■^'•^vTr-„ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Digitized by tine Internet Arcinive 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 m ^p ^s ^^^ ^M ^^m m s i^ ^B fl 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. ^« f^M^^ ^^^^s ^^^S W^ ^3 g^^^ 6^Sr^^^^ &^^^^^^ ^^s ^^^s ^^S ^^^^^^^ r^^^^^^ ^S ^H ^^^m ^^^^^^ ^m ^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 ^ 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 CHILDREN'S BOOKS, All piofiisely il'ustrated, and bound in bright-colored doth, full gilt back and side* published and for sale by LEAVITT & ALLEN BROS., 8 Howard St. , New York City For sale by all Booksellers, or sent, post-paid, by the publishers on receipt of th« price. Our complete Catalogue of Children's Books, containing over 500 kinds, may be had on application. Hans Christian Andersen's for Boys and Girls, German Fairy Tales . Wonderful Tales . Fairy Tales and Stories Danish Story Book Famous Tales and Stories Story Book of Wonders Mud King's Daughter . Little Rudy . The True Story Teller The Ugly Duck Good Little Ellie . 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