 
 her time had come, and she was perfectly 
 willing to leave the future in God's hands, as_ 
 sured that He would keep what she had com- 
 mitted to Him till that day. There were no 
 raptures, no visions of glory about that dying 
 bed ; only a serene trust and patience that 
 were characteristic of Ruth's life, and now 
 made her death beautiful. 
 
 She had had one conflict. This longing to 
 see her boy onc^ more had been very strong, 
 
 7* 
 
78 THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 and it was hard to give up the hope. But 
 now that, too, was conquered. All Avas laid at 
 the feet of Him who orders all things well, 
 and the quiet peace with which Ruth sank 
 back on her pillows, told that she had given 
 this up too, and was satisfied to rest in God's 
 will. 
 
 Nelly nerved herself to watch with the 
 others, through the remaining hours of Ruth's 
 life. It was much against her will. Two or 
 three times she was on the point of turning 
 from the room, and telling Susan that she 
 could not stay, unless she was realh' needed. 
 But at her slightest movement, Ruth's eyes 
 moved towards her, though she could not 
 speak, and Nelly, for very shame, sat down 
 again. 
 
 It was good for her to be there, though she 
 would fain have avoided the discipline. The 
 sure, inevitable approach of death, stealing 
 one after another of the senses, sealing the 
 lips, and at last reducing the body to a cold, 
 lifeless thing, while the soul departs on its 
 mysterious journey ; to see it all gave Nelly a 
 
THE POWER OF DEATH. 79 
 
 sense of the "shoFtness and uncertainty of 
 human life," such as a thousand sermons 
 could not have done. 
 
 The whole world seemed changed to her 
 when she left that room, with the still form, 
 no longer Ruth, lying there. She had wit- 
 nessed nothing fearful or harrowing, but the 
 resistless power of death — she had seen that ; 
 and how it pressed upon her soul, like an iron 
 hand ! It was coming surely and steadily, to 
 her and to every one. A crushing power, 
 that none could stay or resist. 
 
 While Nelly sat thinking thus, learning her 
 first lesson of the reality of death, and the 
 vanity of life, quite alone, not wishing to see 
 any one, but repeating in an awed Vv^hisper, 
 " The power of death, the dreadful power, we 
 cannot resist it," association recalled to her 
 mind a verse in the Bible, in which were 
 those very words, " The power of death !" 
 What was it? It floated dimly before her 
 mind, but she strove to recall it, for it seemed 
 as though it would do her good ; and when 
 she at last caught it, it flashed across her 
 
80 THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 soul like a beacon-light. It was this : " That 
 through death He might destroy him that 
 had the power of death, and deliver them 
 v/ho, through fear of death, were all their 
 lifetime subject to bondage." 
 
 What a rich verse ! What a fund of conso- 
 lation there was in it ! Nelly set herself to 
 consider it, and to take refuge in its strong con- 
 solation. " Through death," she said to her- 
 self. ^' Oh, yes ! He died, he went through 
 that terrible thing. Death came to Him, and 
 conquered him, and laid him cold and stiff. 
 Jesus went through it all ! Oh, bless Him for 
 it ! He knew it would be horrible for us, 
 and so He went through it, to show us it was 
 not so bad, and to take away our fear. But 
 He did more. He ' destroj^ed him that had 
 the power of death.* I wonder what that 
 means ? It must be Satan. There is then a 
 dreadful power; it is not imagination, oh, 
 no !" and Nelly shuddered ; " but Jesus has 
 taken it away. It only looks like a dreadful 
 power now, it doesn't feel so when we come 
 to it. And that must be the reason why 
 
THE POWER OF DEATH. 8l 
 
 Christians die so peaceably. I don't believe 
 Ruth felt that she was being crushed by a 
 dreadful power. Christ took it away, and He 
 will for us all. Oh, Saviour ! we need Thee — 
 we do — death would be a dreadful thing with- 
 out Thee !" 
 
 Falling on her knees, Nelly found vent for 
 her overwrought feelings, in tears and pray- 
 ers. They did her good, for the strain upori 
 her nerves had been great for the past few 
 days. She repeated the precious verse over 
 and over, and thanked the Lord for His un- 
 speakable love. She felt that her fear of death, 
 which would have been a dreadful '' bond- 
 age" indeed, could be taken away by this all- 
 powerful, all-loving Friend ; and she leaned 
 upon His love, as a frightened child clings to 
 the strong arm of a father or an elder brother. 
 
 " How wonderful that Jesus should have 
 submitted to death of his own free will, for 
 our sakes entirely, to conquer its power, and 
 to rise again and show us how we shall rise !" 
 Nelly could not stop thinking of it. She sat 
 I'ocking and thinking, till a knock at the door 
 
82 THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 roused her, and Susan came in with a warm 
 
 drink for her, and Mrs. Leighton's request 
 
 that she would go to bed, and try to sleep. 
 
 Then she lay down, with a burst of tears at 
 
 the thought that the kind hands that had tucked 
 
 her up so many times were cold and stiff, and 
 
 Ruth gone for ever. She went to sleep after 
 
 a time, but suddenly woke with a start, and 
 
 found she v/as going over the scenes of the 
 
 night in her dreams. This was ten times 
 
 worse than sitting up ; she had to fight the 
 
 battle over again, go back to the text that 
 
 was like an anchor to her soul, and pray and 
 
 strive till the fear was gone. 
 
 It was strange that she did not care for any 
 
 companionship in this sad conflict. She long- 
 ed for Frank, indeed, but it was not for any 
 help that he could give her soul now. His 
 love was inexpressibly sweet to her, but it 
 could do nothing for her at the hour of death. 
 No one but Christ would be of any worth to 
 her then, and no one but Christ could help her 
 now, to look upon death v/ithout fear, and to 
 prepare to meet it when it should come. 
 
THE POWER OF DEATH. S} 
 
 Nell}^ had a strong nature, and she did not 
 want to forget what she had seen. She felt 
 that it had been brought to her, contrary to 
 her own will, and now she would not have 
 thrown away the lesson, if she could ; but she 
 could not. She had received such a strong 
 impression of the certainty of the approach of 
 death, that all earthly things seemed to fade 
 into insignificance, and she wanted Christ and 
 Christ alone. She wanted every one else to 
 have him too. As she lay and thought how 
 dreadful it would be to die without Christ, it 
 seemed to her she did not care for anything 
 but to spread the knowledge of Christ, and to 
 persuade everybody to trust in Him. It made 
 her sick at heart to think of the multitudes of 
 people all over the world who were hastening 
 on to death without caring for Him who alone 
 could destroy its dreadful power. 
 
 Her brother Charlie's m.ission, which had 
 sometimes appeared to her Utopian and un- 
 necessary, now seemed the most suitable 
 thing in the world, and Daisy's efforts to teach 
 the poor and ignorant made her blush with 
 
84 THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 shame to think of her own slothfulness and 
 indifference. 
 
 " How I have overrated this world !" she 
 thought. " How could I be so blind ? Can I 
 ever run after pleasure again as I have done, 
 when there is so much to be done in teaching 
 people of Christ, and when I may be cut down 
 any day, and be able to do no more ? Oh, be- 
 fore I die, let me bring a few at least, who 
 have been as thoughtless as I have been, to 
 give their hearts to Christ, that they may find 
 shelter in His great love, so freely offered to 
 all !" 
 
 Nelly thought and thought, and could not 
 sleep ; but at last, thoroughly exhausted, she 
 sank into a dreamless slumber. She did not 
 wake till late the next morning, and then, as 
 she opened her eyes, a scream of joy burst 
 from her lips — for Frank was standing by the 
 bedside. 
 
 ^' Oh, what happiness ! Frank ! Are you 
 really here ? Is it really you ?" 
 
 Frank could not speak for mingled joy and 
 sorrow. In an instant Nelly realized his sor- 
 
THE POWER OF DEATH. 8$ 
 
 row and disappointment, and poured out all 
 her sympathy. '' I know it is so hard for you, 
 dear, to be a httle too late to see her. She 
 loved you so to the last. Her last words were, 
 ** Love Frank ! I shall never see him !" 
 
 They wept together, and then Frank said, 
 " You will be more to me than ever now, my 
 httle wife. I have lost more than you can 
 ever know of faithful love and care in my dear 
 old nurse ; and I shall look to find it all in you. 
 You were with her to the last. That is such 
 a happiness to me. As I could not be here, it 
 is a great comfort to know that you were b}* 
 her side. I love you more than ever for this.'* 
 
 How thankful Nelly was now that she had 
 been forced against her ov/n selfish will to do 
 what gratified her husband so much. She 
 would never have dared to confess to him that 
 she was in the house and yet would not go to 
 Ruth. She despised herself that she had ever 
 thought of such cov/ardice. 
 
 " I have been looking at her peaceful face, 
 and recalling the long succession of acts of 
 love she has done for me !" said Frank. " How 
 
86 THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 much I shall miss her ! Oh, that I could ha^ e 
 been here to minister to her dying hours !" 
 
 "What kept you so long, dear? We re- 
 ceived word that you would come, and were 
 watching for you every hour, oh, so anxiously ! 
 Ruth asked a dozen times each day if you had 
 not come. It was very hard for her to give 
 up seeing you." 
 
 *' It was hard for me. How I have prayed 
 that she might not die before I reached home !" 
 said the young man. " I was detained on the 
 Vv^ay. The trains were all in confusion in Vir- 
 ginia, owing to the recent transportation of 
 troops ; and oh, it was so trying to have to 
 wait, while I knew every hour was precious ! 
 I would have taken a horse and traveled on 
 horseback, but I knew I should not gain any 
 time in that way." 
 
 " Well, dear, it cannot be helped. She gave 
 it up at last, so sweetly. Oh, Frank, I shall 
 never cease to think that " It's ail right" is the 
 sweetest motto any one can have. It took 
 Ruth through all her sickness with the same 
 Bvveet patience she ahvays had in health. But 
 
THE POWER OF DEATH. 
 
 87 
 
 you are here now to comfort your poor father 
 and mother. They need you. Poor mother 
 is really ill with grief. You must go to her 
 now, Frank. She needs you more than I do." 
 Frank noticed a change in Nelly — a quiet- 
 ness and a thoughtfulness for others that 
 struck him as something new in his bewitch- 
 ing, but willful bride. She had never seemed 
 so charming as now ; and when he left her, at 
 her earnest request, and marked her sweet 
 calmness and dignity, he knew that sorrow 
 had done a blessed work for her. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 NEW DUTIES. 
 
 THE house seemed very sad without Rutn. 
 After the funeral was over, the last look 
 had been taken at the sweet, placid face, and 
 the family returned from laying the form of 
 their life-long friend in the quiet churchyard ; 
 a void and dreariness was felt by all, as though 
 the guardian spirit of the old house had de- 
 parted, and the wheels of daily life could not 
 move on without her. Mrs. Leighton had 
 been so long accustomed to depend upon 
 Ruth, and had looked forward so confidently 
 to having her all her life, and being nursed by 
 her in the feebleness of old age, that now 
 
 (88) 
 
NEW DUTIES. 89 
 
 she was almost stunned by her sudden death, 
 and seemed bev/ildered and paralyzed at the 
 thought of living without her. Frank found 
 home a different place, deprived of all those 
 nameless little cares and kindnesses that had 
 been lavished upon him by Ruth ever since 
 he was born ; but he saw it would not do for 
 him to show his feelings, for his father and 
 mother needed all the cheer he could give 
 them in his short visit. ^' What are we to do 
 without Ruth, my son? You see how v/e are, 
 your father and myself both in feeble health," 
 said his mother to him. 
 
 " You must look to Nelly now, dear moth- 
 er!" he said, cheerfully. They were sitting 
 before the fire in his mother's room — Mrs. 
 Leighton in the easy-chair wrapped in shav/ls. 
 " I know she will be a good daughter to you." 
 
 " She is very lovely, and has endeared her- 
 self to us very much," said his mother. ''Poor 
 child ! I should not have invited her here if I 
 had known what trouble was cominof uoon us. 
 I cannot entertain her as I could --vish to do, 
 nov/ that Ruth is gone." 
 
90 NEW DUTIES. 
 
 ^' Don't talk so, mother ! Entertain her ! 
 why, she will take Ruth's place. I want her 
 to be such a help to you that you will realize 
 w^hat it is to have a daughter." 
 
 '^ You know very little about practical life, 
 my son. Your wife is a sweet, interesting 
 woman ; but I could never allow her to have 
 anything to do with household matters ; and 
 as to filling Ruth's place, you know as well as 
 I do that never can be done by anybody." 
 
 Frank saw that his mother was too much 
 depressed to be reasoned with, and a slight 
 misgiving crossed his mind too that she might 
 be right ; so he changed the subject, and tried 
 to interest her in the recent successes of the 
 Union arms, and to cheer her with the pros- 
 pect that the war v/ould be over soon, and 
 gloriously, too, and that he would return 
 home." 
 
 Mrs. Leighton, who was patriotic in the 
 extreme, was soon v/on from her gloomy 
 thoughts for the time. But her feeble health 
 made it very difficult for her to rally from the 
 stroke of Ruth's death, and almost im.possible 
 
NEW DUTIES. 91 
 
 to assume the care of the household. Frank 
 saw that he must depend upon his young Vv^ife 
 to take Ruth's place in a measure. He felt 
 very sorry that this care and trouble should 
 come upon Nelly, and could scarcely bear to 
 suggest the subject to her ; but he felt it could 
 not be avoided. While he was dreading to 
 broach the subject, Nelly introduced it unex- 
 pectedly. 
 
 ** Frank, can't I go away with you?" 
 Frank looked fondly at the appealing face, 
 and said, " Why, no, darling ? What could 
 you do there ?" then, seeing how disappointed 
 she looked, he added, '* but I hope the war will 
 be over soon, and then I can come back to 
 you. Won't we be happy then !" 
 
 " Yes ; but, Frank, I do so want to go with 
 you. I have thought of it a great deal, and 
 dear Ruth and I talked of it" — her eyes filled 
 at Ruth's name. "She said she would go 
 with me, and we would nurse in the hospitals, 
 
 and be near you in case . Oh, Frank, it is 
 
 so hard living without you, with this constant 
 fear lest you may be wounded or sick. It 
 
92 NEW DUTIES 
 
 would be easy if I were near you, and work- 
 ing for the cause you are working for. We 
 should be together then, and in sympathy. I 
 cannot bear to be idle here while you are toil- 
 ing and denying yourself. I long for some- 
 thing to do. I was never born to endure 
 passively ; and sometimes, Frank, it seems as 
 though I couldn't live so another day — as 
 though I must fly off and do something. I 
 should like the noble, self-sacrificing work of 
 ministering to the wounded soldiers. Why 
 couldn't I go on the field, as some of those 
 noble women have done, and sing hymns to 
 the wounded and dying ! and tell of the bet- 
 ter land?" 
 
 Nelly's eyes kindled, and she looked up in 
 her husband's face with an eagerness that for- 
 bade the smile that rose to his lips. 
 
 He said, gravely, " My precious wife, I ap- 
 preciate your enthusiasm ; but you couldn't 
 carry out j^'our beautiful ideas. You are too 
 young to undertake such work, and too inex- 
 perienced. If Ruth could, indeed, have gone 
 Vv^ith you — but it is useless to indulge in vain 
 
NEW DUTIES. 93 
 
 regrets. And, dearest, the war will sooPx be 
 over, I trust ; you are not really needed now." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, I am not * really needed' any- 
 v/here. I am longing to do some good in the 
 world, I am, indeed, now more than ever be- 
 fore. I would like to go on a mission, and I 
 thought this work among the soldiers v/ould 
 be so glorious. Must I just sit down here, 
 and bear my loneliness as best I may ? And 
 without Ruth, too ! Oh, she has been such a 
 comfort. I don't know how I could have 
 lived without her. Frank, dear, I don't want 
 to say I can't bear anything that God ap- 
 points ; I know I have said so too much, and 
 Ruth chode me for it ; but if there could be 
 something given me but just to be comfortable 
 and idle here, I think I could bear almost any- 
 thing else better." 
 
 " Nelly, dear, no such inactivity is appointed 
 for you. I don't know any one just now who 
 has plenty of work provided for them more 
 than my little wife." 
 
 *' Oh, you mean loving you and writing to 
 you," said Nelly, smiling faintly. " I know I 
 
94 NEW DUTIES. 
 
 have that, but it does not take all my time 
 quite." 
 
 " No, indeed, I mean nothing" of the sort. 
 You will be so busy that I shall have no 
 chance of hearing from you. What do you 
 say to taking Ruth's place, for that is what I 
 mean?" 
 
 " What ? Housekeeping ! Seeing to the 
 baking and boiling and pickling and preserv- 
 ing ! Why, Frank, you are crazy. I never 
 was in a kitchen three hours in my life !" 
 
 Frank was glad to have roused Nelly to 
 something of her old liveliness. It pained 
 him to see her with a patient look of endur- 
 ance on her face. She was too young and too 
 full of unemployed energy to endure merely. 
 He shook his head with a smile. 
 
 " I don't mean that you should actually do 
 the cooking or even the preserving, though I 
 shouldn't object to some canned fruit in the 
 winter. But, darling, T am serious. Who is 
 going to take up the mission that Ruth has 
 laid down, to go to her reward. It was no 
 nean office, I assure you. To be the stay and 
 
NEW DUTIES. 95 
 
 support of father and mother in their feeble 
 health and declining years, and to make this 
 home all it had ever been to them and to me, 
 and to many friends, rich and poor." 
 
 " But, Frank, I am utterly incompetent. I 
 could do anything better than just this." 
 
 " But, dear, just this, and nothing else, has 
 fallen to your lot to do." 
 
 " Oh, dear," said poor Nelly, her old spirit 
 of rebellion breaking out once more, '' It does 
 seem as though the very things I most de- 
 tested were forced upon me. I hate house- 
 keeping. I always did ; and mamma never 
 obliged me to have anything to do with it. 
 She said it would all come v/hen there was a 
 necessity for it. Anything else, Frank, I v/ill 
 do for you ; but I don't think I can undertake 
 this — I really don't. To keep house, too, in 
 somebody else's house — why, it's perfectly 
 awful. I should be scared out of my senses 
 if I made any mistakes, which, of course, I 
 should, forty the first day. No, I can't do it ; 
 so that settles it." 
 
 " I am very sorry, dear Nelly. I don't know 
 
96 NEW DUTIES. 
 
 what poor mother will do. I fancied you 
 would be glad to relieve her in her poor 
 health. In fact, she is not able to take charge 
 of things ; and I don't see but that the estab- 
 lishment must be broken up. And yet it will 
 almost kill them to leave their old home." 
 Frank sank into a fit of musing, apparently 
 quite forgetting the irate and excited Nelly. 
 
 Nelly was ashamed, but she was also angr}'. 
 *' Frank had no business to propose such a 
 thing to her," she thought. " The idea of tak- 
 ing charge of that great house and all the serv- 
 ants, and waiting upon two invalids besides — 
 it vv^as preposterous." 
 
 " Good-bye, dear," said Frank, suddenly 
 
 " Why, you're not going to leave me, are 
 you ?" 
 
 *' I must go and talk with father and mother. 
 I cannot leave them without making the neces- 
 sary arrangements for their comfort. The 
 house must be closed, at least for a time, 
 and the servants dismissed. Mother is in no 
 condition to attend to it all," and he was 
 leaving the room hastily. 
 
NEW DUTIES. 97 
 
 " Please don't leave me, Frank," said Nelly. 
 " I am so very miserable. I don't know what 
 you mean by all this." 
 
 Frank sat down again, reluctantly. " It is 
 very simple, Nelly. Mother cannot keep the 
 house, and you say you cannot. What is to 
 be done but to close it ?" 
 
 " But do give me time to consider !" 
 
 " I would gladly, but there is no time to 
 lose, t must go to-morrow, and, before I go, 
 something must be decided upon." 
 
 Nelly's pride and anger were gone now. 
 She felt so wretched at the idea of losing 
 Frank so soon, and of his going away dis- 
 pleased with her, that she was willing to do 
 anything. She came across the room, and 
 touched his arm timidly. " I will do anything 
 you wish me to, Frank." 
 
 " I know you will, my dear," said Frank, 
 soothing and petting her. " But I don't want 
 you to do it because I wish it merely. If it is 
 not best and right, and your duty, do not do 
 it ; but, if it is, then it is not I, dear Nelly, 
 who have brought it upon you, but He who 
 orders all thin2:s." 
 
98 NEW DUTIES. 
 
 " It is the old story, Frank," said Nelly, with 
 many tears. " I see it is God's will, but I don't 
 want to submit to it. It is just what I don't 
 like. It seems to me I could do almost an}^- 
 thing that was stirring and active and would 
 take me out in the world ; but to stay in this 
 quiet house, and take care of your father and 
 mother, (not that I don't love them, for I do,) 
 but it is so distasteful to me ! You will for- 
 give me, Frank, that I felt as though I couldn't 
 do it !" 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive, darling. It is 
 very hard, and I feel it as much as you do. 
 But if you could take up this new cross, I 
 hope it will not be long before I could come 
 and be with you ; and then you would not 
 mind so much, would you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, dear. And I do want to take up 
 the cross, only, I suppose, I wanted to choose 
 my own cross, as the hymn says," said Nelly, 
 smiling through her tears. 
 
 ** You are my noble wife !" said Frank ; *' and 
 believe me, dear, you are doing as great a work 
 in assuming this responsibility, which you dis- 
 
NEW DUTIES. 99 
 
 like so much, as you could in going to any 
 hospital or on any mission. You can be a 
 heroine here, Nelly, never fear." 
 
 Nelly had the great happiness of seeing all 
 around her pleased and cheered by the deter- 
 mination that had cost her such an effort. 
 Frank, in a private talk v*'ith his parents, told 
 them the whole story, and persuaded them to 
 encourage, rather than dissuade Nelly from 
 the task she had undertaken. They were very 
 unwilling, to burden her Avith any care, and 
 Mrs. Leighton was very sceptical as to her 
 ability to manage the household; but Frank 
 removed all objections. '* It will be the very 
 thing for Nelly," he said ; " she has had so 
 much grief and excitement the last few months, 
 that she has grown quite pale and anxious. 
 A little active work will do her great good. 
 It would not do for her to have her time on 
 her hands, to sit and miss me, and grieve for 
 her mother and Ruth. She needs to be diawn 
 out of herself; and with your indulgence, 
 which I know will be great, she will get along 
 very well. She has a fund of energy and ac- 
 
100 NEW DUTIES. 
 
 tivity of which you have no idea, and it has 
 hurt her to be so quiet." 
 
 So it was all arranged, and Frank left home 
 with comparative cheerfulness, while the 
 hearts he left behind were somewhat comforted 
 by the thought that he would soon return. 
 
 Nelly turned back to the house with very 
 different feelings from those with which she 
 had seen him go the first time. Instead of the 
 kind face and motherly arms that had soothed 
 her then, there was a sad vacancy, but she felt 
 that the mantle from the departed one had 
 fallen upon her. From a petted child, she 
 seemed to have grown into a responsible 
 woman, on whom many depended, and 
 the change brought out all her better feel- 
 ings. 
 
 " How well I remember saying to dear 
 Ruth that I would like to sleep all the time 
 Frank was away. She told me then there was 
 much for me to do, but how little she thought, 
 how much there would be! Now I mean to 
 be as much like her as I can. Oh, if I can 
 only be half as good, and patient, and loving ! 
 
NEW DUTIES. lOI 
 
 I shall need a great deal of help from the 
 Lord !" 
 
 She thought she would go to her room and 
 pray, but Susan intercepted her on her way : 
 " Mrs. Frank, Mrs. Leighton wants to see you 
 in her room." 
 
 Nelly hastened to obey the summons, and 
 found Mr. and Mrs. Leighton together. They 
 both embraced her with the greatest affection, 
 and Mrs. Leighton, giving her the keys of the 
 house said, '* My dear daughter, you have no 
 idea what a comfort and stay you are to us. 
 What should we do without you? You are 
 our all now, and you make us feel that we 
 have a great deal left, in spite of our bereave- 
 ments." 
 
 " And, dear daughter, you must not weary 
 yourself for us," added Mr. Leighton ; " we 
 appreciate your great kindness in taking the 
 care from your mother, but it would grieve us 
 to see your dear face any less rosy than it is 
 now. Take good care of yourself for our 
 sake." 
 
 Nelly had never felt such a warmth of affec- 
 
 9* 
 
102 NEW DUTIES. 
 
 tion toward the old couple. She was very 
 happy in the thought that she could do any- 
 thing for them. She had done nothing but 
 receive kindness from them hitherto, and now 
 she was learning that " it is more blessed to 
 give than to receive." 
 
 So Nelly found that God had not appointed 
 her new cares and duties without a loving 
 reason for it. They were just what she need- 
 ed, and to her surprise she found herself very 
 happy in them. She really enjoyed going 
 through the cellar, the pantries and storerooms, 
 and directing and providing for the household. 
 Susan proved herself a most efficient coadjutor, 
 and was always ready to tell her what Ruth 
 used to do under similar circumstances. And 
 whenever her cosy room and comfortable arm- 
 chair and books and music looked too fascinat- 
 ing to leave, and she thought — " Oh, I can't go 
 down-stairs and see that everything is right," 
 a second thought would correct the first, and 
 she would discipline herself to put duty first 
 aud pleasure afterwards. The result was, 
 that the room, which had been so lonely and 
 
NEW DUTIES. 103 
 
 dreary to the unoccupied mind, now was a 
 cherished resort for rest and recreation — all 
 its luxuries and pleasures truly enjoyed, be- 
 cause they had been purchased by useful 
 labor. 
 
 Fler letters changed their tone entirely, and 
 were bright with descriptions of household 
 matters, and cosy evenings, passed in reading 
 and music; and her husband found that his 
 anticipations had proved quite true of the 
 beneficial effect of some active pursuit. 
 
 She wrote him — " Shall I ever again mur- 
 mur at the appointments of Providence, and 
 think that my way is better than God's way ? 
 I suppose I shall, for it is hard changing a 
 stubborn will ; but certainly I ought to have 
 learned that we can do or bear anything that 
 God sees fit to send us. Do you remembei 
 those beautiful verses, ' For God, through 
 ways they have not known, will lead His 
 own?' I have been learning them lately, and 
 like them so much that I must send you two 
 of the stanzas : 
 
104 ^^^^' DUTIES. 
 
 ** * The eager hearts, the souls of fire. 
 Who pant to toil for God and man, 
 And view with eyes of keen desire, 
 The upland way of toil and pain ; 
 Almost with scorn they think of rest. 
 Of holy calm, of tranquil breast; 
 But God, through ways they have not known, 
 Will lead His own. 
 
 ** *A lowlier task on them is laid. 
 With love to make their labor light; 
 And there their beauty they must shed 
 In tranquil homes, and lost to sight. 
 Changed are their visions, high and fair. 
 Yet calm and still they labor there; 
 For God, through ways they have not known, 
 Will lead His own.* 
 
 "And then the last verse is so beautiful: 
 
 *• * What matter what the path may be ? 
 
 The end is bright and clear to view; 
 
 We know that we a strength shall see, 
 " Whate'er the day may bring to do. 
 
 We see the end, the house of God, 
 
 But not the paths to that abode; 
 
 For God, through ways they have not known. 
 Will lead his own.' 
 
 " I dont't know who the author is, out I am 
 
NEW DUTIES. 
 
 105 
 
 sure 1 thank him or her for the verses. They 
 express my feelings exactly." 
 
 *^ Thank God for the discipline that has 
 seemed so hard/* said Frank to himself, as he 
 folded up this letter ; ** these months of trial 
 A^ill tell on Nelly's whole future life!" 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AUNT BETSY. 
 
 <^ ~1 row much dear old Aunt Betsy will 
 
 J — L miss Ruth !" said Mrs. Leighton one 
 
 morning at the breakfast-table. Nelly, dear, 
 
 s 
 
 would you mind going to see the old woman 
 for me ? I have been wanting so much to get 
 there, but I do not see any prospect of my 
 going out at present." 
 
 Mrs. Leighton had been shut up in her room 
 most of the time since Ruth's death, and was 
 just able to come down-stairs. 
 
 " Who is Aunt Betsy ?" said Nelly. " I 
 never even heard of her." 
 
 (io6) 
 
AUNT BETSY. I07 
 
 " She is a paralytic old woman, who has 
 been confined to her bed for years." 
 
 '' Oh, how dreadful !" 
 
 " Yes ; and yet she is one of the happiest 
 persons I know. Ruth and I have always 
 enjoyed going to see her exceedingly. Ruth 
 was there the very day before she was taken 
 sick. Indeed, she never allowed a week to 
 pass without visiting the old lady, and taking 
 her some little delicacy." 
 
 " I didn't suppose there were any poor 
 people about here," said Nelly. " I thought 
 they were all comfortable farmers, and that 
 there was no poverty and suffering like what 
 we used to see in M ." 
 
 *' There isn't much extreme poverty, except 
 in cases of sickness. Then the ready money 
 is soon used up, and a little help is very ac- 
 ceptable. But Aunt Betsy doesn't suffer for 
 the necessaries of life. She needs very little, 
 and has enough property to keep her comfort- 
 able. But she is alone in the world, and lives 
 with a cousin, who is not very attentive to her, 
 and considers her presence in the house rather 
 
I08 AUNT BETSY. 
 
 a burden. You never would know this from 
 herself, but I have heard it from the neigh- 
 bors. From her you hear nothing" of any 
 trials. But you must go and see her, if you 
 want a real pleasure." 
 
 " I will walk there this very day," said 
 Nelly. 
 
 Accordingly she started, as soon as the 
 housekeeping duties of the morning were 
 finished. It was a mild, soft day in February, 
 a day to make one happy in the anticipation 
 of the coming Spring — to make one forget 
 that cold March must intervene before the 
 grass could grow green, and the birds begin 
 to sing. Nelly felt very happy and peaceful. 
 She could think of Frank, so far away, and of 
 the loved ones who were gone forever, without 
 any bitterness now, for she really trusted all 
 to God, and left it to Him to arrange her life, 
 and to care for her and her loved ones as He 
 should see best. So she walked on over the 
 thawing ground with a firm, elastic tread, and 
 a bright glance at everything around, quick to 
 catch and enjoy all the pleasures she could find. 
 
AUNT BETSY. lOQ 
 
 Aunt Betsy lived in a forlorn little house, 
 and occupied the most forlorn corner of it — a 
 little room that had been built out behind the 
 kitchen. There Nelly found her, with a hot 
 stove so near the bed that she could easily 
 touch it with her hand, and just room enough 
 in the closet (for it was nothing more) for the 
 bed, the stove and two chairs. But there was 
 a window at the head of the bed, from which 
 she could look out and see the fields, now 
 white with snow. 
 
 She welcomed Nelly with a bright smile, 
 and Nelly thought she had never seen so sweet 
 a face. There was an expression of peace and 
 purity in it that made it fairly radiant. She 
 took Nelly's hand in both of hers, and said, 
 " My dear, I am so glad to see you. I knew 
 you would come to see me. I have been ex- 
 pecting you, and thinking about it nights, 
 when I lie awake.*' 
 
 *' Why, Aunt Betsy, I v/ish I had known it. 
 Why didn't you send me word ?" 
 
 " I was afraid of troubling you, dear. I 
 knew you had a great deal to think of besides 
 
 ID 
 
no AUNT BETSY. 
 
 a poor old woman like me." Here came the 
 bright smile again. " But now sit down and 
 tell me all about yourself. When did you 
 hear from Mr. Frank? He has often been to 
 see me, bless his bright face. You look so 
 well fitted for him, dear. I love to look at 
 you." 
 
 She scanned Nelly's face with an interest 
 that was not curiosity, but real, heartfelt affec- 
 tion. Nelly felt it so, and said warmly, " I am 
 so glad you like me. Aunt Betsy. You must 
 let me come and see you often. Dear Ruth 
 would have liked me to take her place as 
 much as I could. You must miss her so 
 much," she added, as the old lady's eyes 
 filled. 
 
 " I lie and think of her happiness, and wish 
 I were with her," said Aunt Betsy, musingly. 
 " Who would have thought she would go in 
 at the golden gate before me ! But my time 
 will come soon !" and the smile of wondrous 
 beauty flitted over the pale lips again. 
 
 *' Do you want to die. Aunt Betsy ?" said 
 Nelly, timidly. There was something about 
 
AUNT BETSY. Ill 
 
 this poor woman that she cciuld not under- 
 stand. 
 
 ^'Want to! Oh, I long to!" said Aunt 
 Betsy, fervently. " I shall walk, there, you 
 know. I shall be well again. Why, dear, 1 
 have not walked for five years, and never shall 
 in this world ; but the hope of going soon 
 keeps me up. It is all I have to feed upon 
 through the days, and especially through the 
 long nights, when I lie av/ake with the pain. 
 It will not be long — I am sure it cannot — and 
 that comforts me." 
 
 **And are you not in the least afraid to die," 
 said Nelly. She wanted to hear from Aunt 
 Betsy's own mouth the wonderful proof of 
 the truth of her text about Christ conquering 
 the power and delivering from the fear of 
 death. 
 
 " I should be afraid, dear, if I thought of 
 myself, for I am a great sinner ; but I try not 
 to think of myself, and then Christ gives me 
 so many precious promises, that I think only 
 of those. How can one be afraid who has 
 such a Saviour?" 
 
112 AUNT BETSY. 
 
 *' I have a little book at home, with all the 
 promises of the Bible in it," said Nell}'; ''just 
 the promises, and nothing else. Wouldn't 
 you like to have me bring it and read it to 
 you? 
 
 " Oh, that would be dehghtful !" said Aunt 
 Betsy. '' I should like it of all things. Ruth 
 used to read to me, and sometimes I get my 
 cousin's little girl to read me her Sunday- 
 school books. There is nothing I enjoy so 
 much." 
 
 Nelly was delighted. She had felt power- 
 less to do anything for such a saint ; and to 
 find that so simple an act as reading aloud 
 would please her, was charming. She re- 
 solved to come very often to see the old lady, 
 and to bring all the entertaining books she 
 could find. 
 
 She sat by Aunt Betsy's side reading for an 
 hour, while the sweet smile scarcely left the 
 old lady's face, she enjoyed so much, not only 
 the reading, but the bright, handsome face 
 that lighted up her room like a sunbeam. She 
 loved to look at it as we should at a beautiful 
 
AUNT BETSY. II3 
 
 picture, for her soul had a love of the beauti- 
 ful in it that was all ungratified in her dull, 
 lonely life, and found food only in the bright 
 anticipations of the city with golden streets 
 and gates of pearl, of which she thought so 
 constantly, that it v/as like a reality to her. 
 
 " Does any one stay with you nights, Aunt 
 Betsy ?" said Nelly, as she rose to go. 
 
 " Oh, no, dear, it is not necessary. When 
 the pain in my back is very bad, I think some- 
 times I would like to be moved, but it is only 
 a fancy ; it w^ouldn't really do any good. The 
 family sleep in that room there, and I could 
 call them at any time. They used to come in 
 and move me sometimes when I was first sick, 
 but now I have been sick so long, they are 
 most tired out with me. But it won't be much 
 longer, I am quite sure of that" — with the 
 wonderful smile. 
 
 Poor Aunt Betsy knew that the family 
 would dislike being called up in the night 
 most heartily, and she had long since given up 
 thinking of such a thing. 
 
 "And do you never get up ?" said Nelly. 
 
 10'^ 
 
114 AUNT BETSY. 
 
 " Oh, yes, they take me up once every day, 
 and sometimes twice, and put me in the rock- 
 ing-chair for a few minutes. It is a great re- 
 hef, but it is very hard work for them." 
 
 Nelly felt very angry with the cousin and 
 her whole family ; but Aunt Betsy seemed to 
 have no such feeling. As she went away, the 
 hard-featured farmer's wife, who was very po- 
 lite to her, and seemed to think her visit a 
 great condescension to Aunt Betsy, escorted 
 her to the door. Nelly asked, rather fiercely, 
 whether Aunt Betsy had been up that day. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we'd just got her back to bed 
 when you came in. It's awful hard getting 
 her up ; but we do it once or twice a day, and 
 1 suppose we shall have to for I don't know 
 how long." 
 
 Nelly turned away disgusted, scarcely bid- 
 ding the woman a civil good -morning, and 
 walked home slowly, pondering on what she 
 had seen. 
 
 " Could anything be more desolate and for- 
 lorn than that dear old woman's condition," 
 she thought. She could not call her poor old 
 
AUNT BETSY. II5 
 
 woman, even in thought, after seeing that 
 smile of perfect happiness and peace. " How 
 can she bear it, day after day, week after 
 week ! To think that she will lie there, just 
 so, until I go to see her again ! and has lain 
 for years I Oh, dear ! it seems too dreadful 
 to be true ! And yet she is happy, and has 
 not one hard feeling toward those horrid hard- 
 hearted people ! How can she be so good ! 
 How can any one bear so much ! I thought 
 I had borne a great deal, but my little troub- 
 les seem imaginary by the side of such great 
 sorrows ! Perhaps we can bear anything^ if it 
 is God's will. It would seem so, certainly, for 
 I am sure nothing could be worse than Aunt 
 Betsy's lot !" 
 
 She walked home, absorbed in thought. 
 When she reached the house, everything 
 looked so beautiful, so lovely and comfort- 
 able, after the poor, mean house she had left. 
 
 " Why am I surrounded with so much lux- 
 ury and pleasure when a saint like Aunt Betsy 
 is living as she is ? Why should I be so fav- 
 ored?" 
 
il6 AUNT BETSY. 
 
 Mrs. Lei^hton met her in the hall, inquired 
 affectionately if she had not walked too far, 
 begged her to change her shoes, and was very 
 solicitous about hen 
 
 ** Love and attention, comfort, health, every 
 thing lavished upon me — everything to enjo}^, 
 and the capacity to enjoy it! And yet I 
 thought my lot a hard one, and grumbled 
 over every little unevenness in my path, and 
 would not submit to any cross that was ap- 
 pointed me, till I had fought against it with 
 all my might. How ungrateful, how rebel- 
 lious I have been. I do not deserve the least 
 of all Thy mercies, oh, my God." 
 
 Nelly, quite overwhelmed with these re- 
 flections, knelt down to pray with an entirely 
 new sense of her blessings, and her perverse- 
 ness and ingratitude. Aunt Betsy, whose 
 greatest trial it was that she was dragging 
 out a useless existence, had taught Nelly in 
 one short hour more of humility and content- 
 ment than she had learned in her whole life 
 before. 
 
 Regularly once a week, and sometimes 
 
AUNT BETSY. II7 
 
 oftener, Nelly sought that humble little room, 
 and as soon as that smile beamed upon her, 
 she felt raised to a new plane of submission, 
 faith and peace. She gave precious joy to 
 Aunt Betsy by her bright presence and love ; 
 but she received more in return. The obliga- 
 tion was really on her side, and she felt it a 
 very great privilege to be permitted to behold 
 such saintly joy in the midst of such affliction. 
 
 Aunt Betsy had her clouded moments at 
 times, and then Nelly, with her fresh, young 
 faith, was able to do her good. Sometimes 
 the old lady's face was sad, and she would 
 say, " What if such a sinner as I am could not 
 be admitted into the city ! All must be holy 
 who enter there." 
 
 It was of no use to tell her she was holy. 
 There was no comfort in that. Nelly, after 
 attempting it once, never tried it again. She 
 resorted to the promises made to sinners, of 
 the free forgiveness of God, and would read 
 them over till the sufferer found comfort and 
 strength in them again. 
 
 " What food the Word of God is to her !' 
 
Ii8 
 
 AUNT BETSY. 
 
 said Nelly to herself, many a time. *^ She feeds 
 upon it literally, just as I do upon my meals.' 
 
 Sweet flowers found their way to Aunt 
 Betsy's room, and texts, in bright colors, 
 were framed and hung up around her bed. 
 Nelly did a great deal to make her last days 
 comfortable. 
 
 One morning word came that she was dead. 
 Her spirit had flown in the night ; and in the 
 morning she lay, with the placid smile on her 
 face, at rest. The weariness was over, and 
 Aunt Betsy was walking the streets ot the 
 city. 
 
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 ^^^^s 
 
 ^^^S 
 
 W^ 
 
 ^3 
 
 g^^^ 
 
 
 6^Sr^^^^ 
 
 &^^^^^^ 
 
 ^^s 
 
 ^^^s 
 
 ^^S 
 
 ^^^^^^^ 
 
 r^^^^^^ 
 
 ^S 
 
 ^H 
 
 ^^^m 
 
 
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 ^U 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 << TOY ! joy ! See here ! see here !" cned 
 ^ Nelly, as she flew up -stairs with the 
 newspaper in her hand. " Peace ! peace ! 
 Lee has surrendered !" 
 
 " It can't be," said Mrs. Leighton, sitting 
 down suddenly, almost faint with the good 
 news. 
 
 " It is ; and Frank will come home now !" 
 " Thank God for his goodness to our coun- 
 try," said Mr. Leighton, solemnly; "and for 
 His great grace to us in sparing our son. Oh, 
 to how many is this good news saddened by 
 
 ("9) 
 
I20 PEACE. 
 
 the loss of their dear ones. But it is all bright 
 to us !" 
 
 A whole nation was on its knees that day, 
 in joyful excitement, mingled with tears and 
 solemnity. The good news could scarcely be 
 believed. Every one had become so accus- 
 tomed to the dreadful details of battles, the 
 long death-lists, and the horrible accounts of 
 prisons and hospitals, that while we knew 
 these things had come to an end, and we were 
 to be quiet from fear of evil, the world seemed 
 a new place, and everybody breathed freely, 
 as though a heavy load had been taken from 
 the heart. Peace ! No word that could be 
 spoken was as musical as that. It seemed to 
 remove all human ills from us. Nothing 
 could be very bad, we thought, if the war 
 were only once over. It had shrouded the 
 whole country like a nightmare for four years, 
 and we all emerged as out of a thick cloud 
 into the bright, open sunshine. 
 
 Who can tell the joy of those who received 
 back the heart's treasures that they had given 
 up freely for their country, v/ith no expccta- 
 
PEACE. 121 
 
 tion that they would ever be restored ; for 
 who dares expect safety in the midst of war's 
 perils? Doubly dear those brave men were 
 Vv'ho came back as though delivered from the 
 grave, and were welcomed with a devotion 
 almost amounting to reverence, by the wives 
 and mothers and daughters who had seen 
 them depart on their self-sacrificing mis- 
 sion. 
 
 What need to say that Frank and Nelly 
 were happy, and that the old house seemed 
 bathed in sunshine and filled with the in- 
 cense of grateful hearts. 
 
 " I am glad now that you went away," said 
 Nelly, as they sat once more in their favorite 
 seat in the woods by the lake shore. It had 
 been deserted for long months. Nelly never 
 could bear to visit the woods without Frank ; 
 they were too full of delightful associations, 
 and it would have made her heart ache too 
 much. 
 
 " I am very glad, too," replied Frank. *' I 
 should never have ceased to regret it, if I had 
 taken no part in this struggle for my country's 
 II 
 
122 PEACE. 
 
 life. I would not exchange this scar on mjr 
 arm for a great deal of money." 
 
 *'And you never wrote us that you were 
 wounded !" 
 
 " It was only a scratch. I knew you would 
 suffer from anxiety, and that would have done 
 me more harm than the wound. I was in the 
 hospital only a month." 
 
 " Only a month !" Oh, Frank !" 
 
 ** Don't pity me, or distress yourself about 
 it, dear. I am so glad of it. Let me have 
 the full satisfaction of my scar. But you, 
 poor child ! I often thought you suffered more 
 than I did, for I had all the excitement and 
 hard work of active service, while you had 
 plenty of time to miss me, and worry about 
 me." 
 
 ^' It was very hard ; and yet I am glad for 
 my sake, too, that you went away, Frank ; and 
 that is what I wanted to tell you about." 
 
 '' That's right ; do tell me all about it. It's 
 perfectly refreshing to hear some of your wise 
 talk again ;" and Frank settled himself against 
 the tree for a long talk. '' Now tell me every- 
 
PEACE. 123 
 
 thing you thought in that wise little head of 
 yours." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, I know very well it is not v/ise, 
 but I hope it is not quite so foolish as it used 
 to be. I have thought a great deal that if I 
 had gone on as I expected to v/hen we were 
 first married, with everything smooth and 
 prosperous, you so devoted to me, your father 
 and mother and dear Ruth doing nothing but 
 pet me, and with plenty of friends and society 
 besides, I should probably, by this time, have 
 been perfectly unendurable !" 
 
 "Not quite, I guess," put in Frank. 
 
 " Oh yes ; I can be very dictatorial and dis- 
 agreeable, I assure you. I don't see how they 
 all bore with me at home as they did, only 
 they never seemed to know that I was ugly. 
 Papa, especially, always thought me perfect. 
 How well I remember running to him, when 
 I was a child, in every little dispute, and his 
 always taking my part. I think, as I got a 
 little older, he saw my faults more ; but still 
 he was always very indulgent. As for dear 
 mamma, she was so lovely that one could not 
 
124 PEACE. 
 
 be very ugly with her. For very shame I 
 often behaved well outside when I was any- 
 thing but lovely within." 
 
 " But why all this revelation, darling ? Have 
 you been saving up all this to disclose to me 
 as a sort of father confessor?" 
 
 " No, not exactly ; but it is good to have 
 somebody to talk to again. It does not bore 
 you to hear it? But no matter whether it 
 does or not," said Nelly, with a touch of her 
 old willfulness — " tell it I must, so you will 
 have to listen. It is part of the penalty you 
 must pay for having taken charge of me at 
 all." 
 
 " ril try to be patient," said Frank, in mock 
 humility. " Only after telling me what an 
 effect your mother's goodness had upon you, 
 don't go on to tell me that your sins, since 
 your marriage, have come from the contrary 
 influence to which you have been subjected." 
 
 Nelly smiled, but went on earnestly : " Now 
 Frank, you must be serious, for I am, and I 
 want to have a ^<?<?^ talk." 
 
 " So do 1 !" 
 
PEACE. 125 
 
 " Well, you know I always wanted my own 
 wa}^ and always had it !" 
 
 Frank bowed. " That was very proper." 
 " No, it was not ; it made me self-willed and 
 selfish ; and when things did not turn out as I 
 wanted them, I was very angry. I might not 
 always have shown it, but I was always angry, 
 and not angry with human beings alone, but 
 with God, too. It is a dreadful thing, but I 
 v/ant to tell you everything. When you de- 
 cided to go away, you little knew what tan- 
 trums 1 had all alone in my room ; and, at 
 everything that went wrong, the same scenes 
 were repeated. It makes me almost shudder 
 to think of them. But now I do believe 
 Frank, I have learned better. It seemed to 
 me everything was brought on me that I dis- 
 liked most, and I rebelled with all my might 
 at each new discipline ; but all the time, just 
 think how many mercies I had, and how happy 
 I really was, if it had not been for my own 
 struggles against the will of God ! That's 
 what I wanted to tell you, so that you might 
 know all about me ; and now, when you see 
 II* 
 
126 PEACE. 
 
 me setting myself against anything that's got 
 to happen, and saying I can't bear it — which 
 means I won't — will you please, Frank, remind 
 me of this time, and of all the lessons I had 
 while you were at the war ?" 
 
 " Why, 3^ou are really a fair penitent, and I am 
 your confessor," said Frank; "but, seriously, 
 dear Nell, I will remind you if you need it, 
 though I don't think 3^ou will ; for I, too, 
 think that all these great crosses have been 
 sent to do you good, and that you have nobly 
 improved them. And now how wonderfully 
 blessed we are, and what a bright future opens 
 before us ! We shall enjoy it all the more for 
 these trials that have taught us that God 
 directs all our way in infinite wisdom and 
 love." 
 
ITS NO MATTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LULU. 
 
 LULU was the pet of the v/hole family 
 from her infancy. She was a winsome 
 child, and had all those little graces of man- 
 ner that seem given to some children to make 
 them pretty playthings and ornaments to a 
 home. Lulu was so fond of beautiful things, 
 and hated ugly ones so cordially, that it seem- 
 ed to be her right to live among flowers and 
 birds, and to be shielded from everything 
 coarse and disagreeable. Her brothers were 
 always bringing her flowers and crovv^ning her 
 as their little queen, and Daisy, with whom 
 she was almost an idol, did everything for her, 
 
 (127) 
 
128 LULU. 
 
 and never thought of her own comfort a mo- 
 ment when she could gain any indulgence or 
 pleasure for her little sister. Miss Lulu 
 would have been completely spoiled, had it 
 not been that she possessed an artless, affec- 
 tionate disposition, which gave as much as it 
 received, and clung to the dear home people 
 who were so devoted to her, with almost pass- 
 ionate fondness. 
 
 Thus petted and beloved. Lulu grew up 
 like a cherished flower, on v/hich no harsh 
 wind is allowed to blow, which knows noth- 
 ing but warm sunshine and tender care. No- 
 body even thought of speaking a harsh word 
 to her. If herbrothers and sisters were angry, 
 and spoke hastily to each other. Lulu's en- 
 trance, and her wondering, grieved glances 
 from one to the other were sure to check the 
 impatient words, or, at least, to postpone them 
 till she was gone again. The slightest look 
 of displeasure from her parents was enough 
 to grieve the little maiden to the very heart, 
 whether directed against herself or one of the 
 other children. She was sensitive to a fault ; 
 
LULU. 129 
 
 her mother often lamented it, and sometimes 
 tried to scold her for it. But the next time 
 there was any little disturbance, the tears 
 would come just as quickly, and the sweet 
 face be so sad for hours that Mrs. Bell at last 
 gave up trying to make Lulu indifferent to 
 praise or blame, and concluded that time and 
 contact with the world would harden the 
 tender nature that seemed to yield so easily 
 to every impression. 
 
 When Lulu began to go to school, her 
 bright, affectionate ways gained her many 
 friends. She never thought of being shy, or 
 afraid of anybody, but approached her school- 
 mates with the most perfect confidence in 
 their good-will, and gave her warm affection 
 without the least misgiving that it would not 
 be as warmly reciprocated. She had never 
 known anything but affection to be ofTered to 
 her; and it never occurred to her to doubt 
 anybody. 
 
 She met with no rebuffs at first, for her 
 frank, winsome ways made her a general fa- 
 vorite. Her most ardent affection was fixed 
 
I30 LULU. 
 
 Upon a handsome, black-eyed girl, named Julia 
 Norton, with bright, dashing manners, and 
 proud bearing. Julia, who had been decided- 
 ly the queen of the school till Lucy came, 
 was rather pleased with the homage so freely 
 bestowed by the little blue-eyed fairy, and 
 gave her as much in return as she gave any- 
 body, that is she received her devotion, without 
 troubling herself much about her. How^ever, 
 she took the flowers and candy that Lucy 
 offered, Vv^alked home from the school with 
 her, and gave her the preference for some 
 time over her other adorers. 
 
 Lucy talked incessantly about the beautiful 
 Julia, and took as much delight ifr her com- 
 pany as she did in everything bright and daz- 
 zling. But one day she came home with eyes 
 red with weeping, and in a choked voice told 
 her mother she was perfectly miserable, that 
 Julia had treated her shamefully, and did not 
 care for her one bit. 
 
 " I don't think I can go to the same school 
 with her any more, mamma ; she has treated 
 me so, I can never get over it.'* 
 
LULU. 131 
 
 " Why, what has she done, dear ?" 
 
 " Oh, she went off with Grace Lee at re- 
 cess, and stayed with her the whole time, and 
 didn't even look at me ; and then, when wc 
 were walking home, and I was so hurt I 
 couldn't speak to her, and it even made me 
 cry to look at her, she looked so proud and 
 cold, and asked me what the matter was, and 
 called me a little goose. You see, mamma, 
 she doesn't love me one atom, or she couldn't 
 hurt my feelings so." 
 
 *' But, my dear, you are too easily hurt. 
 What if Julia did stay with some other girl 
 at recess! Very likel}^ she didn't mean any 
 harm. What matters it, my child ?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma, if you could have seen her !" 
 said Lucy with a fresh burst of tears. *' She 
 looked at me so coldly !" 
 
 " But Lucy, no matter ; you must learn not 
 to mind such things. Why, my dear, if you 
 take it to heart in this way every time any one 
 looks at you coldly, as you say, what is going 
 to become of you in this world ?" 
 
 "Why, mam.ma, is the world all proud and 
 
132 LULU. 
 
 cold ?" said poor Lucy, coming close to her 
 mother with an air of deep dejection. 
 
 " No, dear, but you must not expect ever}'- 
 one to love you as much as wc do here at 
 home ; and if Julia likes Grace Lee better 
 than you, why what difference does it make? 
 You would not want her to speak to no one 
 but you, would you ? As to looking coldly 
 at you, I think that was partly your imagina- 
 tion. But even if she did, never mind. You 
 have many things to m^ake you happy, even if 
 Julia were cold." 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I know it. But I felt so 
 hurt!" 
 
 " You must learn not to feel so, dear. You 
 must learn to say — ' Well, it's no matter, after 
 all ; it'll all come right another day.* Won't 
 you try to do so, to please me, Lucy ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, dear mamma, I will. But I 
 don't think I can ever be quite as happy as I 
 was before this happened ; for I thought Julia 
 loved me as dearly as I did her, and I am sure 
 I could never treat her so." 
 
 Tt v\^as unfortunate that Lucy, with her sen- 
 
LULU. 133 
 
 sitive feelings, had set her heart upon Julia 
 Norton's friendship ; but so it was. In spite 
 of repeated troubles, like the one we have 
 related, when Julia neglected her, without 
 giving her feelings a moment's consideration, 
 and laughed at her for her sensitiveness, Lucy 
 was still irresistibly attracted, like the moth 
 to the candle, and bowed before her idol the 
 next day as devotedly as before. Julia was 
 even in childhood, a proud beauty, who dearly 
 loved admiration, and expected it as her right, 
 and looked upon every new acquaintance as 
 some one to be conquered by her charms. 
 She devoted herself to the laudable object of 
 fascinating each one, to the total neglect of old 
 friends for the time being. 
 
 One day Lucy's cousin was visiting her, and 
 Lucy thought it would be very nice to have 
 Julia come and spend the evening, she wanted 
 so much to have May see her. The mother 
 consented, and Julia came. All went very 
 well for some time. Cousin May admired 
 Julia as much as Lucy could desire ; the whole 
 family played games with the little girls, and 
 12 
 
134 LULU. 
 
 everything was charming. But, as the even- 
 ing progressed, Julia and May became won- 
 derfully intimate. They sat together on the 
 sofa, talking in a low tone, and laughing mer- 
 rilj^ leaving poor Lucy entirely out of their 
 confidence. Lucy tried to talk with them, 
 proposed new games, and did her best to play 
 the agreeable hostess. But Julia, who was 
 perfectly satisfied with May's evident admira- 
 tion, and was showing off all her charms to 
 this new admirer, said ^' No I thank you," to 
 every suggestion, and evidentl}' did not care 
 in the least for anything Lucy could do. At 
 last Lucy gave up the attempt, and sat discon- 
 solate till Julia wrnt away. 
 
 " Isn't Julia perfectly splendid !" cried May, 
 as soon as they were alone. But what was 
 the matter with 3^ou, Lucy, all the last part of 
 the time ? You were as mopy as possible !" 
 
 Lucy was too much provoked to enter into 
 any explanation, and the evening, which had 
 promised so much, ended in tears on her part. 
 The next day, after May had gone, Mrs. Bell 
 said to Lucy, " My dear, I was sorry to see. 
 
LULU. 135 
 
 that you did not behave properly to your 
 company last night. You were very silent, 
 and, I must say, looked very cross all the last 
 part of the visit." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, how could I help it ! I 
 never was more hurt in my life," began Lucy. 
 
 " Stop, Lucy ! Hurt is not the proper word. 
 I should call it by a very different name. I 
 saw exactly what the trouble was. You 
 thought Julia liked May better than she did 
 you, and you Vv^ere envious and jealous. Those 
 are very ugly names and ugly feelings, my 
 child ; but I am afraid it was so. What do 
 you think about it ?" 
 
 " But, mamma, why should they talk to- 
 gether all the time, and not speak a word to 
 me?" 
 
 " I don't say anything about that, my dear. 
 They were your company, and 3^ou should 
 have been polite and pleasant to them, what- 
 ever happened. If they v/ere enjoying tfiem- 
 selves, you should have been glad they were 
 having a good time, and not minded your own 
 little annoyance. You invited Julia to please 
 
I \6 LULU. 
 
 :> 
 
 May, didn't you ? I thought you said you 
 wanted May to see her !" 
 . "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Well, May saw her, and admired her very 
 much, and had a very good time ; Julia had 
 a good time, too, and every one looked satis- 
 fied and pleased except you, my daughter. I 
 was sorry to see you look as cross as you did.'* 
 
 " But I felt so hurt, mamma, I couldn't help 
 showing it !" 
 
 '* Hurt at v/hat ? Because for half an hour 
 Juha and May talked together ! Such feelings 
 must be overcome, my child ; they are very 
 selfish, though you do not realize it." 
 
 " I don't mean to be selfish.' 
 
 *' But isn't it selfish, dear ? Think of it a 
 minute. If you cannot see others enjoying 
 themselves unless you are having a good time 
 too, is it not selfish ? If you thought more o.^ 
 the pleasure of others than of your own feel • 
 ings, I don't think you w^ould * feel hurt' sc 
 often." 
 
 " Tell me what to do, mamma. I am very 
 sorry," said Lucy, her tears flowing. 
 
LULU. 
 
 137 
 
 * I will tell you, darling. Seek the good of 
 others and not your own, and you will find 
 yourself much happier. ' Charity seeketh not 
 her own,' you know. You will learn, then, not 
 to mind your own little troubles so much, if 
 only you see others happy. Will you try to 
 be unselfish, my daughter ?" 
 
 Lucy was very thoughtful for a fev/ mo- 
 ments. Then she put her hand in her mother's, 
 and whispered, " It's so hard, mamma !" 
 
 " I know it's hard, darling, and we can't do 
 it alone. But when it is so hard, ask Christ 
 to help you, and He will. At the very mo 
 ment that you need help, make a little praj^er, 
 and ask him to help you. Then you will be 
 able to conquer selfishness, and that is the 
 only w^ay." 
 
 ** I will try, mamma 1" 
 
i 
 
 ^^S^^^^^^w'^ 
 
 ^^1 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TPIE MOTHER S LAST WORDS. 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Bell knew that her time in 
 this world would be short, she felt 
 more anxiety about leaving her youngest 
 daughter than any of her other treasures. 
 The three eldest children were all walking in 
 the path of unselfish devotion to Christ, and 
 she knew that, however much of Hfe's trial 
 and discipline they might be called upon to 
 bear, she should meet them all at last in that 
 home where there is no parting, purified and 
 made holy by all the sorrows that she would 
 willingly have spared them, but knew they 
 must endure ere they were meet for heave i. 
 O38) 
 
'j,j,,irti|ii|||iy^r'''w.!i'fi^^^ 
 
 Last Words. 
 
THE mother's last WORDS. 139 
 
 Nelly had a strength of character and an 
 honesty of purpose that made Mrs. Bell feel 
 she would come out right in the end, in spite 
 of her stubborn will and temptations to selhsh- 
 ness and pride ; and then, too, she was shel- 
 tered under the care of a loving Christian 
 husband. 
 
 But Lucy was still a school-girl, with her 
 character unformed ; bright and affectionate 
 and winning it is true, but subject to sudden 
 gusts of passion and to morbid depression, 
 when her sensitive feelings wxre wounded. 
 She did not seem fitted to cooe with the 
 world, and bear her part calmly and sensibly 
 in all the changes and fluctuations of life ; and 
 Mrs. Bell had many anxious moments, alone 
 in the long nights, when thoughts filled her 
 mind that she could share with none but her 
 God and Saviour. Then she prayed earnest- 
 ly for all her children, but most of all for her 
 who was to be deprived of a mother's love, at 
 the time she most needed it. She knew that 
 God can more than supply the mother's place 
 to the orphan, and she prayed long and earn- 
 
140 THE MOTHER S LAST WORDS. 
 
 estly and particularly for her darling ; especi- 
 ally that she might be strengthened to over- 
 come that undue sensitiveness that threatened 
 to unfit her for usefulness and happiness. 
 Mrs. Bell thanked God over and over again 
 for her oldest daughter, and for the calm and 
 sweet grace that filled her daily life, and made 
 her so fit to be the comfort and strength of all 
 about her. She rested, unconsciously, almost 
 entirely on Daisy, when she thought of Lucy's 
 future, and took the greatest comfort in 
 Daisy's assurances, that she would be all a 
 sister could be to her. 
 
 " There is no need that you should say so, 
 my darling comfort," she said one da}', when 
 she was brighter than usual, and was sitting 
 up in her easy chair. " I know it already, 
 and yet it gives me such happiness to bear 
 you repeat it. But now send Lulu to me ; I 
 feel quite strong to-day, and want to have a 
 talk with her. Poor child ! she has no idea 
 that it may be the last one." 
 
 Daisy, sad indeed at heart, but concealing 
 her feelings under a cheerful countenance, 
 
THE mother's last WORDS. I4I 
 
 went to call Lucy, and left her alone with her 
 mother, with many charges that they were 
 not to talk too long. 
 
 Lucy, who had brought some fresh flowers 
 to her mother, and come in with all sorts of 
 anecdotes and incidents to amuse the invalid, 
 for she stored up ever3''thing now, that she 
 thought could make the weary hours pass 
 more pleasantly, began to pet her mother, to 
 brush her hair softly, and bathe her head, 
 talking gaily the while ; Mrs. Bell leaned 
 back in her arm chair, and submitted to be so 
 tended by her darling baby, as she still called 
 her. Those were the softest hands in the 
 world to her ; that was the sweetest face that 
 hung over her, and she gave herself up to the 
 pleasure of the moment, and strove to forget 
 that the time was coming so swiftly that she 
 must leave her child. 
 
 " Why, mamma, I declare your cheeks are 
 quite rosy to-day. You are ever so much 
 better, aren't you ? You are almost strong 
 enough to come down-stairs. Oh, you don't 
 know what preparations wo have made there 
 
142 THE mother's LAST WORDS. 
 
 for you," said Lucy, gaily shaking her head, 
 " and you are not to know till you see them. 
 It is a great secret." 
 
 ** I do feel stronger to-day, pet, and now I 
 am not going to let you fuss over me an}^ 
 more now. . I am going to sit up and talk to 
 to you, one of our real old-fashioned talks." 
 
 " And may I sit close to you, right in your 
 big chair, dear mamma ? Or, will it tire you 
 to have me there?" 
 
 " No, come right here by me, Lulu. There, 
 that is nice, now tell mamma all about every- 
 thing. How are you getting on at school ? 
 Are you having a nice time with Mrs. Lane and 
 the school-girls. Tell me everything, dear." 
 
 Lucy's face, which had been so bright, 
 clouded in a moment. " Oh, mamma, you 
 know I always have my troubles ; but it's no 
 use worrying you with them." 
 
 " But I want to know them, dear. I hoped 
 you were getting along better than you used 
 to." 
 
 *^ Well, if you really want to know, mamma, 
 but I'm afraid I'm tiring you." 
 
THE MOTHERS LAST WORDS. I43 
 
 *' Not a bit, dear." 
 
 " Well, then, mamma, I wish I could leave 
 that school." 
 
 ^' Why, dear, are you not getting on well 
 with your lessons?" 
 
 '' Oh, yes, well enough, but Vm not happy 
 there. I don't think the girls like me." 
 
 ''Why not?" 
 
 '* Well, I don't know. I have no particular 
 reason ; only I have a sort of general idea that 
 I am not popular." 
 
 " But can't you give me any particular in- 
 stance? General ideas are so vague." 
 
 " Well, I don't know — no, there is nothing 
 that I know of, that I could tell you, dear 
 mamma ; but you know how easy it is to dis- 
 cover it, when one isn't liked." 
 
 " I know how easy it is to imagine it, Lucy. 
 But I thought you promised me you would 
 not be always watching for occasions of offence, 
 and that you would try to learn not to mind 
 little slights !" 
 
 ** Now, mamma, I am tiring you," said 
 Lucy, as she saw her mother's lip tremble. 
 
144 THE MOTHER S LAST WORDS. 
 
 ''It is a perfect shame to worry you with my 
 foohsh troubles, when you are so sick, and I 
 won't do it !" and Lucy jumped up from her 
 seat impulsively. 
 
 " Sit down, my daughter," said Mrs. Bell, 
 recovering herself; " I must talk with you 
 now, while I feel strong enough." 
 
 Lucy sat down, awed by her mother's man- 
 ner, and possessed by a vague fear as she look- 
 ed at her. 
 
 " Darling, you do trouble me more than 
 you think, by what you have told me." 
 
 " Don't think of it any more then, dear 
 mamma ; pray don't ; I get along very well 
 at school, only please not be troubled ! What 
 matter is it if I do feel unhappy sometimes?" 
 
 *' It is a great matter, dear, if the unhappi- 
 ness is caused by yourself. There is plenty 
 of real sorrow in the world, without our mak- 
 ing ourselves miserable by fancied wrongs. 
 And when I think of your future, dear Lucy, 
 I do not fear so much the real evils you will 
 have to meet, as I do the imaginary ones that 
 will start up all along your path. I am afraid 
 
THE MOTHER S LAST WORDS. I45 
 
 you will be alv/ays fancying yourself slighted, 
 getting hurt and offended when there was not 
 the slightest intention to offend you, and when 
 there is an}^ real unkindness, magnifying it till 
 from a little thing it becomes a great one. 
 And v/hen I look forward to such a life as 
 that, it does indeed trouble me, my Lucy. I 
 have known instances of people who have 
 made themselves and everybody around them 
 wretched, through a long life, by indulging 
 this miserable suspicious temper. Sensitiveness 
 they called it, but that was too mild a name 
 for it. Nothing could suit them, nobody 
 could make them happy. They were always 
 fancying themselves injured and slighted, and 
 resenting wrongs that had really never been 
 put upon them. Such people can never be 
 loved. They wear out the most devoted and 
 patient affection at last, and go down to the 
 grave unlov^ed and unregretted." 
 
 " What a dreadful picture, mamma !" said 
 Lucy, shuddering. 
 
 ^^ I would not draw it, if I had not seen it 
 with my own eyes, and if I did not dread 
 
146 THE mother's last WORDS. 
 
 such a fate more than anything else in the 
 world for you, Lucy. Yes, for you, my 
 child !" she repeated, for Lucy looked hurt 
 and shocked beyond measure. " Natures as 
 sweet and loving as yours, have been poison- 
 ed by this dreadful evil, till they become mor- 
 bid and sour and gloom}^ ; and oh, my child, 
 I tremble when I see you yielding to this sub- 
 tle enemy, and not crushing it with all your 
 might as soon as you feel its approaches." 
 
 " Mamma, I will try, I promise you I will. 
 Don't be anxious about me. I will think of 
 that dreadful picture you have drawn, and 
 try never to be suspicious again." 
 
 " Oh, Lucy, never forget this resolution. 
 Begin to practise it this very day. Stifle all 
 the unhappy feelings you have expressed to me 
 about your schoolmates. Never stop to think 
 whether you are popular or not. Cast away 
 the thought as unv/orthy of you. Are you 
 doing your duties well, are you kind and gen- 
 erous and obliging ? Those are the questions 
 to ask. Are you loving to others, not do they 
 love you ?" - 
 
THE mother's last WORDS. I47 
 
 "But mamma, is it very wrong to want to 
 be loved? I do so long for it," said Lucy, 
 tearfully. 
 
 " It is wrong to set your heart upon it, my 
 child. You must learn to do your duty for 
 the love of God, not to please men, and then 
 to be able to say, ' it's no matter whether T 
 gain the applause of men or not.' I am afraid 
 you make an idol of love, dear Lucy. You 
 must learn to give it freely, without striving 
 so anxiously after a return. It is more bless- 
 ed to give than to receive. We are told to 
 love one another as Christ loved us, and that 
 was freely. Give your love first, dear Lucy, 
 and freely, and leave it to God, whether you 
 shall get any return or not. Then you will 
 have peace ; but you never wdll, if you are all 
 the time striving after the love of others, and 
 making yourself wretched because you can- 
 not get all you v^ant." 
 
 Daisy at length got impatient, and knocked 
 at the door. " Dear mamma, I am sure you 
 have talked enough." 
 
 *' Tell her I will stop in a moment," said 
 
148 THE mother's last WORDS. 
 
 Mrs. Bell, who was very much exhausted. 
 *' I must say one word more." 
 
 Lucy went to the door, and returning, 
 knelt down before her mother, and said, 
 *' Dearest mamma, I will struggle hard to 
 overcome my sin. Do not be anxious about 
 me any more." 
 
 Mrs. Bell laid her hand on her child's head, 
 as she had done when she was a little one, 
 and said feebly, ^' Kneel there, my daughter, 
 and I will pray with you." There was a 
 moment's solemn hush, and then the mother's 
 heart poured forth its desires in few words, 
 * God, make us to seek Thy love above all 
 earthly love, and to find such peace and com- 
 fort in Thee that we shall be indifferent to all 
 earthly trials. Make us to love unselfishly, 
 to forgive quickly, to love as Jesus loved. 
 Leave us not to our own sinful hearts, but fill 
 us with thy spirit. Amen." 
 
 " Go now, darling, and pray for yourself 
 God bless my precious baby !" The mother 
 folded her arms around her darling, and in 
 that embrace gave her up to God, and cast all 
 
THE mother's last WORDS. I49 
 
 her care and anxiety on Him. It was the last 
 offering she could make. All else had been 
 relinquished before, and this was the lamb 
 that completed the sacrifice. 
 
 There was great need of rest for the inva- 
 lid was nearly fainting. Daisy was very 
 much alarmed when she came in from her 
 watch outside the door, but she did not re- 
 proach her mother, or express her fears for 
 the result of such over-exertion. Mrs. Bell 
 lay quite still for a long time, and then, beck- 
 oning Daisy to her, she whispered. '* Lulu, 
 dear! so sensitive. You will strengthen 
 her!" 
 
 Daisy repeated the assurance so many times 
 given, and Mrs. Bell at last slept. 
 
 13* 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 LUCY was almost inconsolable at her 
 mother's death. She yielded to her 
 grief till she was quite unfit to sit up, and 
 gave Daisy, already too much burdened, the 
 additional care of waiting upon her. Every 
 time Daisy came near her, Lucy would throw 
 herself upon her, and sob, " Oh, Daisy, who 
 will love me now ! No one but mamma ever 
 could understand me and love me entirely !" 
 
 '' But, darling, you have all of us left. Papa 
 and I are here with you, and here is little May 
 ready to put her arms right round your neck 
 and hug you. * Here Mamie, hug poor Aunt 
 Lulu ! See, Aunt Lulu's crying !' " 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 151 
 
 Lucy would be comforted for the moment, 
 but would relapse into her uncontrollable sor- 
 row, till Daisy was quite perplexed to know 
 what to do with her. At last she said, ^* Lulu, 
 papa is very lonely, and needs you very much. 
 He has asked for you so sadl)^ several times, 
 and is so grieved to hear that you are sick." 
 
 " Fm not sick," said Lucy, " except that sor- 
 row has made me so. I don't see how you 
 can be so calm, Daisy. 
 
 ** Don't you think 3^ou could come down 
 and see papa a little while this evening." 
 
 " I'll try," said Lucy, in a forlorn tone. " I'll 
 do my best, but I am completely exhausted.'* 
 
 " I think you would feel better to come and 
 take tea down-stairs, and it would do us so 
 much good to see you." 
 
 Lucy got up at last, and, with fresh bursts 
 of tears, dressed herself in her black garb. 
 She went down, and found her father sitting 
 alone in the library, with a book upside down 
 in his hand, lost in reverie. He started up 
 though as she came in, and said gentl}^ *' My 
 poor child I come here and see papa." And 
 
152 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 taking her in his arms as though she had been 
 a little girl again, they wept together for some 
 time. Then Mr. Bell said, '' Do you know 
 that you are my greatest comfort now, Lulu ?" 
 
 "Am I, dear papa ? I am so glad ; I have 
 been so desolate at the thought that no one 
 could ever love me as mamma did !" 
 
 " I cannot do for you what she did. No one 
 could," said Mr. Bell, becoming lost in thought 
 again. " But," he added in a few moments, 
 " you must remember that you are all I have 
 now, my child. Our dear Daisy cannot stay 
 here always, and then all will be gone but you 
 and me. Will you be my comfort and stay ; 
 my little housekeeper, Lucy ?" 
 
 Lucy had not felt so happy since her mother 
 died. It revived her wonderfully to have her 
 father say she was his first and best-beloved. 
 She felt strong again, and said earnestly, *^ Oh, 
 papa, I will do my very best. I am so glad 
 you depend on me !" 
 
 So Lucy assumed her place as her father's 
 special companion and pet, and very devoted 
 she was to him. The school-life went on as 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 53 
 
 before. She wrote in her diary all that her 
 mother had said to her, (she could remember 
 nearly every word, for it had been her moth- 
 er's last advice,) and she did try very hard to 
 practice the precepts she had given. The 
 result was that she had more friends than ever 
 before. Many of the girls who had said it 
 was of no use to be intimate with Lucy Bell, 
 she was so easily hurt and offended, when they 
 saw the improvement in her disposition, liked 
 her very much and sought her friendship. 
 Lucy could not help noticing the change, and 
 tried all the harder to control her foolish sen- 
 sitiveness, and throw off, with a smile, any 
 little annoyances that came to her in school- 
 life. How often she sat in her own room and 
 thought over and over that last conversation 
 with her mother ; tried to fancy she felt her 
 arms around her again, and heard her plead- 
 ing voice, and then fell upon her knees and 
 earnestly prayed for strength to conquer the 
 faults of which she had warned her. 
 
 So, petted by her father and sister, and busy 
 at school, two years passed happily by. At 
 
154 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 the end of that time the change in the house- 
 hold took place which Mr. Bell had antici- 
 pated. Mr. Morton, who had gone into his 
 
 old business in M at the close of the war, 
 
 took Daisy and the little May to a home of 
 their own, in fact, to the very cottage he and 
 Daisy had occupied when they were first mar- 
 ried, and Lucy, just out of school, was left 
 her father's sole companion and housekeeper. 
 
 She was very proud of the responsibility 
 and honor of being head of the house, and 
 made all sorts of resolutions to devote herself 
 to her father's comfort, and attend to all her 
 duties faithfully. But she found that house- 
 keeping was not all a bed of roses. It seemed 
 as though everything went wrong, and many 
 a time nothing but " running over to Daisy's," 
 and relief, speedily obtained from there, saved 
 her from total failure. 
 
 " What shall I do, Daisy ? Not a thing in 
 the house that papa will eat ! / call the bread 
 quite tolerable, but he says it is abominable, 
 and that the meat is done to death and the 
 pudding spoiled, and that I must teach the 
 
I HE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 55 
 
 cook. Just think of it ! I had no idea papa 
 was so fussy !" 
 
 " May," said Daisy to her little girl, who 
 was listening with unbounded interest and 
 astonishment, " run over and tell grandpa that 
 papa is coming home to dinner at two, and 
 wants to wSee him very much. Run, dear. 
 Never mind, Lucy. We'll all have dinner to- 
 gether, and then we will consult as to what is 
 best to be done. I was afraid you would have 
 trouble with that cook." 
 
 *' Yes, but we've hardly tried her yet. She 
 didn't want to cook anything to-day, as it is 
 washing-day, and I thought it would be very 
 nice to have tea and bread and butter and 
 cake and oranges. I had them all on the 
 table when papa came home, and a vase of 
 flowers in the middle ; but, would you believe 
 it, he wouldn't touch a thing, and told me to 
 have the meat and vegetables cooked imme- 
 diately. Then, of course, the cook was angry, 
 and everything went wrong. I don't see how 
 men can be so unreasonable." 
 
 Daisy could not help laughing. " F'apa al- 
 
156 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 ways wants meat for his dinner, dear. You 
 know he works hard all the morning." 
 
 " Daisy, I'm afraid I shall never get along 
 with the housekeeping." 
 
 ** Oh, yes you will, dear. I'll help you when- 
 ever you get into trouble, and you mustn't 
 mind little things too much." 
 
 " How can I help minding it, when papa 
 looks at me as he hardly ever looked in his 
 life, and all just for a little mistake. I must 
 say I think he made a great matter of it." 
 
 " Oh, he will soon get over it, dear. Re- 
 member he comes home very tired, and de- 
 pends greatly on his home comforts." 
 
 " Well, if he only will have a little patience 
 with me, I'm sure I'll try with all my might 
 to have everything just right. But I do hope, 
 Daisy, that he won't speak as he did to-day 
 very often ; it makes me feel so dreadfully ;" 
 and Lucy looked at her sister with a most 
 woe-begone expression. 
 
 " Oh, he won't, dear; and, if he should, you 
 must not mind. It won't matter after all, so 
 very much." 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 57 
 
 Lucy shook her head, and thought her sister 
 didn't know anything about her feelings. 
 Daisy was not sensitive^ so how could she be 
 expected to understand ! 
 
 Mr. Bell presently came in, and the mo- 
 ment he entered the house, inquired if Lucy 
 was there. Coming up to her affectionately, 
 he said, " My child, I want to make you the 
 ' amende honorable.' I'm afraid )'0u thought 
 your old father was very cross, and so he was ; 
 but he was tired, and you mustn't mind him !" 
 
 Lucy sprang to him, and put her arms 
 round his neck, " Don't talk so, dear papa, it 
 was I who was cross ; but I promise you I 
 will do better in future, and not keep you on 
 starvation fare !" 
 
 '* Oh, never mind, never mind, dear. It's 
 no matter at all. Don't give it another 
 thought." 
 
 Lucy felt as though she had the best father 
 in the world, and as though she never loved 
 him as much as she did then, and was very 
 much ashamed of herself that she had resent- 
 ed his little impatience for a moment. 
 14 
 
158 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 She thought that her troubles were now 
 happily over, and that nothing could ever dis- 
 turb her equanimity again in housekeeping 
 matters. -But I am sorry to say this was not 
 the case. Mr. Bell had been so long accustom- 
 ed to the best of housekeeping, that, though 
 he tried to have patience with Lucy, he could 
 not understand why, after repeated trials, she 
 still failed in some most important points ; 
 and sometimes, after a long series of mistakes, 
 he would make some sarcastic remark, or 
 show his annoyance by his manner so de- 
 cidedly, that poor Lucy was greatly distress- 
 ed. Many a time after he had left the house, 
 she went to her room and cried bitterly, say- 
 ing vehemently, " Oh, I hate the house, and 
 everything about it. I wish we could go to 
 board ; and yet, when I hinted at it the other 
 day, papa thought I was heartless to want to 
 leave this old home, and began talking about 
 mamma in a way that showed he didn't un- 
 derstand my feelings in the least. Dear me ! 
 how unhappy I am ! and all because of this 
 horrid housekeeping ! If it were not for 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 59 
 
 that, papa and I would get along beautifully, 
 and so happy together; but now sometimes I 
 think he doesn't love me at all ;" and she gave 
 way to a fresh burst of tears. 
 
 Lucy's cares really weighed heavily upon 
 her. When she first woke in the morning, it 
 was with a sensation of something that must 
 be done at once ; and rising with nervous 
 haste, she hurried down-stairs to attend to the 
 breakfast, and was tired and cross by the time 
 her father came down. Every time any little 
 thing went wrong, even if her father's appe- 
 tite was poor, and he failed to do full justice 
 to what she had prepared ; Lucy was so out 
 of spirits as to be quite unable to talk pleasant- 
 ly, and their morning meal was anything but 
 cheerful. Often Mr. Bell would sa}^ ^* prom- 
 ise me, Lucy, that you will take a nice long 
 nap to-day ; you don't seem like yourself this 
 morning." She longed to reply; "It is all 
 your fault, if you wouldn't be so particular, 
 and so quick to notice everything wrong, I 
 shouldn't be so tired; but she dared not. 
 Her complaints vvcrc reserved for her own 
 
l6o THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 room, where she bemoaned her hard life with 
 many tears. 
 
 " Lucy dear, you take things too hard !'* 
 Daisy would often say to her, " Don't you re- 
 member our old French teacher's motto, * facile 
 a vivre,' which being interpreted is, ' take life 
 easy? 
 
 '' I can't do it, Daisy. But the worst of it 
 is, I slave and slave, and yet I can never satis- 
 fy papa, and could you believe it, this morn- 
 ing he told me he was afraid my temper was 
 getting irritable, and advised me to practice 
 more self-control. Oh, Daisy, to think that it 
 should ever have come to that between me 
 and papa !" Poor Lucy quite broke down, 
 and burst into one of those paroxysms of 
 tears in which she had often indulged when 
 alone, but which she ha.d never displayed to 
 Daisy before. 
 
 " Don't, darling, don't," said Daisy, much 
 distressed, " you must not have so much care. 
 It will never do, I shall tell papa he must get 
 a housekeeper." 
 
 " No, I don't want one," said Lucy, between 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. l6l 
 
 her sobs ; " I have too much pride to give up 
 so. And besides, papa wouldn't get one. He 
 says I ought to learn to keep house well, and 
 that this is good discipline for me. And I do 
 believe I could do better, if he only would 
 not be so unkind. But sometimes I think he 
 doesn't love me any more at all, and some- 
 times I am really afraid of him." 
 
 " Nonsense, Lucy, T could almost laugh at 
 you. What could papa ever do to make you 
 afraid of him !" 
 
 " Oh, he makes such sarcastic remarks, and 
 goes away without kissing me — and oh, I 
 don't know — I can't remember anything par- 
 ticular, but it is all horrid !" 
 
 Daisy put her arm round her young sister, 
 and drew her fondly to her. '* Darling, will 
 you let me talk to you for a few moments as 
 though I were in mamma's place ?" Her 
 eyes were full of tears. 
 
 ** Oh, I wish you would !" said Lucy. 
 " Sometimes when I think of mamma, I feel 
 as though she would not know me if she 
 could see me now, I am often so wicked. Oh, 
 
 14* 
 
1 62 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 speak to me as she used to, and perhaps it 
 will drive away some of these bad feelings." 
 
 " Just before our precious mother died, dear 
 Lucy, she spoke to me of you, and said, 
 ' Daisy, take good care of our Lulu, she is so 
 sensitive,' " 
 
 Lucy sobbed and hid her face in Daisy's 
 lap, " I wish it were only sensitive ,' she said. 
 " Dear mother, she thought me so much bet- 
 ter than I am !" 
 
 " Mamma warned you against this sensi- 
 tiveness, didn't she, Lucy?" 
 
 " Oh, she did, so many times; and I have 
 struggled against it in school and everywhere. 
 But do you think it could have anything to 
 do with my troubles at home ?" 
 
 " I think it has everything to do with them. 
 You are over-sensitive to papa's censures. I 
 don't doubt he finds fault too much, but 
 what matters it? If you have done your 
 best, as I don't doubt you have generally, vvhy 
 never mind what he says. He doesn't mean 
 half of it. If you turned it off with some 
 cheerful talk about som.ething else, he would 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 63 
 
 soon forget it. It annoys him to see yon get 
 angry, and then he thinks it best to go 0:1 
 reproving you, and so matters get worse and 
 worse ; whereas, if he saw that 3^ou rested in 
 the consciousness of having done your duty, 
 and didn't mind little remarks, I am sure it 
 would please him, and he would soon begin 
 to admire instead of censuring." 
 
 ** But supposing I am careless, as I am very 
 often." 
 
 " I don't believe )'ou are ever careless ; your 
 heart is too much in it. You may forget 
 things sometimes ; but, if you do, still never 
 mind ; you are sorry for it, and resolved to do 
 better — and that's all you can do. And then if 
 papa goes on being vexed with you, just say 
 to yourself, ' It's no matter ;' for it really is 
 not." 
 
 " But it is a good deal of matter to me, 
 Daisy. I get so hurt, and feel so depressed." 
 
 " You foolish child ! The idea of getting 
 ' hurt' with papa. Why, he loves you better 
 than anything else in the world, and you know 
 it perfectly well !" 
 
164 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 " I don't know about that, Daisy — some- 
 times I think — " 
 
 " Nonsense ; you don't think an3'thing of 
 the kind. That's too fooHsh to be spoken." 
 
 *' But I do think it ; and I go up to my 
 room, and stay there for hours, before I can 
 force myself to go down and be affectionate 
 to papa, after he has said such provoking 
 things to me." 
 
 "And, pray, what becomes of poor papa 
 when you have these moping fits !" 
 
 " I don't know," said Lucy, rather self-re- 
 proached, but angry, too, and withdrawing 
 herself from Daisy's arm. " I don't trouble 
 myself to inquire !" 
 
 " Excuse me, dear," said Daisy, affection- 
 ately ; " I have no right to blame you, and did 
 not intend to." 
 
 " Oh, you have a perfect right. Everybody 
 blames me," interrupted Lucy, doggedly. 
 
 " But I could not help feeling sorry to think 
 how lonely and dull the house must be for 
 papa. He has been accustomed, you know, 
 to having it so cheerful." 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 65 
 
 Lucy*s better feelings rose again at this 
 allusion to the past. *' It is lonel}^, and we are 
 both very unhappy ! Oh, Daisy, what can I 
 do to make things go more smoothly?" 
 
 *' Darling, you do all you can. . You do too 
 much, and wear yourself all out. What you 
 need is to bear and forbear." 
 
 " Tell me how, Daisy." 
 
 " Why, my dear, you must make up your 
 mind that nothing under the sun can ever 
 make you hurt with papa. All his happiness 
 depends upon you. You are his only comfort 
 now. And whatever he may say or do, it 
 ought to be your one aim in life to make him 
 happy and comfortable. He can never be 
 happy when you are moping and miserable ; 
 and no matter what happens, or how you feel, 
 you must put all aside to make home as cheer- 
 ful for him as you can. Just think what it 
 used to be, filled with love and merriment. I 
 know it is very dull for you, too, darling," as 
 Lucy looked at her sadly at this description ; 
 ** but still you have a noble task to perform 
 there, and I know you will forget your own 
 
l66 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 feelings and do everything to promote papa's 
 happiness." 
 
 " Oh, Daisy, why did you ever leave us ?" 
 said Lucy. " You do me so much good !** 
 
 ** But I am close by, darling, and always 
 ready to help you. You must tell me all your 
 troubles, and we will find the way out of them 
 together. You have come over here looking 
 so sad that I knew something more than din- 
 ners and suppers must be the matter ; but you 
 never told me before all this about you and 
 papa." 
 
 " I was ashamed to. I knew it was so 
 wicked in me. When papa blamed me, some- 
 times unjustly, I have tried to be meek and 
 lowly. I have prayed over it, and struggled 
 to overcome my temper, but the very next 
 time I was just as much vexed, and perhaps 
 would say something I regretted for days 
 afterwards." 
 
 " Well, dear, I rather think now you have 
 found the clue that will help you. You have 
 tried too hard, I was going to say. You have 
 made too much of a little thing. If j'ou can 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 167 
 
 only say, when anything provoking is said to 
 you, ' It's no matter. Papa doesn't mean it 
 he's tired ; he'll soon feel differently,' and turn 
 it off with a laugh, it would do more good 
 than all your struggles and tears. You see, 
 dear, you make too serious a matter of it !" 
 
 *' I believe I do," said Lucy, smiling at last. 
 " Daisy, I'll try your prescription at any rate, 
 and see how it works." 
 
 An opportunity offered itself very soon. 
 When Lucy arrived home, after her long after- 
 noon spent at Daisy's, she found her father 
 pacing up and down the hall in a state of con- 
 siderable nervous excitement. 
 
 " Do you know what time it is, Lucy ?" said 
 he, pulling out his watch. " Five minutes of 
 six, and the tea-table not set. I don't know 
 what your girls are about, but it hardly an- 
 swers for the mistress of the house to be out 
 at this hour !" 
 
 Lucy's heart sunk for an instant, but she 
 said, cheerfully, '^ I had no idea it was so late, 
 dear papa. Your tea shall be ready imme- 
 diately," and ran down to the kitchen. 
 
l68 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 The father looked after her rather gloomily 
 " Poor child !" he said, ^' what a pity it is she 
 has no order or method. She means well, but 
 has no system. I must do all I can to culti- 
 vate it in her, and, in the meantime, I must 
 endure all this confusion !" 
 
 They sat down to tea ten minutes late. " In 
 just ten minutes more I must be off," said 
 Mr. Bell, taking out that dreadful watch 
 again. 
 
 Lucy had it at her tongue's end to say, " I 
 think, papa, you would enjoy life more, if you 
 did not time yourself so exactly;" but she re- 
 frained, and said, instead, 
 
 " See, papa, the first strawberries of the 
 season ! Are they not tempting 1" 
 
 Mr. Bell's countenance relaxed when he saw 
 the strawberries, for fruit was his greatest lux- 
 ury, as his health was rather delicate. 
 
 *' Cream, too, papa. Daisy sent us an extra 
 supply." 
 
 Mr. Bell looked around the table, and saic": 
 to the servant, "Anna, you have forgotten the 
 pov/dered sugar !" 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 69 
 
 Anna glanced inquiringly at her mistress. 
 Lucy said, hastily, '^ Oh, I am afraid there is 
 none in the house. How stupid in me ! We 
 have not had fruit for so long ! Anna, go and 
 pound up some loaf sugar!" 
 
 " I shall not be able to wait for it," said Mr. 
 Bell ; and pushed away his saucer of straw- 
 berries. 
 
 " Would brown sugar do this once, papa ?" 
 
 ** No, indeed. It's a matter of no conse- 
 quence. Good -night, Lucy. I shall be at 
 home about nine o'clock;" and he rose from 
 the table. 
 
 " Oh, dear pstpa., p/ease," said Lucy entreat- 
 ingly ; " do eat a bit of cake, at least." 
 
 " I have no appetite, my dear. I have had 
 a cup of tea, good-night," and without more 
 words he left the room, and Lucy heard him 
 go out. 
 
 Of course she had no further desire to eat 
 any supper herself The strawberries were 
 positively hateful in her sight. She told 
 Anna to put them on the ice, and give them 
 to Mr. Bell in the morning, and to go out 
 I? 
 
I/O THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 immediately for sugar. Then she would glad 
 \y have gone to her room and had a good cry. 
 She was mortified, hurt, and angry. But 
 Daisy's words came up before her. 
 
 " She would have me say, * It's no matter/ 
 but it zs matter. Papa's gone away vexed, 
 and without any tea !" 
 
 Presently she thought. " But Daisy would 
 say, * No matter if he is vexed. He'll soon 
 get over it, and it was a piece of forgetfulness 
 on j^our part. You are sorry, and will try to 
 mend.' So that's disposed of; but how about 
 papa's tea?" 
 
 A bright thought interposed itself, " Have 
 something all ready for him when he gets 
 home !" But pride whispered, * Why should 
 3''ou take that trouble ? He might have eaten 
 something now, just as well as not. It v/as 
 only to punish you that he did not. He likes 
 to try you, and it is impossible to bear all this 
 patiently." 
 
 Lucy started. " I am falling into the old 
 wicked train of thought. It is dreadful. I 
 must go to doing something to make papa's 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. I/I 
 
 home happy, as Daisy told me, or I shall be 
 just as wicked as ever." 
 
 With a short, fervent petition for help 
 against her besetting sin, Luc}^ rose from the 
 table. She first told Anna to have everything 
 ready for Mr. Bell's supper when he return- 
 ed ; then she went to the garden, to her favor- 
 ite roses, which, planted by Charlie in the old 
 days, and tended devotedl}^ by his mother, 
 were now blooming profusely, unseen by the 
 departed ones who had nursed them. She 
 dashed away a tear as she thought of the dear 
 ones all gone, and said softl}^ '^ Only papa and 
 I ! Oh, let me try to make him happy !" 
 Then she took handfuls of the roses into the 
 house, and disposed them all about, putting 
 one on her mother's work-table, which always 
 stood in the library, just where she had left it, 
 with her picture on it, and the v/ork unfinish- 
 ed where her dear hands dropped it. Lucy 
 kissed the picture and the work, and disposed 
 the flowers tenderly in front of them. 
 
 "Another bunch on mamma's di^essing- 
 table up-stairs, just where pcor papa cannot 
 
1^2 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 fail to see them, and then I will go to m;y 
 
 music." 
 
 She completed her work of love, put one 
 fresh bud in her hair, and then went down 
 stairs, soberly, but with a peaceful face. 
 Opening the piano, she turned over her songs. 
 " Papa used to love to hear me sing these," 
 she said ; ^' it is strange that T have not sung 
 to him lately. I must practice again regu- 
 larly." 
 
 She tried the old favorites one after another, 
 and became so engrossed that two hours went 
 by unnoticed. At length she heard the hall 
 door open, and her father come in. A mo- 
 mentary feeling of vexation crossed her mind, 
 and her heart felt sore as she thought of the 
 scene at the tea-table. But an effort conquer- 
 ed the temptation. " I'll go on singing, I'm 
 almost sure he will like to hear me !" and she 
 began one of his favorite airs. 
 
 Mr. Bell came in expecting to find the 
 house dull and lonely, Lucy gone to her room, 
 cross in consequence of his rebuke, and every- 
 thing gloomy. On the contrary, the fragrance 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 73 
 
 of roses and the sound of sweet music greet- 
 ed him. He Avent into the library, and sat 
 down near Lucy. The song she was singing, 
 was one that his wife had particularly loved, 
 and it affected him deeply to hear it now. 
 He looked at his motherless child, sitting 
 there all alone, looking so sweet and innocent, 
 Avith her white dress and the rose in her hair, 
 and his heart went out towards her with ex- 
 treme tenderness. As she finished, she turn- 
 ed her head and glanced at him. He opened 
 his arms and beckoned to her, and she ran 
 into them, and laid her head down on his 
 shoulder with a feeling of rest that had not 
 been hers for a long time. Tears rushed to 
 her eyes as she felt his arms pressed closely 
 round her and his kiss on her forehead, but 
 she checked them at once, and looking up, said 
 cheerfully, "You like to hear me sing, don't 
 you, papa?" 
 
 " Dearly, my love !" 
 
 " Then I will sing for you all you want me to, 
 if you will promise to do just as I tell you this 
 evening," with an arch smile. ** Promise, papa." 
 15* 
 
1/4 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 She led him into the dining-room, which 
 looked charmingly with the roses and straw- 
 berries and little tea-set. He waved his hand 
 and tried to get away_, but she held him tight, 
 and said, " Promises are not to be evaded, sir. 
 I shall hold you to yours," and actually seat- 
 ed him at the table. Then with all the gayety 
 and grace she could command, she waited 
 upon him, and chatted away so gaily, that be- 
 fore he was aware he had eaten quite a sup- 
 per. 
 
 " Now you have been very good, and I 
 shall sing to you," she said, and led her de- 
 lighted father back to his comfortable arm- 
 chair by the piano. 
 
 He could not understand the sudden change 
 in his daughter, but accepted it as something 
 nev/ and wonderful in the mysterious nature 
 of woman, and rejoiced in it. To tell the 
 truth, Lucy had been but a dreary companion 
 for any one during the past weeks. Her 
 "sensitiveness" had degenerated into a mor- 
 bid soreness of feeling, that took offence at 
 
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 1/5 
 
 the slightest thing, and was constantly on the 
 alert for a cause of trouble. Poor Mr. Bell 
 felt that he could not notice any defect in her 
 housekeeping without rousing bad temper ; but 
 he would not yield to any such folly, as he 
 thought it, though he mourned over it in se- 
 cret very much. 
 
 *' Poor girl ! how much she shows the want 
 of her mother's influence," he v/ould say to 
 himself; " but she can't go through the world 
 in this way, and it is better for her to learn 
 now to control herself, than by and by, when 
 it will be harder." 
 
 But now he rejoiced to see that the spell 
 was broken, and Lucy seemed to have return- 
 ed to her senses. He was far more careful 
 not to try her temper, now that he saw she 
 was trying hard to control it. Lucy wonder- 
 ed how she could ever have thought him 
 strict or severe, he was so indulgent now. 
 They were very happy. Of course many a 
 time mistakes were made on one side, and im- 
 patience shown on the other; but the new 
 maxim " It 5 no matter," worked like a charm. 
 
1/6 
 
 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 As long as Lucy could put aside the trouble 
 and be cheerful and even playful, there was 
 no possibihty of long being vexed with her. 
 Good-nature disarmed reproof, as it always 
 will. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A SURPRISE. 
 
 ABOUT three years after her mother's 
 death, Daisy was thunderstruck at re- 
 ceiving the following note from her father : 
 
 " My dear Daughter, — Our long-esteem- 
 ed and beloved friend, Miss Herrick, has con- 
 sented to become my wife, and we shall be 
 married very soon. Will you communicate 
 this intelligence to Lucy? Her happiness has 
 been one controlling object with me in taking 
 this step. She is too young to be tied down 
 to the cares of a house. Besides, I cannot 
 hope to keep her always with me. You will 
 
 (»77) 
 
I/S A SURPRISE. 
 
 of course, immediately call upon Miss Her 
 rick, and give her a cordial welcome into the 
 family. 
 
 " Your affectionate Father." 
 
 Daisy sat for a long time with the note in 
 her hand, lost in thought, while the tears fell 
 from her eyes unperceived, and dropped on 
 the paper. ** What changes ! what changes !'* 
 she murmured ; " My sainted mother ! But 
 in heaven they neither marry, nor are given 
 in marriage !" 
 
 Then rousing herself, she said aloud, " Poor 
 Lucy ; she has no idea of this, and I am afraid 
 it will come very hard to her, especially now 
 that she is making such an effort to have every- 
 thing to please papa. But there is no time to 
 be lost. I must go to her at once.'* 
 
 She fell on her knees for one moment, then 
 rose, took her hat, and walked thoughtfully to 
 her old home. Everything about it was un- 
 changed. The vines climbing over the little 
 front porch, the rose-bushes in the yard, the 
 old furniture, all spoke to her so strongly of 
 
A SURPRISE. 179 
 
 her mother, that she had to shake herself to 
 be sure that she was really -awake, and that 
 the news of the morning was not all a dream. 
 No ! the note was in her pocket ; she put her 
 hand on it, and went up-stairs with a heavy 
 heart to find Lucy. 
 
 The young housekeeper was very busy with 
 her morning duties, and came running out of 
 one of the rooms, with a white handkerchief 
 tied round her head, one little curl straggling 
 out on her forehead, and a bright color in her 
 cheeks, and a broom in her hand. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Morton," she said, shaking the 
 broom at her, " what brings you here at ^/ns 
 hour? I assure you, / have no time to be 
 gadding so early!" Then seeing from her 
 sister's face that something was the matter 
 (for Daisy in vain tried to look unconcerned), 
 she stopped her bantering tone, and said, put- 
 ting her arms round her, " Dear Daisy, what 
 is it ! Nothing has happened to Theodore oi 
 May !" 
 
 " No, indeed, we are all quite well — nothing 
 is the matter!" but, as Daisy spoke the words, 
 
l80 A SURPRISE. 
 
 her composure forsook her, and she burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Lucy was greatly frightened, Daisy was 
 always so calm, that to see her cry betokened 
 something very serious, and Lucy could not 
 think what terrible misfortune had befallen 
 them. 
 
 *' Oh, do speak one word to me, Daisy. 
 Who is dead ? Is it Nelly, or Charlie, or 
 Arthur ! Or has anything happened to 
 papa ?" 
 
 Daisy shook her head, and recovered her- 
 self almost immediately. With a faint smile, 
 she said, " It is too bad, darling, to frighten 
 you in this wa}^ Really nothing has hap- 
 pened ; only this house made me think so of 
 mamma, that I could not bear to — to think 
 
 ** Not that r said Lucy instantly, with a 
 look that showed she understood everything. 
 
 Daisy bowed her head in assent, and the 
 two sisters sat down together and were per- 
 fectly silent for a few moments, as though they 
 were stunned by the suddenness of the news, 
 
A 3URPRISE. l8l 
 
 and were trying to take it in and compre- 
 hend it. 
 
 Lucy spoke first. "Who is it?" 
 
 " Miss Herrick !" 
 
 There was another long silence. Then Lucy 
 said, very quietly, " I don't care at all. It 
 makes no difference to me who it is. What 
 shall I do now, Daisy ?" 
 
 " Come and live with us, darling, if you 
 think it right and best !" 
 
 " Oh, no !" and Lucy sighed wearily. " I 
 know I must stay here. I know I ought not 
 to fasten myself on any of my brothers or 
 sisters." 
 
 Daisy looked at her reproachfully. 
 
 " Forgive me, Daisy, but it is hard now to 
 believe that anybody cares for me. Papa does 
 not, you see." 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed he does," cried Daisy. *' T 
 forgot to tell you that he wanted you to know 
 it was greatly for your sake that he marries 
 again." 
 
 Lucy laughed derisively. 
 
 " He says the housekeeping is too much for 
 i6 
 
I82 A SURPRISE. 
 
 you, and that he wants you to be free to enjoy 
 yourself!" 
 
 Lucy looked mournfully round on the room, 
 all shrouded in sweeping-covers, and said, " I 
 was trying so hard, Daisy, and thought we 
 were so happy !" 
 
 " So you were, darling, doing beautifully. 
 But you mustn't take this so hard. Papa has 
 a perfect right, you know, to do as he pleases ; 
 and it is quite true, as he says, that you will 
 be running off one of these days, and then he 
 would be quite alone," and Daisy tried to 
 smile. 
 
 " I'll try to look at it right," said Lucy, 
 mournfully, "and I shall get accustomed to it 
 in time, I know ; but, just at this moment, I 
 feel as if I didn't want to liv^e anywhere a 
 great while." 
 
 " I know you will do ever37thing you can for 
 papa's sake," said Daisy, kissing her fondly. 
 " Now I must go. Promise me you won't 
 go and cry over this." 
 
 " Oh, no," said poor Lucy trying to smile ; 
 " I shall go on with my sweeping, and then 
 
A SURPRISE. 183 
 
 with my dessert-making, and try to thmic it's 
 all no matter! But what shall I do when 
 papa comes home. If you could only be here, 
 then, Daisy !" 
 
 " I will, dear, without any fail ; and I will 
 come all dressed to go and call on Miss Her- 
 rick. You will go with me !" 
 
 " So soon ! Oh, yes, I suppose so," said 
 Lucy, and the sisters separated, with a long 
 embrace, in which both felt that part was for 
 the beloved mother who was gone. 
 
 True to her word, Daisy came in calm and 
 sweet, with her little girl, to greet her father at 
 noon, and congratulate him on his prospects. 
 She did all the necessary talking, keeping 
 Lucy in the background as much as possible, 
 and made the dreaded scene pass off very 
 well. Then she and Lucy went out to call on 
 Miss Herrick. There she played the same 
 part, and, by her self-possession and grace of 
 manner, put their hostess, who was nervous 
 and embarrassed, quite at her ease, and shield- 
 ed Lucy completely. 
 
 Miss Herrick, who was an excellent Chris- 
 
l84 A SURPRISE. 
 
 tian woman, but rather stiff and prim withal, 
 looked at Lucy with the greatest interest, and 
 already formed all sorts of plans for her bene- 
 fit ; for Mr. Bell had told her often how much 
 his young daughter needed a mother's care, 
 and had begged her to take a warm interest 
 in her. She evidently did so ; and fixed her 
 eyes upon her with a steadiness that amused 
 while it annoyed Lucy. She could not raise 
 her eyes without finding Miss Herrick's gaze 
 upon her. 
 
 " Well, she is evidently studying my case !'* 
 said she to Daisy, as they left the door. " Did 
 you see how she looked at. me?" 
 
 " I am sure she is very kind," said Daisy ; 
 " and we must try to love her. " You know 
 we always did like her." 
 
 " Oh, yes, well enough, but who could have 
 ever dreamed of this !" 
 
 The marriage took place in due time, and 
 the new Mrs. Bell was installed in her place 
 as mistress of the house. Much as Lucy had 
 disliked household cares, when she was first 
 burdened with them, she had become so ac- 
 
A SURPRISE. 185 
 
 customed to them now that it was not pleasant 
 to give them up to somebody else, and have 
 many things changed to suit another person's 
 ideas. It was still less pleasant to have her 
 father frequently say, " Now you have a 
 chance, Lucy, to learn housekeeping on the 
 best principles. I hope you will avail your- 
 self of it." 
 
 She longed to get away from these petty 
 annoyances, and proposed to make a good use 
 of her freedom by going to make Nelly a long 
 visit ; but, to her surprise, her father asked her 
 to postpone this till the wedding visits had 
 been made and returned. " You know we 
 have a good many friends whom my wife does 
 not know," he said, " and it is quite the thing 
 that you should introduce them to her ; and 
 then it would be very agreeable to her if you 
 would return the calls with her." 
 
 Of course Lucy could not refuse ; but she 
 went over to Daisy's as soon as possible to 
 give vent to her feelings. ^* Freedom, in- 
 deed !" she exclaimed, after relating her griev 
 ances. " I wonder if this is the kind of free- 
 16* 
 
1 86 A SURPRISE. 
 
 dom I am to enjoy! And such utter disre- 
 gard of my feelings. They must know that 
 nothing could be more disagreeable to me !" 
 
 " But it won't be for long, dear. Papa did 
 not ask you to give up your visit, only post- 
 pone it. After all, you will get away in a few 
 weeks, and then it won't matter so much." 
 
 " You are the strangest girl, Daisy. I be- 
 lieve you will try to convince me next that 
 7iothing matters much." 
 
 *' Well, dear, nothing does, very much, ex- 
 cept doing our duty and seeing those around 
 us happy," said Daisj', with a smile of infinite 
 sweetness. 
 
 '' Do you mean to sa)^, Daisy, that our own 
 happiness doesn't matter, if we only see others 
 happy." 
 
 " No, darling, not that. But I mean that 
 happiness comes, if we do our duty, without 
 our seeking it. It comes in all sorts of little 
 ways that we don't expect ; and we find that, 
 after all, it's no matter how we are situated if 
 we have inward peace and can make others 
 happy. And then, you know, darling, we 
 
A SURPRISE. 187 
 
 don't expect perfect happiness in this life. We 
 know that's coming by and by ; but not here. 
 But as long as we have it to look forward to, 
 we can take what happens to be our portion 
 here, and Avait for the rest till we go to the 
 other homG." 
 
 ** Daisy, I wouldn't believe anybody else ii 
 they talked so ; but T know you always have 
 been happy, even when you had the most t: 
 bear; so I believe every word you say." 
 
 " No, darling, it doesn't matter, it really 
 doesn't, whether we have this or that or the 
 other thing. It is hard to see our dear ones 
 suffer, and not be able to do anything for 
 them," and Daisy's voice trembled as she 
 thought of the suspense she had endured in 
 that very house, years ago ; " but if those we 
 love are well and happy, oh, I am sure, dear, 
 you must see the rest makes but little differ- 
 ence !" 
 
 " Dear Daisy, how I love you !" was Lucy's 
 only reply ; but she went home and cheerfully 
 consented to remain for the visits which she 
 detested. She got through them much better 
 
1 88 A SURPRISE. 
 
 than she expected, and even quite enjoyed 
 some of them, and finally left for Nelly's in a 
 happier frame of mind than she had enjoyed 
 for some time. The father was gratified by 
 her attention to his wishes, and it was pleasant 
 to feel that she could leave him without know- 
 ing that he was entirely alone. She acknowl- 
 edged that there were some redeeming feat- 
 ures about the new state of things, and stated 
 in high spirits for her first real long visit to 
 Nelly. 
 
L 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 nelly's home. 
 
 UCY wrote to Daisy, the day after her 
 arrival at Maplewood, as follows : 
 
 " I promised to write to you at once, dear 
 Daisy, so here I am sitting down to redeem 
 my promise. I arrived yesterday afternoon, 
 but feel as if I had been here a month, it is 
 such a dear, homelike old house. You know 
 I have been perfectly charmed before in my 
 short visits here, but it is so much nicer to 
 settle down and feel that I am to stay a good 
 long while. 
 
 " The place is regal, v/ith its long avenue of 
 
 (189) 
 
190 nelly's home. 
 
 sugar - maples, all now in their golden dress; 
 the comfortable old house, with delicious 
 wood -fires kept burning night and morning 
 in every room ; and as for the woods and the 
 lake behind the house, with the little skiff 
 moored to the shore, they are perfectly en- 
 chanting. It seems to me it ought to be 
 always October here ; but, I suppose if I saw 
 it in June or even December, I should say the 
 same. 
 
 "And the family are just fitted to live in this 
 ideal home. Old Mr. and Mrs. Leighton are 
 the most stately and finished old couple I ever 
 beheld, and just as devoted to one another as 
 though they were thirty instead of seventy. 
 It is as good as a story-book to see them go 
 to ride together, as happy as two young 
 lovers. Then Nelly — well, she is a glorious 
 girl, and that's all I can say. I fall in love 
 with her all over again every time I come 
 here and see her in her own home. She goes 
 about like a queen, ruling this great household 
 as though it were an empire — so noble, so act- 
 ive, so thoughtful of others, and so bright and 
 
nelly's home. 191 
 
 fascinating, that no wonder they all fall dov/n 
 and worship her as they do. The old people 
 follow her about with their eyes wherever she 
 moves, as though they thought her perfection ; 
 and as to Frank, he is so proud and happy in 
 her that he seems to desire nothing and no 
 one else. Of course, I am lost in insignificance 
 by her side, but I am content to be so, for I 
 love and admire her as much as all the rest. 
 What a splendid woman she has turned out ! 
 
 " SUNDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 " I have been reading over my enthusiastic 
 description of Maplewood and its inmates, 
 and have concluded to send it, though I am 
 in such a very different mood now from the 
 happy one in which I wrote it, last Wednes- 
 day, and yet nothing has changed ; it is all 
 as beautiful and peaceful as ever. But I am 
 lonely and unhappy here. They are all so 
 engrossed in each other and so happy togeth- 
 er, that I feel like an outsider. Don't sup- 
 pose they are unkind. They are all atten- 
 tion, and devote themselves to my pleasure; 
 
192 nelly's home. 
 
 but oh, Daisy, I cannot follow your advice, 
 and be happy in seeing others happy. I want 
 to be first with somebody, and when I see 
 Frank and Nelly so happy together, it makes 
 me miserable and envious, and I go away to 
 my own room and mope. I know just what 
 you will say, and I hate myself for such con- 
 duct. I remember all dear mamma's warn- 
 ings, and all your counsel, my sweet sister; 
 but yet I cannot conquer these envious feel- 
 ings, and I long to get away from the picture 
 that excites them, and go home. But then I 
 think, I am not first at home either. I am 
 not first anywhere in the whole world, and 
 that makes me so unhappy. What shall I 
 do, Daisy?" 
 
 Daisy wept and prayed over this letter, 
 prayed earnestly that her sister's heart might 
 be filled with love, pure, unselfish love, that 
 should drive out these miserable feelings. 
 Then she replied, 
 
 " Busy yourself in doing some little kind- 
 ness for the family, no matter if it be only a 
 piece of worsted work; anything that will 
 
nelly's home. 193 
 
 give them pleasure, and add to the attractions 
 of their home ; and remember, darling, we are 
 not to set our hearts upon the love of those 
 around us, but only on Him who can satisfy 
 and will never fail us." 
 
 This was all Daisy could think of to say to 
 her sister, but she said a great deal more to 
 Him whose ear is ever open to earnest pray- 
 ers, .especially to unselfish pleadings like 
 Daisy's. She prayed daily for grace to be 
 poured upon her sister, for she knew nothing 
 but grace could enable her to subdue the mor- 
 bid feelings that so destroyed her peace. 
 
 It was a critical time in Lucy's life, for she 
 was engaged in a warfare, the result of which 
 would make her whole future happy or miser- 
 able. From being the petted baby of the 
 family all through her childhood, she had 
 come to regard it as her right to be the first 
 in everybody's regard ; and now, that her sis- 
 ters were married, and had claims para- 
 mount to hers, and even her father had taken 
 some one to be nearer and dearer than herself, 
 there was great danger of her giving way to 
 
 17 
 
194 nelly's home. 
 
 wicked feelings of envy and jealousy, and 
 making herself unhappy because, though she 
 had a great deal, she could not have all. 
 Would she take the second place, now^ that 
 the first one was denied her, contentedly and 
 gracefully, and be the sweet and beloved sis- 
 ter, aunt and daughter, or would she be sus- 
 picious and unlovely, and gradually lose that 
 portion of affection which Avas hers, and .which 
 was amply sufficient to make one humble 
 spirit happy. 
 
 That was the question, and it was a hard 
 one to settle. To love with entire devotion, 
 and be satisfied to receive only a part in re- 
 turn, or rather to love without thinking of 
 the return at all, this was hard, almost impos- 
 sible for Lucy's craving nature, that longed 
 for love, as a bird longs for its prey. Could 
 she ever learn that earthly love was " no mat- 
 ter," if only the heart that must have some- 
 thing to cling to, were fixed on the Heavenly 
 Friend who could receive all and give un- 
 speakable satisfaction in return. This was 
 what the changes and discipline of this trying 
 
nelly's home. 195 
 
 time would teach Lucy, if only she would 
 learn the lesson. 
 
 She tried Daisy's recipe for happiness, and 
 found some comfort in the practical part of 
 it. Many a mournful thought was stitched 
 into the bright wools of the chair that all the 
 family admired so much, and she enjoyed the 
 thought of Mrs. Leighton's surprise, when she 
 should find it was for her parlor. And Lucy 
 tried hard too, to set her heart upon God, 
 and not upon earthly idols. But though she 
 read her Bible and prayed, often in the very 
 midst of her prayer she found herself think- 
 ing how delightful it must be to have any 
 one look at you with the dev^otion with which 
 Frank looked at Nelly, and feeling, oh, so sad, in 
 the thought that she was not necessary to the 
 happiness of her dear ones, either here, or any 
 where else in the world. Then dashing away 
 her tears, and blaming herself severely for 
 such thoughts, she would go and read to Mrs. 
 Leighton, or search the woods for wild flow- 
 ers to decorate Nelly's room, or find some 
 new story to entertain the old gentleman. 
 
196 nelly's home. 
 
 She made herself useful and agreeable in a 
 hundred little ways, and they all loved her 
 dearly ; but still her heart felt sore and unsat- 
 isfied, and at last she resolved to shorten her 
 visit and go home. 
 
 " I have no duties here !" said poor Lucy, to 
 herself. These little things that I do are such 
 trifles, they do not amount to anything. The 
 family would be ^eally just as happy without 
 me. Daisy said if we did our duty and saw 
 others happy, we should be satisfied. Alas ! 
 seeing others happy is not enough for me ; I 
 am sure if I had some duties to do, it would 
 make a great difference. I will go home, and 
 though I know I am not needed there either, 
 (there was a burst of tears at the thought,) yet 
 perhaps, I can find something to do in life." 
 
 Nelly and the whole family were very much 
 surprised at Lucy's sudden determination, and 
 expostulated with her very strongly. " Why, 
 Lulu, what are you thinking of?" said Nelly. 
 " I thought 3^ou would stay with us all winter ! 
 You don't know how nice it is here, with the 
 sleighing and the skating, and the crackling 
 
nelly's home. 197 
 
 wood fires in-doors. Frank will teach you to 
 skate, won't you, Frank? Come, stay with 
 us, we shall feel quite hurt if you don't !'* 
 
 Lucy had it on her lips to say, " Oh, no, you 
 won't ! It won't really make any difference to 
 you !" but she restrained herself. Frank was 
 looking at her with one of his kind, grave, 
 penetrating glances, and she felt sure he un- 
 derstood wny she was going. She would not 
 for worlds have confessed her feeling to Nelly, 
 for Nelly never had a suspicious or jealous 
 thought in her life, and didn't know what it 
 meant. 
 
 " And papa is perfectly comfortable without 
 you !" continued Nelly. " He doesn't need 
 you at all. I don't see why you will go !" 
 
 Lucy tried to say something about Daisy's 
 wanting her, but her lips quivered, and she 
 could not finish. It was too true that she was 
 not needed, and everybody saw and knew it ! 
 The thought overcame her. 
 
 '* Don't urge her, Nelly !" said Frank. " She 
 knows how glad we should be to have her 
 stay, but she thinks it best to go now ! She 
 
198 nelly's home. 
 
 will come again/' and he took her hand 
 kindly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, any time, always !" said Lucy ; 
 " thank you for not urging me now," and she 
 escaped to her room. 
 
 '' Poor child ! she feels mamma's death so 
 much !" said Nelly ; " I don't believe she will 
 ever get over it. I wish she would stay with 
 us always, don't you, Frank?" 
 
 ** Yes, if it were for her happiness, but I 
 doubt that. She will be happier at home, as 
 soon as she gets accustomed to the change 
 there. It does no good, you know, dear, to 
 run away from disagreeable things ; the best 
 way is to stay and face them, and then they 
 are not as bad as they look at first." 
 
 *' I suppose so," said Nelly, thoughtfully. 
 She went up to Lucy's room, and found her 
 quite calm again, preparing for her journey. 
 
 " You won't think me unkind, to insist on 
 going home, dear; but I want to begin my 
 stuc^ies again, and all sorts of things for the 
 •winter, you know," and Lucy looked apolo- 
 getically at Nelly. 
 
nelly's home. 199 
 
 "Oh, no, dear, only you know one thing 
 I prize my home for, is to have you in it, so 
 you won't disappoint me again in this way, 
 will you ?" 
 
 ** Do I really and truly add anything to your 
 happiness by being here ?" said Lucy, eagerly. 
 " Why, of course you do, you foolish child ! 
 Have I so many sisters that I can afford to be 
 separated from you all the time ? Don't you 
 know you are very precious to me?" and the 
 tears started to Nelly's bright eyes as she held 
 Lucy in her arms. 
 
 " Oh, Nelly, \{ you only knew the good you 
 have done me by these few words !" said Lucy, 
 after a fervent embrace. " I shall go away 
 quite happy now.** 
 
 '' Why, Lulu, you know perfectly well it is 
 not my way to be always telling people I love 
 them, and besides, I didn't suppose it was 
 necessary with you !'* 
 
 ** It ought not to be, and it shan't be any 
 more !" said Lucy, thoroughly ashamed of her- 
 self; "and now, Nelly, when are you and 
 Frank coming to M ?" 
 
200 
 
 NELLY S HOME. 
 
 An animated conversation followed, while 
 the sisters packed Lucy's trunks, and she start- 
 ed on her journey home, with a lighter heart 
 than she had had for some time. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 LUCY was most kindly received by her 
 father and Mrs. Bell, but there were sun- 
 dry changes in the old house that smote her 
 hear;t the moment she entered it. New furni- 
 ture had replaced the well-worn hair-cloth 
 that had so long been in use in the Bell family, 
 and worst of all, her mother's work-table and 
 picture had disappeared. She found them 
 again in her own room, and wept loving drops 
 over them. It was very evident that a new 
 regime had fairly commenced. The servants 
 were new, and everything about the house 
 was re-arranged, and Lucy felt almost like a 
 
 stranger. However, she had come home 
 
 (201) 
 
202 THE RETURN. *. 
 
 firmly resolved to make the best of every 
 thing, and she resolutely put aside all thoughts 
 of a disagreeable nature. 
 
 She went down to the table cheerfully, with 
 the determination to make herself as agreea- 
 ble as possible. But not only the house but 
 the people were changed. Her father had 
 "spruced up" wonderfully, looked ten years 
 younger, and was evidently enjoying life ; 
 while his new wife had a much more bridish 
 air than Lucy thought at all necessary. 
 
 Still they had quite a pleasant meal. Many 
 questions were asked and answered about 
 Nelly and Frank, and Lucy gave an animated 
 description of her journey. 
 
 After dinner, Mr. Bell said to his wife, " I 
 shall be ready for our drive whenever you 
 are," and Mrs. Bell, saying kindly to Lucy, 
 * You must be tired, dear, with your journey; 
 do go and lie down ;" went up-stairs to put 
 on her things, and, in a few moments, Lucy 
 saw them drive off together. 
 
 She sat, for some time, almost bewildered 
 at the new order of things. Then she went 
 
THE RETURN. 203 
 
 slowly up-stairs, feeling like a stranger in her 
 own home. All was unchanged in her room, 
 however, and she said, with a feeling of relief, 
 " Here, at least, I am at home !" and sat down 
 in her old rocking-chair, with its faded chint2 
 cover, to collect her thoughts. But it would 
 not do to sit and think. Sad, repining and 
 then angry feelings came thronging upon her, 
 till at last she got up and shook herself, ex- 
 claiming, "What am I doing? Where are 
 all my good resolutions ? I will go to Daisy's 
 directly !" and started at once for the cottage. 
 
 Little May saw her coming, and ran out to 
 meet her ; Daisy followed quickly, and took 
 her into her motherly embrace. Lucy felt 
 helped and consoled by the mere touch of her 
 arms, and said cheerfully, " Here I am again ! 
 A bad penny's soon returned." 
 
 " Oh Aunt Lulu, how good you are to come 
 back so soon ! You dear, dear Aunt Lulu !" 
 
 " There's a welcome for you," said Mr. 
 Morton, who had followed his wife and child. 
 " Miss May has been pining for you ever since 
 you went away." 
 
204 THE RETURN. 
 
 Lucy took the child up in her arms and 
 smothered her with kisses. She felt there was 
 a good deal of love left for her in the world, 
 and again resolved to stifle her wicked dis- 
 content. . - 
 
 A merry party they were, chatting over 
 what Lucy had seen, and discussing every- 
 thing and everybody at Maplewood. At 
 length, after a great deal had been told, Lucy 
 said, " Now tell me something about home. 
 I see for myself that there have been great 
 changes." 
 
 ^' Yes, and for the better, we think. Papa 
 seems very happy, and he certainly could not 
 have married a more suitable person ; and you 
 will be free, now, dear, to continue your studies 
 and your music, which you know you had to 
 drop immediately after leaving school, to take 
 up housekeeping cares. We are glad, on the 
 whole, that papa has done as he has." 
 
 Daisy looked in her sister's face inquiringly, 
 as she said this. She had been afraid that the 
 coming home would have been very trying 
 for Lucy, and she was much relieved to see 
 
THE RETURN. 205 
 
 that she seemed disposed to look at things in 
 a sensible way, and put away useless repin- 
 ings. 
 
 Lucy answered the look by a fond smile. 
 " Daisy, I mean to surround and envelop my- 
 self so with duties that I shall have no time 
 to mope." 
 
 " That's right, dear ; now is your golden 
 opportunity. How she will wish, a few years 
 hence, for some of these months ; wont she 
 Theodore ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Lucy, I will study German 
 with you. What do you say ?" 
 
 " Oh, I should be afraid ; you would dis- 
 tance me so completely." 
 
 " I doubt it. At any rate, I'll engage Pro- 
 fessor Schmidt immediately, if you say so." 
 
 " It would be delightful ; and I want to take 
 music lessons too." 
 
 Lucy went home quite happy ; but home 
 was a different place from Daisy's cottage. 
 Her father was busily reading the newspaper 
 to his wife, who was working worsteds, (Lucy 
 thought, in an instant, that her mother never 
 i8 
 
206 THE RETURN. 
 
 had any time to work worsteds,) and her en- 
 trance seemed to make but little impression. 
 She went for her fancy-work, and sat down 
 too, but she could not get over the feeling of 
 strangeness. It did not seem possible that 
 this could be the old home, once so joyous, 
 and noisy and merry — now so prim, with every 
 chair in its place against the wall, and its mis- 
 tress, primmest of all, working diligently at 
 her wools, and listening devoutly while her 
 husband read. Lucy bore it as long as she 
 could, and then excused herself on the plea of 
 fatigue, and went up-stairs. 
 
 Once in her room, an uncontrollable sense 
 of loneliness came over her, and the tears 
 forced their way through her eyelids. But 
 she would not give full vent to her feelings. 
 She felt as if she could not control herself 
 on this, the first night of her return home, all 
 was lost ; and she clung to her new principles 
 as a drowning man might cling to the spar 
 that is to save him. 
 
 *' Oh, mamma," she said, kneeling in front of 
 her mother's picture, " you little thought, when 
 
THE RETURN. 20/ 
 
 you told me to be happy in the happiness of 
 others, how severely I should be put to the 
 test. But I mean to do the best 1 can. I 
 mean to accept my lot and not repine." 
 
 She took up her Bible, and sat down to 
 read, with a feeling that she held her all in her 
 hand. " They are happy down-stairs," she 
 thought, — " all are happy — and I — I must not 
 expect my happiness from them. I must find 
 it here ;" and she clasped her Bible to her 
 breast. " I must love them all, but I must ex- 
 pect my treasure here, and learn to say, ' It's 
 no matter,* when earthly things fail me !" 
 
 She turned to Luke's version of the Sermon 
 on the Mount. The verses seemed to strike 
 her with new power: *' Blessed are ye that 
 hunger now, for ye shall be filled." She clung 
 to the promise. " Blessed are ye that weep 
 now, for ye shall laugh." " Happiness will 
 come then, and I am willing to wait," she said 
 
 A few verses further on came these words : 
 *' For if ye love them that love you, what 
 thank have ye ; and if ye do good to those 
 that do good to you, what thank have }e. 
 
208 THE RETURN. 
 
 But love ye, and do good, hoping for nothing 
 again." The very spirit of the gospel seemed 
 entering into her heart with these words. 
 ** Just what mamma used to say," she mur- 
 mured, " * Love, hoping for nothing again.' " 
 
 She read on — " Give, and it shall be given 
 to you ; good measure, pressed down, and 
 shaken together and running over, shall men 
 give into your bosom." " That must mean 
 love !" she exclaimed. " Then if I give freely, 
 without thinking of a return, it will come in 
 the end, just as Daisy said." 
 
 She found such comfort in these words, that 
 she read on still for several chapters, quite 
 absorbed, till she came to the twelfth. There 
 the same loving counsel was repeated, only in 
 stronger terms. *' Seek ye the kingdom of 
 God, and all these things shall be added to 
 you. Fear not, little flock, it is your Father's 
 good pleasure to give you the kingdom." 
 *' Oh, how sweet that is !" she murmured. 
 *' Sell that ye have and give alms ; provide 
 yourselves bags that wax not old, a treasure 
 m the heavens that faileth not ; for where your 
 
THE RETURN. 209 
 
 treasure is, there will your heart be also. Be 
 like unto men that wait for their lord, that 
 when he cometh and knocketh, they may open 
 unto him immediately." 
 
 '^ I see, I see ! There is much to do, and 
 but little time to do it in ; and, when the Lord 
 comes, it will not matter whether we have had 
 much or little happine3S in this world, so our 
 work is done. The kingdom and the treasure 
 are there, in the future ; the work and the 
 duty are here, and how little I hav^e done 
 them !" 
 
 She sank on her knees, with the first true 
 appreciation of the real meaning of life that 
 she had ever strongly felt. " Work here — the 
 treasure there — the Lord coming!" she re- 
 peated over and over ; ** and I have been seek- 
 ing my treasure here, and throwing away my 
 precious time in mourning because I could not 
 find it. If the Lord had come, he would have 
 found my heart here, fixed on things below. 
 I have not been waiting for him !" 
 
 A totally new turn was given to her thoughts 
 by these solemn, practical words of Holy Writ 
 18* 
 
2IO THE RETURN. 
 
 They seemed to take her out of the world of 
 feeling into the world of duty and action ; and 
 that was just what she needed. She prayed 
 long and earnestly, and then returned to the 
 chapter to study its practical directions more 
 thoroughly. " * Give alms.* I have forgotten 
 that duty totally ; and yet the Saviour says it 
 will be laying up treasures in the heavens — 
 that treasure which is my all. To-morrow I 
 will see what I can do for the poor people in 
 M . I know there are many here.'J 
 
 Quite tired out at last, but roused and com 
 forted, she went to rest and slept sweetly. 
 
 The next morning, true to her resolution, 
 she went to Mrs. Bell, and said, blushing, and 
 in a faltering voice, " Mother " 
 
 It was the first time she had used the word, 
 and the lady looked pleased and surprised. 
 
 " I know you have done a great deal for the 
 poor people here. Will you tell me what I 
 can do ? I have never taken any interest in 
 them, or been to see them at all. How can I 
 begin ?" 
 
 Mrs. Bell, quite overwhelmed with delight, 
 
THE RETURN. 211 
 
 could scarcely believe her ears. She said : *' I 
 am very much pleased to hear you say this, 
 my dear. But if you carr}'^ out all the plans 
 you spoke of last night, you will hardly have 
 time for anything else." 
 
 *' Then I will not carry them all out. I will 
 make time for the poor people. If I do a 
 little less in studying, I am sure it will be 
 worth the sacrifice." 
 
 " I agree with you entirely, my dear. In- 
 deed, I thought last night it was a pity for a 
 young lady to devote herself so entirely to 
 worldly objects !" 
 
 Lucy winced a little under this, but she was 
 determined not to take offence. She went on 
 with her inquiries, and Mrs. Bell promised to 
 introduce her into her mission-school and sew- 
 ing-school and employment society and visit- 
 ing committee, till Lucy thought her whole 
 time would be consumed with such a variety 
 of engagements. She ventured to remark 
 that, perhaps, it would be well not to under- 
 take quite so much." 
 
 *' Just as you please, my dear. I engage in 
 
212 THE RETURN. 
 
 all this work, and yet, as you see, I have 
 plenty of time for all home duties, and to de- 
 vote myself to your father's comfort." 
 
 The tone seemed to imply, *' Imitate me, 
 and you will be sure to do right !" But Lucy 
 again stifled the uncharitable thought as it 
 arose, and thanked Mrs. Bell heartily for her 
 counsel and offered help. 
 
 " I should like to begin this very afternoon," 
 she said. *' May I go with you to the sewing- 
 school ?" 
 
 ^' Certainly. I shall be most happy to have 
 you." 
 
 Lucy entered upon her new duties with 
 most ardent desires to be useful ; and, with 
 such feelings, she could not fail to be inte- 
 rested. No matter how dirty or disagreeable 
 the objects of her charity might be, she poured 
 out her warmth of hearty interest upon them 
 that was sure to win its way to the heart. She 
 gave in good measure, without stint, and the 
 poor people returned their love in equal 
 measure. She felt that now she was doing 
 something for her Lord. It gave her a sense 
 
THE RETURN. 21 3 
 
 of personal attachment and nearness to Christ 
 that nothing else had ever done, and she began 
 to find in His love a peace that nothing could 
 take aw^ay. 
 
 This common object brought her into sym- 
 pathy with her stepmother, as nothing else 
 could have done. Probably there w^as not 
 another subject in the world upon which they 
 could have been interested together. But 
 now they went out together, and worked to- 
 gether at home, and Lucy's respect for Mrs. 
 Bell increased daily, as she found how much 
 good she was doing in a quiet way. There 
 was scarcely a destitute family in the town 
 where she had not been known for years as 
 " Good Miss Herrick." Lucy found that she 
 had interested her father, too, in her work, 
 and that many of their rides were to some 
 abode of poverty, where they carried sub- 
 stantial aid. 
 
 Mr. Bell was delighted at the unexpected 
 sympathy between his wife and Lucy, and 
 offered his daughter all sorts of privileges in 
 the way of lessons and music. Lucy accepted 
 
214 THE RETURN. 
 
 some of them, but the hours she had intended 
 to devote to studying and practicing, were 
 considerably shortened, to make room for 
 charitable work, 
 
 Her time was fully occupied ; her affections 
 and sympathies were fully exercised, and she 
 was very happy. 
 
 Daisy watched the change in her sister with 
 the liveliest emotions of delight and gratitude. 
 She saw that her prayers had all been an- 
 swered, and a great load of anxiety was lifted 
 from her mind. Lucy was constantly running 
 in, as she passed by on her various errands, 
 and always brought sunshine with her, instead 
 of a mournful face, and constant demands for 
 sympathy. The question with her now was, 
 not how much love she v/as receiving, but 
 how much she could bestow on others. 
 
 " Which does papa love the best, you or his 
 new wife ?" said Daisy one day to Lucy. 
 
 " Why, Daisy, what a question!" said Lucy; 
 then, looking up from the apron she was cut- 
 ting for some poor child, she saw a mischiev- 
 ous twinkle in Daisy's eyes, and said, smilingly, 
 
THE RETURN. 215 
 
 " Oh, Daisy, I have learned your lesson long 
 ago ; I don't trouble my head about such 
 foolish questions now. I've learned to say, 
 ^t'sno matter!'" 
 
 " No ; but really," said Daisy, who wanted 
 the satisfaction of hearing a little more from 
 Lucy's own lips, " is Julia any more intimate 
 with May than she is with you ?" 
 
 " Nonsense ! I don't know or care. We love 
 each other very much, and have right nice 
 times together, and that's all that affects me." 
 
 "One more question, darling — Do Nelly 
 and I love you or not?" 
 
 Lucy left her work, and put her arms round 
 Daisy. " Oh, Daisy, I have more, far more, 
 than I deserve. How can I ever love you 
 enough for your patience with me, when I was 
 so crotchety. I was more full of whims and 
 suspicions than any one could have believed 
 possible. How foolish they all seem now. I 
 am so happy, so surrounded with love and 
 blessings; and then, Daisy, the worst that 
 could happen would not be very bad, because 
 our treasure is in heaven !" 
 
2l6 THE RETURN. 
 
 The sisters stood, with arms clasped round 
 each other, and thus we will leave them. 
 
 Did the mother look down from her home 
 in heaven and rejoice to see her children all 
 walking in the truth ? According to St. John, 
 she could have no greater joy than this. All 
 had been led in different paths. Each had had 
 enemies to meet and encounter ; but, by the 
 grace of God, they had been victorious, and 
 were going on in the right path, no doubt to 
 meet many trials and vicissitudes, but still to 
 be guided by the same Hand till they should 
 reach the heavenly shore, where the mother 
 would stand to welcome them. 
 
nlw and beautiful 
 
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 somely bound in extra cloth, gilt back, new and beautiful style for 
 presents, in handsome case, new style, illuminated cover. Per 
 set ^3 00 
 
 The Same. Elegantly bound in fine cloth, gilt sides, gilt edges, 
 3 vols, in handsome case. Per set $4 oc 
 
 Kriss Kringle's Story Book. 
 St. Nicholas' Story Book. Santa Claus' Story Book. 
 
 A series of charming books for youths, girls, or boys, illustrated 
 with fin* «teel engravings, and bound in a new and very handsome 
 
8 Leavitt & Allen Bros.' Juvenile Publications. ' 
 
 Santa Claus' Fairy Story Books. 6 vols, square i6mo, hand- 
 somely bound in cloth extra, in neat case. Per set . . $5 00 
 
 Arabian Nights. Gulliver's Travels. 
 
 Fairy GoDjViother. Fable Kvnd. 
 
 ^sop's Fables. Fairy Tales. 
 
 Beautiful editions of standard Juvenile Bocks. 
 
 ^^.unt Fanny. — The Sock Stories. 6 vols, square i6mo, illus- 
 trated and bound in cloth extra, in neat case. Per set . $5 OC 
 
 Blue, White, and Red Socks. Part I. 
 Funny Liitle Socks. 
 
 Blue, White, and Red Socks. Part II. 
 
 Funny Big Socks. 
 
 German Socks. 
 
 Neighbor Nellie's Socks, 
 The most popular of writers for the amusement of children. 
 
 Aunt Mary's Story Books. 6 vols. i6mo, handsomely illustrated 
 
 and bound in cloth extra. Pei set $4 50 
 
 Aunt Mary's Stories. Gifi' Story Book. 
 
 Frank and Fanny. Parley's New York. 
 
 Peep at Birds. Peep at Beasts. 
 
 Mother Goose's Melodies. Squaie i6nio, stiff paper cover. 
 Per copy 20 
 
 The Same. Bound in cloth extra. Per copy . , 50 
 
 Best and pure edition of Mother Goose. 
 
 CHEAP AND ATTRACTIVE BOOKS. 
 
 Pretty Pictures and Pleasant Rhymes. Large 4to, 150 
 
 colored engravings, fancy boards ^I 00 
 
 Child's Scrap Book. Large 4to, 150 colored engravings, 
 
 fancy boards r 00 
 
 Pictorial Gift for Little Ones. Large 4to, 150 colored 
 
 engravings, fancy boards , • I 00 
 
This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 lOm-ll, '50(2555)470 
 
 
 i 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 imiVERSIl Y OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
University of California, Los Angeles 
 
 L 007 058 843 9