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 PICTURES OF COUNTRY LIFE.
 
 PICTURES 
 
 COUNT RY LIFE 
 
 BY ALICE CARY, 
 
 ACTHOB OF " CLOVEBNOOK," " MARUIKD NOT MATED," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 MDCCOLIX.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by 
 
 DERBY & JACKSON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Sonlhem District i 
 New York. 
 
 W. H. Tiso, Stereotypes GEO. RDSSELL A Co., Printers.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 LEM LTON, 7 
 
 PASSAGES FROM THE MARRIED LIFE OF ELEANOR HOLMES, 34 
 
 THE OUTCAST, 55 
 
 HASTY WODRS AND THEIR APOLOGY, 76 
 
 SARAH MORRIS, 125 
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOORS, 151 
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S STORY, '174 
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING, 187 
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING, 240 
 
 ELIZA ANDERSON, 261 
 
 MRS. WALDEN'S CONFIDANT, 290 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN, 309 
 
 AN OLD MAID'S STORY 336 
 
 111 ' 
 
 2063523
 
 L E M L Y N . 
 
 THE rain had fallen slowly and continuously since midnight 
 and it was now about noon, though a long controversy 
 among the hands had decided the time, finally to be three 
 o'clock ; no one among the dozen of them had a watch, except 
 Lem Lyon, the most ill-natured, the least accommodating of 
 all the work-hands on the farm, and no man ventured to inquire 
 of him, for he was more than ordinarily unamiable to-day, and 
 lay on the barn-floor apart from his work-mates, with a bundle 
 of oat-straw for his pillow, and his hat pulled over his eyes, 
 taking no part in the discussion about the time, and affecting 
 to hear nothing of it. 
 
 One after another stepped forth, and essayed to see his 
 shadow, but in vain one after another looked up at the sky, 
 and guessed at the whereabouts of the sun, but it was only 
 guessing, for many a day has looked brighter after sunset than 
 did that one at high moon. 
 
 There was a half-holiday among the men, and as it had 
 happened to fall the day after Sunday, it was less welcome 
 than as if it had brought a log-rolling, brush-burning, or stone 
 quarrying with it, for people little used to leisure are apt to 
 find it lying heavily on their hands. 
 
 There had been some coarse jesting in the morning, which 
 
 1
 
 8 LEM LYOX. 
 
 had gradually subsided into more sober talk, and ultimately to 
 silence, broken only by yawns and wonders about the time of 
 day. The cattle turning their faces from the rain and cowering 
 beneath the sheds, had been, in imagination, severally slaugh- 
 tered, and divided into hide, hoof and horns the amount of 
 money each one might be turned into reckoned up, and there 
 was nothing more interesting to be said about them. Corn- 
 cobs had been thrown successively at the daring roosters that 
 ventured out from beneath the barn-sill, and they were done 
 with, having been fain, after a little scanty picking, to settle 
 back in their dusty hollows, and wait with shut eyes for their 
 dripping plumage to recover its wonted brilliancy. 
 
 " By thunder !" exclaimed Bill Franklin, dashing a pitchfork 
 at a colt that had ventured to put his fore feet on to the barn- 
 floor, partly to shelter himself from the storm, and partly to 
 steal from the mow a mouthful of hay " I, for my part bleve 
 I'll roll up my sleeves and go to grubbing stumps, it's a 
 darnation sight easier than this ere kind of a way of worryin' 
 out the time what d'you say, boys ?" 
 
 " I'm with you," said Jake "Wilkinson, " guess we can 
 stand it long as the rain can, can't we, Bill ?" And having 
 shouldered crowbars and grubbing hoes, amid a good deal of 
 laughter, the two men took their way resolutely to the clearing. 
 
 Joseph Baruet presently climbed to the hay-mow to read 
 over his first love-letter for the twentieth time muse on it in 
 secret, and endeavor to compose an answer, which he did after 
 his own crude fashion. But what matters the fashion of the 
 speech, the sweet meaning is all the same whether the words 
 be, " I dreamed of you last night," or " I will buy you a calico 
 frock to-morrow."
 
 LEJI LYOX. 9 
 
 Others followed the two energetic leaders before long, and at 
 length only four of the hands were left in the barn. Joseph 
 Barnet, cutting the initial letters of his sweetheart's name on the 
 weather-boards, with many flourishes ; Lem Lyon, with hat 
 over his face, and wrapped in less pleasant contemplations ; 
 and Peter and Dan Wright, brothers, and the oldest hands on 
 the farm. They had been farm-hands all their lives, and 
 neither had ever owned or expected ever to own a foot of land 
 they were contented with hard work, did not know there 
 was anything better, and I am not sure that there is. Peter 
 was shelling corn very quietly in the trough of the weaned 
 calf, that was tied in the stable adjoining the open barn-floor, 
 and Dan had taken off his shoes and sat on the door-sill the 
 slowly dripping rain falling upon his naked feet, when a sound 
 like a stifled sob caused them both to look round there lay 
 Lem with his hat over his eyes, and nothing else was to be seen. 
 
 " What was that noise ?" asked Peter, putting his arm 
 about the calf s neck. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Dan, as he drew one foot up 
 beneath him, " I thought I heard a kind of crying, but I reckon 
 it was an optical imagination do you bleve in such things ?" 
 
 Lem Lyon began to snore very loud, and the two brothers 
 innocently concluded that their previous impression was wrong, 
 for both had at first supposed the noise proceeded from him 
 a more suspicious nature might have thought the sleep an 
 affectation. 
 
 " Well," said Peter, leaving the calf munching at his corn, 
 and seating himself beside his younger brother on the sill of 
 the barn, " I thought t'other night, the time we had the husking 
 bee, that I see one of them ere ghostly critters you talk about." 
 1*
 
 10 LEM LYOX. 
 
 " You don't say 1" inquired Dan, " where mought she a-been? 
 and did you feel skeery ?" 
 
 " Well, as to being skeered, I ginerally wait till I'm hurt, 
 'cause you know there's no use wasting material of no kind 
 but to own the truth, I did sort a hisitate." 
 
 " You don't say ?" ejaculated Dan, again. 
 
 "It was getting well on toward midnight, I reckon, a 
 moughty moonshiny night, if you mind ; I had taken the cider 
 jug to go to the house and tip a leetle might of whisky into it 
 the dry cornblades was rustling on both sides of the lane, and 
 the owls in old Dick Wolverton's woods were howling kind of 
 lonesome like, but I was more listening to Lem than to the 
 owls for he was husking up on the highest scaffold, you mind, 
 and singing a melancholy ditty to himself like it was as good 
 to hear as a novel, coming over the noises of the winds so I 
 walked slow along, thinking of the times when my hair was 
 black as yourn, Dan, and I could leap a six-barred gate with 
 the best of them, for there was something in Lem's song that 
 carried me away back and back, I didn't hardly know where- 
 walking slow along, I was, and just as I got so near to the 
 bars that I mought have touched them a'most with my hand, 
 what do you 'spose I saw ?" 
 
 " One of the critters, I reckon, for a lively imagination like 
 yourn, Pete, is dreadful oncertain to be depended on, especially 
 after drinking cider." 
 
 " No ! it wasn't a critter that is, it was no animal critter, 
 so to speak. It wasn't white, and it wasn't black ; it was kind 
 of grey like, so to speak ; but the first I see, and the most I see 
 was two bright shining, eyes, and then gradually the operition 
 took shape like, and I see it was a human critter."
 
 LEM LTON. 11 
 
 " You don't say ! Who mought she a been '{" 
 
 " That ere now is just what I want you for to find out. She 
 don't belong no whar in this section 'cause I never see her till 
 that ere time I tell you of. She was apparently carried away 
 by Lena's singing, and forgetful, so to speak, of things in 
 gineral, and when I come of a suddent, her face turned as red 
 as a rosy and she said something in moughty purty words, I 
 can't string 'em up as she did, but it was, so to speak, like as if 
 she had said she hoped she was not doing any harm. I told her 
 ' no, mem,' as soon as I see that she wasn't a ghost ; but says I 
 to her, at first, says I, ' I thought, mem, you was a ghost,' and 
 then it was after that that I says to her, says I, ' no, mem, 
 your doing no harm, fur as I see.' And then says she to me, 
 says she, ' you see all the harm I'm doing, just listening here 
 to that man sing,' and then she says, says she, 'it kind of 
 sounds like a voice I used to hear,' and then she hesitated like, 
 and then she hugged her baby up moughty close, and turned 
 and went away kind of moaning to it like." 
 
 " Why didn't you follor her, and see whar she mought a 
 gone to ?" asked Dan, eagerly. 
 
 Lem was now wide awake, and with his head propped on his 
 hand, listening attentively. 
 
 " I did foller her, 'cause thinks says I to myself, nobody 
 knows what nobody else is till they have found 'em out by close 
 watching so I follered along kind a sly like, she never mous- 
 trusting that I was anywhar a-near, and when she got along 
 just in the ege of old Wolverton's big woods, she sot right 
 down on the ground, and I reckon you mought a-heard her a 
 cryiug clar hur !" 
 
 " What business had you to pursue a woman as if she was
 
 12 T. LTOX. 
 
 game ?" exclaimed Lem, coming forward with menacing ges- 
 tures. " I hate such idle curiosity but what became of her at 
 last r 
 
 The brothers did not remark that his last question contra- 
 dicted his assertion, and Pete, who was used to subserviency 
 to Lemuel, proceeded good naturedly to tell all he knew about 
 the woman, which, in truth, was little more. It contained one 
 or two hints, however, upon which Lemuel seized with avidity. 
 
 It appeared like she never would have done crying, Peter 
 said, but at last her baby, it sot up, and then she apparently 
 forgot whatever it mought have been that was troubling her- 
 self, and hugging it with such noises as birds make to their 
 little ones, she took off right through the woods toward old 
 Dick Wolverton's house, where, to the best of Peter's belief, 
 she had been spinning part of the past summer. He remem- 
 bered to have seen a baby tied in a high chair, paddling against 
 one of the garret windows of old Dick's house, and of hearing 
 a wheel at the same time, and he knew Mrs. Wolverton's 
 youngest son was big enough to go sparking. Old Wolver- 
 ton's, he said, was a moughty hard place for the gal, what- 
 ever kind of a lark she mought be. 
 
 " What need you care who or what the woman is ?" said 
 Lemuel ; " I don't see as she is anything to you." 
 
 " You speak like as if she mought be to you, peers to me," 
 remarked Peter, quietly. 
 
 " I do r And Lem went on to say he did not see how that 
 could have been, for that as all knew, he hated women even 
 more than men, if that were possible ; and he carelessly added 
 that she probably was a relative of the Wolvertons. 
 
 " No, she arn't that," said Peter, " she arn't of their turn,
 
 LEM LTOX. 13 
 
 no ways she was pleasant and soft spoke, so to speak, and if 
 you mind, the Wolvertons are red-haired, the whole tribe 
 of them, and her hair was as black as a raven." 
 
 Lem moved uneasily, and Peter went on to say that he 
 should not be surprised if he yet found out something about 
 the stray lark, for that he had picked up a handkerchief where 
 she sot so long on the ground, " and I see by the moonshine," 
 he concluded, " that it was marked with sampler letters in one 
 corner." 
 
 Lem listened with painful interest now, and Dan inquired 
 with a more stupid curiosity, " What mought the sampler let- 
 ters a been, Pete, do you mind ?" 
 
 Peter could not make out the letters by the moonlight, he 
 said, but he had put the handkerchief in his Sunday hat, and 
 if he did not disremember, he would look at it before he went 
 to bed. 
 
 Lem drew his hat suddenly over his face, and muttering a 
 curse upon the weather, concluded, as he glanced towards the 
 house, with the wish that women and children had a world 
 made especially for themselves. 
 
 In vain the two brothers defended the gentler sex with elo- 
 quent eulogies. Lem was unmoved grew in fact more denun- 
 ciatory, and ended by heaping profanity on denunciation. 
 
 " Well," said Dan, " I've got no woman, and I never calcu- 
 late I shall have, but the good it does me to go whar women 
 folks are is immense. To see them in meeting, bright as a row 
 of pinks a sitting on the benches, does me more good than the 
 preaching." 
 
 " Their smiling," said Pete, "iles up a man's heart, like, so 
 to speak," and having laid this cap-sheaf upon the stack of
 
 14 LEM LYOX. 
 
 his previous eloquence, be turued his pale, little eyes upon 
 Lemuel's dark ones almost compassionately. 
 
 " Well, God bless the whole race of women, and all the 
 babies to boot," cried Lem, in a tone which indicated anything 
 but a blessing mood, and buttoning his coat hastily, he went 
 down the lane with such strides as would soon have taken him 
 across the continent. 
 
 " That is a curious chap," said Dan, when Lem was out of 
 hearing. " I'll be blamed if I don't bleve that some gal has 
 some time give him the mitten, and that's why he hates 'em 
 so." 
 
 " If I mought be allowed to say just what I think," mused 
 Peter, smoothing his grey hair, " I should say that that ere same 
 Lemuel Lyon had not allers done what was right by women. 
 Didn't you mind how he chewed his beard and frowned when 
 he said God bless 'em ; mind, I tell you, he is a man, proud 
 and handsome as he is, that is onsatisfied with himself." 
 
 " Shaw ! Pete, you're getting childish," replied Dan, who 
 was younger than his brother by seven years, and running- up 
 the ladder, he joined Joseph Barnet on the hay-mow, where he 
 was still musing on his love-letter, and composing an answer 
 which did but imperfect justice to his feelings. He had told 
 his beloved that her letter was received, and that he had taken 
 his pen in hand to reply that he was well at present that 
 all the hands were well at present, and that he had no news 
 that could interest her at present, when Peter joined him, and 
 inquiring whether there were any hens' nests on the mow, 
 dragged him down to the dead level of ordinary life. Ah, 
 Joseph, it is only for stolen moments that we are permitted to 
 flourish the initials of our sweethearts upon the weather-boards
 
 LEM LYO2T. 15 
 
 of our barns, or otherwhere for the most part, we must work 
 and be tired and heart-sick. 
 
 Toward night the clouds lifted in the west, and left a breadth 
 of blue sky above the wet tree tops ; and the winds made 
 noises in the woods, especially in Dick Wolverton's woods, that 
 were indicative of coming winter. The hands were chilled 
 through and through, and, impatient of supper time, hurried 
 toward the barn when first the sunset held up its red signal. 
 They had not reached it, however, when the tin horn sounded 
 its welcome summons. There was a good deal of pretended 
 detention, and when the chores were done, a good deal more 
 idle lingering about the barn doors ; so that the chickens were 
 crowding the roosts, and the windows of the farmhouse all 
 a-blaze (they had been close shut the preceding night, and 
 darkened all the day past), when Peter, a wise smile playiug 
 among the wrinkles of his cheeks, led thither the rough troop, 
 shy and bashful as so many girls Joseph in the rear, most 
 shy and bashful of all. The supper was laid in holiday style, 
 and the walls decorated with red and yellow maple boughs, in 
 honor of the little immortal that had that day taken up her 
 inheritance of mortality. 
 
 There was whisky as well as tea plumcake as well as 
 bread, and the good Mr. Mayfield, master of the house and 
 hands, broke -through social distinctions, and spiced the enter- 
 tainment with many a pleasant story. Peter proposed the 
 health of the new-comer, and on glancing dowu the table to 
 see whether he had unanimous sympathy, discovered that Lorn 
 was absent. There was a general expression of wonder, and 
 of uneasiness on the part of Mr. Mayfield, for he was used to 
 consider Lemuel his best hand, notwithstanding his surly maods.
 
 16 LEM LYON. 
 
 The hora was blown again, so loud that the hills sent back the 
 echoes, but no echo did Lemuel return he had not partaken 
 of food since breakfast, and no one could imagine what could 
 detain him, unless he had been overtaken by a fit, or some 
 other terrible accident. The table broke up in confusion, and 
 the hands dispersed in different directions about the farm in 
 search of the missing man. 
 
 Peter instinctively took the path which led to the Wolverton 
 woods, and he it was who found the lost man. Nothing had 
 happened he had heard the horn, he said, and should have 
 gone to the house if he had required anything to eat he was 
 sorry the hands were such a set of fools as to waste their 
 strength in looking after him for his part he did not care a 
 darn where any of them went, and did not wish them to care 
 for him any more he hoped he could take care of himself. 
 
 " I wish that ere young man was not so kind of onsartin 
 like," said Peter, when he found himself among the hands again. 
 " Sometimes I think his heart is froze, so to speak, and if some- 
 thing could only thaw it out, it would be as good as any of our 
 hearts." 
 
 " Whar mought he a been ? why, it's as cold as thunder !" 
 said Dan, shivering and buttoning his coat. 
 
 Then Peter told how he was found sitting like as if he was 
 moonstruck, so to speak, on a pile of dry stones that had once 
 been a lime-kiln his hat on the ground beside him, and no sign 
 of a coat on. "Whatever mought have made him so," con- 
 cluded Peter, " I don't know, but he was right onsociable 
 with me, so to speak never see him more onclined to be to 
 himself." 
 
 The spirit of hilarity which had been subdued by the fear that
 
 LEM LTON. 17 
 
 some evil had befallen him, now arose with redoubled buoyancy ; 
 and there was wrestling and racing, swapping of knives and trad- 
 ing of hats rude jesting, some of it upon women, I am sorry 
 to say, profanity, rising more from recklessness than wickedness 
 I am glad to say ; and when at a late hour the hands went to 
 bed, each one felt himself considerably richer than when he got 
 up in the morning. 
 
 " I say, Pete," whispered Dan, as the brothers were about 
 retiring, " whars that handkerchief you was talking about to 
 day ? 
 
 Peter took down the Sunday hat from its peg in the wall, 
 looked inside of it uttered an exclamation of surprise turned 
 it round and over, thumping it on the sides and top, but nothing 
 except a Bible, hymn-book, pocket-book, red silk handkerchief, 
 and two or three cigars fell out of it. 
 
 " I'm sartin," he said, at last, slowly and soberly, moving his 
 eyes searchingly about the room, and holding up the empty hat, 
 " that I put that ere little squar of linen in thar, and no whar 
 else 1" 
 
 Notwithstanding this conviction, he prolonged the search 
 for half an hour, but without success at the end of that 
 time he hung up the Sunday hat in its proper place, and with a 
 soliloquy on the onsartainty of human evidence, went to bed 
 no suspicion linked with Lem's curiosity finding any room to 
 harbor in his innocent soul. 
 
 For some days after the events recorded, Lena was unusually 
 silent and moody. If he spoke at all it was sourly and sarcas- 
 tically he selected the work that was hardest, and in fact 
 seemed to take pleasure in imposing tasks upon himself that 
 nobody else could or would perform. Often in the chill rainy
 
 18 LEM LTOX. 
 
 days he would work all day long without his coat, and at night, 
 instead of joining the circle about the kitchen fire, he would stray 
 away by himself, and it was noticed that he generally took the 
 path toward the Wolverton woods. Peter said he must be fond 
 of coon hunting what else could take him thar of nights that 
 were cold enough to freeze a bar, so to speak. And Peter, 
 chiefly owing to his wrinkles and grey hair, was conceded to be 
 the wisest of all the hands, so it was settled that Lem was fond 
 of coon hunting, and there was no more speculation or won- 
 derment about it. 
 
 It was the pleasant custom of Mr. Mayfield to give a frolic 
 to his hands two or three times in the year, and the season was 
 now come, the corn being gathered, for one of these happy 
 occasions. There was to be a fine supper, and dancing all the 
 young women for seven miles round were invited, and Bill Frank- 
 lin, Jake Wilkinson and Jo Barnet had " been at charges " 
 for new white cotton shirts, and " fine dancing pumps," and 
 some of the other hands had provided themselves with new 
 boots, and other articles, specially designed for the occasion ; 
 but Lem made never a call upon shoemaker or tailor frolics 
 might do well enough for women and children, but for his part 
 he hated them. 
 
 Since the conversation which took place on the barn-sill, he 
 had manifested a consideration for Peter, relieving him of 
 hard chores sometimes, and had indicated a disposition to culti- 
 vate his acquaintance never shown before. He had inquired of 
 Peter, on one occasion, if he knew where he would be likely to 
 get some flax-thread, he wanted some to mend his saddle-girth, 
 and he could not find any strong enough at the stores. 
 
 It might be had, Peter thought, of some of the neighbor
 
 LEM LTON. 19 
 
 women, and Lemuel then suggested that if Peter would be so 
 good as to make inquiry he would be doing a great favor, and 
 he named Mrs. Wolverton as the person likeliest of all he knew, 
 to have the thread. 
 
 Peter did the errand willingly, for not one of the hands but 
 was glad to oblige Lemuel all felt with Peter that his heart was 
 frozen, and if it could only be thawed it would be a very good 
 sort of heart. When Peter returned he found Lena sitting on a 
 log in the edge of the woods, and would have thought he was 
 waiting for him, had not he said expressly that he just happened 
 to be there his first inquiry was, not whether Peter had got the 
 thread, but whom he had seen, and when informed that he had 
 only seen Mrs. Wolverton, he was further inquisitive to know 
 whether she had mentioned anybody ; Peter thought not, and 
 Lemuel then remarked, carelessly, that he did not know but 
 that she might have said something about that ghostly woman 
 that lived with her. 
 
 No, he neither saw the woman? nor heard mention of her. 
 Upon hearing this, Lemuel laughed confusedly, and said, that 
 since Peter told the ghost story, he had not thought of her till 
 now. It occurred to Peter that it was a little strange Lemuel 
 never once thought of the thread. 
 
 Once or twice on Peter's return from church, Lemuel had met 
 him by the merest accident, and inquired, simply for the sake 
 of saying something, Peter supposed, whom he had seen at 
 meeting, and whether any one who looked like a ghost. After 
 these manifestations of humanity and familiarity, it is no wonder 
 Peter was disappointed at Lemuel's behavior in view of the 
 grand frolic. 
 
 " Of course you will outshine them all !" he ventured to say,
 
 20 LEM LYOJf. 
 
 one day, " for the girls will look their prettiest, and all have 
 their eyes upon you." " I wonder if all men are fools and dopes 
 to the last?" soliloquized Lemuel, and he made no other 
 answer. 
 
 He had a habit of looking about him in a startled way, as if 
 in expectation of some unwelcome visitor, and this peculiarity 
 grew upon him of late, so much that Peter said Lem reminded 
 him of a wild beast that had once been in a trap, and was 
 " afeared of it again, so to speak." 
 
 " I think," said Lemuel, approaching Mr. Mayfield, a day or 
 two before the frolic, " that I will go to some other part of the 
 country, if you are satisfied to have it so." 
 
 Mr. Mayfield was not satisfied had he not done all that was 
 right, and if so what objection could Lemuel have to remain 
 the season of hard-work was over, and there would be compara- 
 tively easy times, for awhile nevertheless he was willing to 
 increase the wages a little to his best hands. Lemuel said he 
 was not begging for an increase of wages as to that he did 
 not care a curse whether he earned a cent or not, he had 
 always done his duty, pay or no pay he laid great stress upon 
 having done his duty, and glared upon Mr. Mayfield as though 
 he had asserted the contrary, and finally he ended with the 
 declaration, covered all round with profanity, that nobody on 
 the farm could understand him, and he would see if there was 
 any place where they could. Argument, entreaty, were useless. 
 Mr. Mayfield saw it, and informed him that he would make 
 arrangements to settle with him that day. When he was mak- 
 ing up his knapsack in the cold red light of that evening, there 
 was a little tap on the door, and Mrs. Mayfield's nurse-girl 
 informed him that her mistress desired to speak with him.
 
 LEM LYOX. 21 
 
 Lemuel said at first he was too busy to go, but after a little, 
 shame for such rudeness subdued him, and having thrust his 
 fingers through his long black hair, and pulled his wrinkled 
 shirt collar about his chin, he descended. 
 
 " Ah, how kind of you I" cried Mrs. Mayfield, running for- 
 ward and shaking both his hands. 
 
 " What did you want with me, madam !" asked Lemuel, 
 withdrawing his hands, and standing erect. 
 
 " Why, to see you, to be sure," she answered, pulling him 
 forward by the coat-sleeve, and almost forcing him to sit in the 
 best chair. 
 
 His startled eyes swept the room with a glance, and seeing 
 nothing but the cradle he gave himself passively up, resolved 
 to suffer it out, if it must be so. Mrs. Mayfield talked of the 
 late frost, of the apple-crop, of the prospect of snow, and then 
 she told Lemuel she should look to him to see to it that she did 
 not freeze to death during the winter he must provide the best 
 hickory in unlimited quantities, that was her royal command. 
 Lemuel smiled a grim smile ; perhaps he found it not disagree- 
 able to be softly ordered by so pretty a woman. He replied, 
 however, that he had made up his mind to go away. Not till 
 the winter was past, certainly ! Mrs. Mayfield could not hear 
 of it in the spring he might go if he chose. Why what would 
 become of her poor baby, if Lemuel did not stay to make the fires 
 nobody but he knew how to make a fire at all. " By the way," 
 she concluded, drawing the cradle close to Lemuel's side, " you 
 have never seen the baby 1" 
 
 " Humph !" said he. She did not hear him, but with a 
 countenance beaming with pride and tenderness folded the 
 blanket, oh, so softly, from the little face. Lemuel looked
 
 2'J LE3I LYON. 
 
 another way, but she playfully caught him by the button-hole, 
 and forced him to see her darling. 
 
 He said nothing even then, and a frown, as he looked, knitted 
 up his handsome forehead into positive ugliness. 
 
 " Why, you don't like my baby, Lemuel," she said, in a tone 
 made up of grief and tenderness, as she looked up reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do," he answered, his own heart condemning 
 him, " God bless all the babies, I say." 
 
 But there was no blessing in his tone or manner, and Mrs. 
 Mayfield turned away to conceal her disappointment. Just 
 then the little creature opened its blue eyes and looked up to 
 Lemuel for the protection and comfort it was used to receive 
 the hard man felt the appeal, and unawares, perhaps, extended 
 his rough, brown hand. The baby caught it in its delicate 
 fingers, and held it with so soft, yet firm a grasp, that Lemuel 
 could not for the life of him resist the appeal, and began 
 shaking the cradle about after the only fashion of rocking he 
 was acquainted with. When the baby smiled in his face he 
 smiled back again. Mrs. Mayfield smiled too, nay, laughed 
 outright when she heard him chirping to her darling as he had 
 heard the wood birds to their little ones. 
 
 " I think," said Lemuel, as he softly touched the rosy little 
 cheeks with his rough palms, " that more fire is needed here," 
 I'll think of what you said. The next morning he went to 
 cutting and splitting wood with right good will he had made 
 up his mind to remain a month longer and lay in the winter 
 wood for Mrs. Mayfield. On the farm and among the men his 
 behavior was no whit gentler than formerly, but when at night 
 he filled his brawny arms with hickory wood and heaped it
 
 LEM LYOST. 23 
 
 against the jamb, the hard expressions of the day fell off like a 
 mask, and he was sure before leaving the room to give the 
 cradle a jog and shake hands with the baby. 
 
 With the frolic Lemuel would have nothing to do, and while 
 the other hands were making ready, he was observed to take 
 his way alone toward the Wolverton woods. 
 
 It was " clar and sartin, to his mind," Peter said, that Lem 
 liked coon hunting better than any other fun. That simple- 
 hearted old man was drawing water at the well, when near 
 midnight Lemuel returned. 
 
 " Well, how many simpletons have come to the dance ?" he 
 said, stopping and taking a drink of water. 
 
 Peter was enthusiastic as to the number and beauty of the 
 young women who graced the occasion. " When I see them 
 smiling so, and looking so pretty," said he, " I can't help 
 wishing I was young, and here are you, so young and so hand- 
 some, who would rather go coon hunting than stay at home 
 where they are blushing like a hedge of roses how strange !" 
 Lemuel replied that he had always been just so, that at no 
 time of his life would he have preferred the society of any woman 
 to the winds and woods, and his own thoughts. Peter was 
 right, he said, to infer that he had been hunting it was a sport 
 of which he never tired. As they walked together toward the 
 house, he repeated over two or three times that he had never 
 cared a straw for any woman, and that he had always cared a 
 great deal about hunting coons. " By the way," he said, when 
 they reached the door, " is that ghost-woman that you are 
 always talking of, at your merry-making ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," replied Peter, and instinctively stumbling on the 
 truth, he added, eagerly, " you need not be afeard of seeing
 
 24 LEM LYON. 
 
 her ! Come in, Lem, jest a leetle bit do 1" Lemuel gave 
 Peter's shoulder so violent a jerk as to jar the water he was 
 carrying over the pail, and answered with a round oath that he 
 was not afraid of ghosts much less of women, and that he would 
 go in and show the whole of them that he was not afraid of 
 them, nor ashamed of himself. And so saying he rushed rudely 
 past Peter, and with his red woollen shirt-collar thrown open, 
 and brawny bosom bare, entered the gay assemblage, where he 
 became at once the pointed object of attention nay, of admira- 
 tion, notwithstanding his rough manners and rougher costume. 
 His eyes were dark and beaming with intelligence his hair 
 and beard of massy luxuriance of growth, and his tawny cheeks 
 sufficiently bright with angry excitement to make him as hand- 
 some a specimen of rustic nobility as may anywhere be found. 
 
 He was too proud to manifest any interest in what was going 
 forward, if he felt any, and sat with an abstracted air, paying 
 no heed to the many soft glances that invited him to dance as 
 plainly as glances could invite him. 
 
 " Pray, Lemuel, what has happened ?" asked Mrs. Mayfield, 
 joining him in the obscure corner where he sat. 
 
 " Nothing," he answered, without glancing toward her. 
 
 " Why, you look as if you had lost your sweetheart," she 
 continued, gaily. 
 
 Lemuel reddened with anger, and said women were always 
 thinking of love always talking of sweethearts, and turning 
 everything into sentiment, which he hated. He had never had 
 a sweetheart, and of course could not have lost her. Mrs. 
 Mayfield was determined not to be angry with him, and answer- 
 ed playfully that for her foolish talk to so grave and wise a 
 man, she was in the dust of humiliation and repentance, and
 
 LKJI LYOX. 25 
 
 sbe bogged that be would forgive her, and as a mark of his 
 reconciliation dance with her. No, Lemuel never danced he 
 would as soon be caught stealing a sheep he hoped Mrs. 
 Mayfield would find a more interesting partner. 
 
 The good-natured little woman called him an ugly bear said 
 she would try to find a more interesting partner, and meantime 
 if he would not use his feet, she would compel him to turn his 
 hands to good account, and placing her baby on his knees as 
 she said so, she skipped lightly away. 
 
 It was an awkward position for Lemuel, and he was at first 
 half inclined to let the child fall off his lap, but when he found 
 it tipping one way and the other, he caught it in his arm, 
 and having once caught it, he could not let it go. The soft, 
 little hands found the way to his face, and the stubborn man. 
 presently found himself leaning down his head so they might 
 tear his whiskers and eyes just as they chose. 
 
 When it grew tired and fell asleep to the music of the violin, 
 he tenderly carried it away to its cradle, and rocked and kept 
 the fire bright till long after midnight. 
 
 When the spring came round, and the nurse would carry the 
 baby out on the south porch, Lemuel would stop as he passed 
 that way to attend his work smooth its silken curls beneath 
 his rough hand, and perhaps give it some bright flower which 
 he had brought from a distant field. Sometimes one or two of 
 the other hands would join him on the porch, for the baby was 
 gradually becoming a central object of interest to them all, 
 and it was curious to see how the manners and voices of those 
 rude men softened as they approached the little creature. * The 
 greatest change imaginable was being wrought in Lemuel he 
 was less sullen than he used to be isolated himself less from
 
 20 LEM LYOX. 
 
 the other hands daring the day, and at night went rarely to 
 the Wolverton woods. Before the summer was gone, little 
 Blossom, for by that name she was known among the hands, 
 had learned to -know who loved her, and to clap her hands and 
 shout when she saw Lemuel coming, and reach up her little 
 arms with a tender appeal that brought his neck right down to 
 her then he would seat her on his shoulder, and as she clung 
 tightly to his ears, hair or beard, as it happened, carry her up 
 and down the door-yard till she was tired out. Sometimes, 
 when Mrs. Mayfield rocked her darling to sleep on the moonlit 
 porch, Lemuel would busy himself with chores that kept him 
 near about, not knowing himself perhaps what influence was 
 secretly at work in his heart. In the autumn, and before she 
 could hold one of them in her tiny hand, Blossom's little lap was 
 filled every day with bright apples, and when the old mare wa3 
 brought to the well to drink at night, Lemuel's great coat was 
 doubled up into a cushion and laid across her neck, and little 
 Blossom, in her soft, white cloak and cap, was handed up, and 
 rode sometimes to see the cattle, sometimes to see the sheep, 
 but it was always Lemuel that protected her so softly, and 
 brought her back so safely. 
 
 In one corner of the door-yard was a maple tree, beneath 
 which was a rude bench, where often in the early evening 
 Lemuel sat trotting the baby on one knee, and singing old 
 ditties for her that he never sang at other times. Sometimes 
 he would tell her long stories, and the pathos and the power of 
 his voice at those times, not unfrequently frightened the little 
 listener, and when she would cling to his bosom in strange 
 alarm, he would tell her very softly that what be had beeu 
 saying was all a great story that no such people ever lived as
 
 LEM LYOX. 27 
 
 he had beea talking of, and when by the tenderness of his tones 
 she was soothed, for she understood nothing of what he said, 
 he would carry her up and down the door-yard until she fell 
 asleep, for she loved him now as well as she loved her mother, 
 almost, and her first faltering steps were towards him. 
 
 When her birth-day came round, the farm house was lighted 
 up, the hands wore their best clothes, and Lemuel danced with 
 her on his shoulder, to the great delight and amusement of the 
 young women, whose admiration he was sure to win, no matter 
 what he did. 
 
 It was about the middle of June, and little Blossom, who 
 was now a year and a half old, could run about the door-yard 
 and pick flowers for herself. She was become the pet and 
 plaything of all the hands, arid even upon the most careless 
 there fell a silence when it was mentioned at dinner-time one 
 day that she was not well. That evening, when Lemuel took 
 her on his shoulder, she did not laugh and clap her hands as 
 usual, but put her arms around his neck very quietly, and 
 leaned her cheek down upon his head. He carried her longer 
 than usual, and told her over all the pretty stories she had 
 been used to listen to with delight, but her cheek grew hot as 
 it rested heavily upon his head, the arms clung more and more 
 tightly to his neck, and she moaned and fretted, not noisily, 
 but piteously, and to herself, as it were. 
 
 When' he had exhausted all resources, he carried her back 
 to the porch and placed her on her mother's knees, thinking 
 that all would now be well, but when she moaned and fretted 
 piteously as before, he went to his old "seat beneath the maple 
 tree and watched the stars as they flew away from the clouds. 
 Two or three times he came to the porch-side to ask whether
 
 28 LEil LYOX. 
 
 she were any better, aiid when he learned at length that her 
 katydids had sung her to sleep, he went to bed saying no 
 doubt she would be better in the morning, but not altogether 
 believing it. 
 
 At daybreak he was astir he did not know why he could 
 not sleep, he said, he thought it was owing to the heat poor 
 man, he was ashamed to say it was his love for a baby that 
 could not yet speak plainly that kept him awake. 
 
 The hands were all silent at breakfast that morning, for they 
 missed the prattle of little Blossom, and the fear that they 
 should never hear it again was making its way to their hearts. 
 
 At noontime Lemuel brought the oxen close to the door, 
 and when the baby, pleased for a little while, put her hands on 
 their heads, as they bent them down to her gentle touches, he 
 deceived himself with the hope that she was better. It was 
 strange to see the rough man parting her silken hair rocking 
 the cradle so softly, and leaning over it with such tenderness 
 his heart was more than touched. 
 
 The third day of the illness of little Blossom, the hands 
 walked softly along the po'rch-side when they came to dinner, 
 for they saw standing under the cherry tree at the gate the 
 old white faced horse of the village doctor. Lemuel left the 
 table long before the other hands that day he did not feel 
 very well, he said. Soon after this the usual order of the work 
 was suspended, the hands loitered about the b^rns and sheds, 
 some of them, and some found their own work. 
 
 One evening, as Peter sat on the wood-pile cutting sticks 
 with his penknife to divert his thoughts, Lemuel joined him 
 and inquired if he knew whether little Blossom was any bet- 
 ter.
 
 LEM LTOX. 29 
 
 " Better !" Peter exclaimed, " why, no, sartainly she never 
 will be any better," and he proceeded to say without circumlo- 
 cution or softening, that in his opinion she was struck with 
 death the midnight past. For a few moments he cut his stick 
 in silence, and then, as if in pursuance of some train of 
 thought, inquired of Lemuel whether he had brought the spade 
 and grubbing-hoe from the hollow where he had been ditching. 
 
 A cold chill crept over Lemuel as he replied irritably, "No! 
 why should I bring them ? We shall be using them again to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " I know we shall use them to-morrow," answered Peter, 
 " but not there I will go and fetch them." 
 
 " Oh, no, no !" cried Lemuel, " for Heaven's sake don't go ;" 
 and seizing his arm, he pulled Peter back to the log from 
 which he had half risen. While the two men talked together, 
 several neighbors passed along, and each one stopped to inquire 
 how the baby was, and to suggest some remedy or proffer 
 sympathy. Among the rest was Mr. Wolverton. Lemuel had 
 never liked him, for he was a hard, money-loving man, but 
 leaning over the fence he shook hands with him, and entered 
 with unaffected interest into all his affairs. 
 
 " Sartainly," said Peter, joining the " work-girl " at 'the 
 kitchen door, " that Lem Lyon is the most onreasonable crit- 
 ter I ever see he was angry just now because I wanted to go 
 to the field and bring home the grubbing-hoe 'cause I see it 
 would be needed, you know, and then he seemed mournful-like, 
 more than mad, so to speak, and all at once he goes and begins 
 to talk with old Wolverton, whom we all know he never could 
 bar a strange nater he's got." 
 
 Ah, Peter, you hit the truth there, it was a strange nature
 
 30 LEM LTOX. 
 
 that Lemuel had one that he could not himself understand, 
 much less you. 
 
 Trial and tribulation are to trivial natures always hard to 
 bear, and the " work-girl," glad of any pretext, said the May- 
 fields were a queer set. She was tired of being among them 
 afraid, in fact, of catching the baby's fever, and would, she 
 believed, tie up her bundle and go home. 
 
 She gave no other intimation of her intention, to any one, 
 but without more ado carried it at once into execution, throw- 
 ing upon poor Mrs. Mayfield a burden of domestic care and 
 responsibility to which at that time she was* unequal. 
 
 The morning was cloudy with prospects of rain, and on 
 rising Lemuel saw with alarm the doctor's horse standing be- 
 neath the cherry tree, and he judged by the circle of turf 
 pawed away, that he had been there a long time. He knocked 
 at Mrs. Mayfield's door," and was bidden in a low voice to come 
 in. The inquiry, " How is little Blossom ?" died on his lips 
 lie saw how it all was. The mother vainly hoped that her dar- 
 ling might recognize the voice of Lemuel and look up once 
 more. He was not ashamed now of showing that he loved her 
 he took the little hands in his, but they would not grow 
 warm kissed the blue eyelids and called her by her pet name, 
 but though at last she looked up, she did not know her good 
 friend any more. There fell the last hardness, the last un- 
 worthy pride from the heart of Lemuel Lyon. Just as the 
 candle flickered in the whitening light of day, the little life 
 went out. 
 
 Peter saddled the old mare and rode away to the village to 
 bespeak a coffin ; and Dan, who never lost sight of his per- 
 sonal comfort, took upon himself the overseeing of the house-
 
 LEM LYOX. 31 
 
 work, and having directed oue man to make a fire, and another 
 to fill the tea-kettle, took the coffee-mill between his knees, and 
 fancied he was doing an efficient work, albeit he was turning 
 the crank the wrong way. About sunset Lemuel set out from 
 home in Mr. Mayfield's covered wagon, for what purpose none 
 of the hands could imagine ; the rain was falling pretty fast, 
 and there were indications of violent winds, which would make 
 the roads through the woods dangerous to travel. 
 
 We will pass over the funeral, saying only that when the 
 service was over, the coffin was placed under the maple tree iu 
 the corner of the dooryard, and that the hands, when they 
 had seen the little face for the last time, followed Peter who, 
 with tear-wet cheeks, carried the coffin in his arms to the burial 
 ground. From all the sad ceremony, we will pass to the time 
 of Lemuel's return. 
 
 It was just after sunset the birds whistling and chirping 
 among the branches of the trees, along the topmost fence-rails, 
 and here and there from the ground, as if there had never 
 been a cloud nor a sorrow in the world ; the bereaved mother 
 stood at the window, gazing steadily one way the only way 
 she cared to look, now, when her attention was arrested by a 
 noise at the gate there stood the farm wagon, splashed with 
 mud, and the farm horses, their tails knotted up, their heads 
 down, and a cloud of steam rising above them and there was 
 Lemuel, and by his side a woman, not handsome nor young, 
 but with a good heart shining in her face, and a bright-eyed 
 boy of three years old in her arms. 
 
 Lemuel, seeing that he was observed, hesitated slightly, and 
 a deep flush brightened the bronze of his cheek, but he mastered 
 the weakness, and taking the child in his own arms, said with
 
 32 LEM LYOX. 
 
 emotion, that might have been shame might have been ten- 
 derness, or was made up of both, perhaps, " What do you call 
 him, Lydia ?" 
 
 " Lemuel what else should I call him ?" replied the woman, 
 in a tone that was exceedingly soft and gentle. The boy turned 
 his bright face bashfully aside from Lemuel, and with one hand 
 clinging tightly to his mother's shawl, they came down the walk 
 together. 
 
 Mrs. Mayfield met them on the porch, and covering the boy 
 with kisses, said, perhaps to save Lemuel the embarrassment of 
 an introduction, "how very much he resembles your wife, 
 Lemuel," and shaking hands with the woman, she led her into 
 the house, where she sunk into a seat and burst into a flood of 
 tears the result of mingled emotions pride in Lemuel pride 
 in her beautiful boy shame for herself. 
 
 When Peter had completed the chores and was coming 
 towards the house to supper, he saw the strange child at play 
 in the door yard trying to cover a butterfly with a white 
 handkerchief. At sight of him the boy ran away, leaving the 
 handkerchief behind him, which Peter picked up, and idly ex- 
 amined. All at once there came a glow of curious wonder into 
 Peter's face, and turning back in the path and joining Dan who 
 was a few steps behind, he exclaimed, " I b'lieve my soul this 
 is the very handkerchief I found and hid in my Sunday hat, 
 the one that vanished away, so to speak, and here's the name 
 in the corner, in sampler letters, ' Lydia ;' the whole affair is a 
 great mystery," and a mystery it always remained, for Mrs. 
 Mayfield kept faithfully the secret that Lemuel had only now 
 made the woman who had been the mother of his boy so long, 
 his true and honorable wife. Once indeed, Peter remarked to
 
 LEM LYOX. 33 
 
 Dan that if Lena's wife had all the roses and the sunshine took 
 out of her face she would look 'amost like the gal what took 
 that cryiu'-spell in old Wolverton's woods. 
 
 Innocence and beauty win their own way, and little 
 Lemuel was soon the light of the house the favorite of every- 
 body, Lydia was installed housekeeper and mistress of the 
 kitchen, and Lemuel, now Mr. Lyon, became manager of the 
 farm, and as much beloved by the hands as he had formerly 
 been feared.
 
 PASSAGES FKOM TEE 
 
 MARRIED LIFE OF ELEANOR HOMES. 
 
 A GOOD many years ago I fell in love and was married. 
 
 " How did it happen ?" 
 
 Why, how does it ever happen ? "I doubt if the sagest 
 philosopher of them all could explain how the like happened 
 unto him, and therefore it were presumptuous to expect a 
 woman to make luminous so great a mystery." 
 
 " You think a woman might understand her own heart, even 
 though a philosopher might fail to ?" 
 
 " Audacious ! Don't you know that women shine faintly at 
 best, and by reflection ?" 
 
 " Really, I don't know. I never thought about it." 
 
 " Many women never do, and pass through life without ever 
 being sufficiently grateful for the blessings they are permitted 
 to enjoy. However, I believe the minds of the sexes are wholly 
 dissimilar, even when of an equal power. Women know more, 
 but acquire less than men ; they do not investigate and analyze, 
 and infer and conclude their inferences and conclusions are
 
 MARRIED LIFE OF ELEAXOR HOMES. 35 
 
 independent of any process of reasoning. Since the beginning 
 of time nature has said of every one of them 
 
 " This child I to myself -will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own," 
 
 And if each were permitted to follow her instincts, and rely 
 upon her intuitions, there would not be among us so many 
 miserable bewailings. All women have more or less genius 
 which, after all, is simply power of suspending the reasoning 
 and reflecting faculties, and suffering the light which, whatever 
 it be, is neither external nor secondary, to flow in. But I 
 proposed to tell a story, and repeat, I fell in love, and was 
 married. 
 
 " Did I really love ?" 
 
 I suppose so ; indeed I am quite certain, from intimations 
 now and then received, that it was one phase of that capability 
 which lives under wrinkles and grey hairs, in all the freshness 
 of youth. But it is difficult to define the exact limit of positive 
 love it shades itself by such fine gradations into pity and 
 passion, friendship and frenzy. The state of feeling I fell into 
 was none of these latter, I am quite sure, and yet I should be 
 loth to affirm it was that condition of self-abnegation which 
 admits of no consideration aside from the happiness of the 
 object beloved ; for, if I remember rightly, there came to me at 
 rare intervals some visions of my own personal interests and 
 pleasures. And yet I had no hesitancy in pledging myself to 
 love, honor, and obey, because I had no idea that these pledges 
 conflicted with the widest liberty. Was not he to whom I should 
 make these pledges a most excellent and honorable gentleman,
 
 36 PASSAGES FKOM THE 
 
 who would have no requirement to prefer at variance with my 
 wishes ? To be sure he was. Did he not always prefer my 
 pleasure to his own, or rather have no pleasure but mine ? So 
 he was pleased to say, and for my part, I never doubted it. 
 
 TVe took long moonlight walks together talked sentiment, 
 of course read poetry, and now and then quarrelled prettily 
 about the shade of a rose, or the pencilling of a tulip, and 
 interspersed our discourse with allusions to oar cottage that 
 was to be. Should it be smothered in trees or open to the 
 sun? 
 
 "Just as you prefer, my dear." 
 
 " Oh, no, darling ! it shall all be just as you say." 
 
 Could I have a pot of geraniums and a canary bird to 
 brighten my cottage window ? 
 
 " A thousand of them," if I chose ; but my own self would be 
 the grace that graced all other graces the beautifier of every 
 beauty beside. 
 
 What should our recreations be ? That was an absurd 
 question, and soon dismissed. The introduction of a foreign 
 element would never be necessary into society so perfect as we 
 two should compose. 
 
 So we were married never having exchanged a single 
 thought concerning the great duties and responsibilities of life 
 I, for my part, having no slightest conception of the homely 
 cares and ingenious planning ; of the fearing and hoping, 
 patience, forbearance, and endurance, that must needs make a 
 part of life's drama, wherever enacted. 
 
 The bridal veil was never looked through after the bridal 
 day ; consequently the world took another coloring before very 
 long. I must be allowed to say I was not yet twenty, as some
 
 MAREIED LIFE OF ELEAXOE HOMES. 37 
 
 extenuation of the follies I should have been ashamed of, even 
 then, and must also relate some little incidents and particulars 
 of my married life that gave ineffaceable colors to my maturer 
 mind and character. 
 
 My husband's name was Henry Doughty Harry, I used to 
 call him, partly because the designation pleased him, and partly 
 because I entertained a special dislike for the name of Doughty. 
 I gave a much better one away for it, however. 
 
 My maiden name was Homes Eleanor Homes Nellie, they 
 called me among my friends, before I was married ; afterward, 
 when the novelty of calling me Mrs. Doughty was over, they 
 said poor Nell. 
 
 We had not been an hour from church my bridemaids were 
 about me, among them my haughty sister Katharine, who had 
 not very cordially received her new relative. Some one rallied 
 me on my promise to obey, and asked Mr. Doughty how he 
 proposed to enforce my obligation. 
 
 " Oh, after this sort," he replied gaily, brandishing the little 
 switch-cane he was playing with about my shoulder. I turned 
 carelessly, and the point of it struck my eye. 
 
 " It was your own fault ?" was his first exclamation. The 
 pain of the wound was intense, but it was the harsh words that 
 made the tears come. I was frightened when I saw them, for 
 I felt that it was an awful impropriety to cry then and there, 
 and putting by all proffered remedies as though the little acci- 
 dent were quite unworthy of attention, I smiled, nay, even 
 affected to laugh, and said it was solely and entirely my own 
 foolish fault, and moreover, that I always cried on like occasions 
 not, of course, on account of any suffering, but owing to a 
 nervous susceptibility I could not overcome.
 
 08 PASSAGES FKOM THE 
 
 Katharine, meantime, to augment the criminality of the 
 offence, was proffering various medicines ; among them, she 
 brought me at this juncture, a towel, wet with I know not 
 what. 
 
 " Take it away again," said Mr. Doughty; ." nothing I so 
 much dislike as nervous susceptibility pray don't encourage it." 
 
 Katharine would not speak, but she replied by a very signifi- 
 cant look, and, to conciliate both, I accepted the towel, but 
 did not apply it to the wounded eye swollen and red by this 
 time to an unsightly degree ; in truth, I was afraid to do so. 
 My sensations were certainly new? as I thus trifled with my 
 afflictions, forcing myself even to make pitiable advances 
 toward my offender, in the hope of winning him to some little 
 display of tenderness, for the sake of appearances wholly, for I 
 was not in the mood to receive them appreciatively just then. 
 I was singularly unfortunate, however, and might have spared 
 myself the humiliation. 
 
 I had succeeded, in some sort, in reviving my spirits, for it is 
 hard to dampen the ardor of a young woman on her wedding- 
 day, when my enthusiasm received another check. I was sitting 
 at the window, that I might find some excuse for my occasional 
 abstraction in observation, and also to keep the wounded eye 
 away from the company. Happening once to change my posi- 
 tion, my husband said to me : " Keep your face to the window, 
 my dear madam ; your ridiculous applications have made your 
 eye really shocking 1" 
 
 " Why, Harry !" I said if I had taken time to think, I 
 would not have said anything ; but the unkindness was so obvi- 
 ous it induced the involuntary exclamation, and everybody saw 
 that I felt myself injured.
 
 MARRIED LIFE OF ELEANOR HOMES. 39 
 
 ie sisterly subterfuge, Kate decoyed me into her own 
 room, where my husband did not take occasion to seek me very 
 soon. When he did so, he patted my cheek and said half-play- 
 fully, " I have come to scold you, Nell." 
 
 My heart beat fast.. He had felt my absence, then, and was 
 come with some tender reproach. I began to excuse myself, 
 when he interrupted me with an exclamation of impatience. 
 He was sorry to find me so impetuous and womanish exhibi- 
 tions of any emotion, but more especially of tender emotion, 
 were in bad taste. I must manage in some way to control my 
 impulses, and also to discriminate he was always pleased to 
 be called Harry, when we were alone, but in miscellaneous 
 company a little more formality was usual 1 
 
 "Your name is not so beautiful," I replied, angrily, "that 
 you should want to hear it unnecessarily." 
 
 He elevated his eyebrows a little, and smiled one of his pecu- 
 liar smiles, never too sweet to be scornful. 
 
 I hid my face in my sister's pillow, and almost wished I 
 might never lift it up. 
 
 Seeing me shaken with suppressed sobs, he bent over me and 
 kissed my forehead, much as we give a child a sugar-plum after 
 having whipped it, aud left me with the hope that I would com- 
 pose myself, and not wrong my beauty by such ill-timed tears ! 
 
 Excellent advice, but not very well calculated to aid me in 
 its execution. Many times after that I wronged such poor 
 beauty as I brought to him, by my ill-timed tears. 
 
 The story of the accident, and of my crying on my wedding- 
 day, went abroad with many exaggerations, and my husband 
 gave me to understand, without any direct reference to anything 
 that had takc'ii place, that I had unnecessarily brought reproach
 
 40 PASSAGES FttOM THE 
 
 upon him. It had been arranged that we were to live at home 
 a year ; my parents foolish old folks 1 could not bear the 
 thought of giving me up at once as if the hope to make all 
 things as they were, were not utterly useless, after I had once 
 given myself up. 
 
 The experiment proved a delusion empty of comfort to all 
 parties concerned ; and here let me say, that if two persons, 
 when they are once married, cannot find happiness with each 
 other, no third party can in any wise mend the matter. 
 
 I think now if there had been no one to strengthen my 
 obstinacy, and hinder such little conciliations as, unobserved, I 
 might have proffered, our early differences might have been 
 healed over without any permanent alienation. 
 
 However well two persons may have known each other 
 before marriage, the new relation develops new characteristics, 
 and necessitates a process of assimilation, difficult under the 
 most genial circumstances. 
 
 Of course my family took my part, whether or not I was in the 
 right, and thus sustained I took larger liberties, sometimes, than 
 it was wise to take trifled and played with all my husband's 
 predilections called them whimsies, if I noticed them, but for the 
 most part affected an unconsciousness of their existence. For 
 instance, I had a foolish habit of turning through books and 
 papers in a noisy way, which I persevered in rather in conse- 
 quence of his admonitions than in spite of them. 
 
 One night he did not come home at the usual time. I grew 
 impatient, uneasy, and at last, in spite of Kate's sneer, took my 
 station at the window to watch for him : in a minute or two 
 thereafter he came up the walk. I opened the door and my 
 arms at the same time, crying, " How glad I am !"
 
 MARRIED LIFE OF ELKAXOU HOMES. 41 
 
 " What for ?" he said, gliding past me in his quiet way. 
 
 "Are you not glad ?" I inquired, determined not to be put 
 out of humor for once ; my best feelings had been really 
 stirred. 
 
 " Certainly," he answered, seating himself in the corner 
 opposite to me, and opening the evening paper. " I am glad 
 to get home. I am very tired." 
 
 He did not once look at me as he said this, and Kate com- 
 pleted my discomfort by saying 
 
 " Well, I suppose Nell is blessed enough to be permitted to 
 look upon you, even in the distance. She used to have a little 
 spirit, but I believe marriage has crushed even that out of 
 her." 
 
 " Ilumph !" said my husband. 
 
 " What do you find interesting in the paper to-night ?" I 
 said, determined to enforce some attention by way of triumph 
 over Kate. He made a motion which deprecated interruption, 
 and taking a new novel from his pocket, threw it into my lap. 
 
 " Milk for babes !" said Kate, sarcastically. I said nothing, 
 and she went on provokingly : " Take your plaything away, 
 child, and don't make a bit of noise with it." 
 
 Here was a happy suggestion. I had failed in my effort to 
 be agreeable. I would be disagreeable now to my heart'3 con- 
 tent. I was at some pains to find an old pair of jagged scis- 
 sors, and having found them, I seated myself at my husband's 
 elbow, and began to saw open the leaves of my book, with the 
 double purpose of annoying him and convincing K;ite that I 
 had some spirit left yet. 
 
 Now and then I glanced towards him to see if his brows were 
 not knitting, and the angry spot rising in his cheek, but to my
 
 12 PASSAGES FllOil T1IE 
 
 surprise and vexation I saw no manifestation of annoyance 
 he read gn apparently completely absorbed, and wearing a 
 smile on his face a little too fixed, perhaps, to be quite spon- 
 taneous. 
 
 So I went on to the last leaf, cutting and ruffling as noisily 
 as I could, but I had only my trouble for my pains he did not 
 lift his eyes towards me for an instant. 
 
 When Kate left us alone, I felt exceedingly uncomfortable 
 for I had felt my behavior countenanced by her presence. 
 After all, I thought, presently, my husband is perhaps quite 
 unconscious of any effort on my part to annoy him ; but 
 whether he were so or not, my best course, I concluded, would 
 be to affect unconsciousness of it myself. Thus resolved, I 
 yawned, naturally I thought, and, as if impulsively, threw down 
 the book took the paper from his hand with a wifely privi- 
 lege, and seated myself on his knee. He suffered me to sit 
 there, but neither smiled nor spoke'. 
 
 " Why don't you say something to me ?" I was reduced to 
 ask at length. 
 
 " What shall I say ?" 
 
 " Why, something sweet, to be sure." 
 
 "AVell, sugar-caudy is that sweet enough ?" 
 
 " What a provoking wretch you are !" I cried, flying out of 
 the room in hot haste. 
 
 I hoped he would forbid my going, or call me back, but he 
 did neither. 
 
 After some tears and a confidential interview with Kate, 
 that made me more angry with her and with myself than with 
 uiy husband, I returned, and found him quietly lolling in the 
 easy-chair, and eating an apple !
 
 MARRIED LIFE OP ELEANOR HOMES. 43 
 
 As time went by, Kate's arrogance and insolence towards 
 Mr. Doughty became insupportable twenty times I quarrelled 
 with her, taking his part stoutly against her accusations. One 
 evening, after -one of these accustomed disputations, my hus- 
 band said to me 
 
 " Nell, we must take a house of our own ; I can't live in this 
 atmosphere any longer." 
 
 " Why can't you ?" I knew why, well enough. 
 
 " I don't like your sister Kate." 
 
 " Does she poison the atmosphere, my dainty sir ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Of course I flew into a rage and defended Kate with all my 
 powers. She was my own good sister then, and had done every 
 thing to make the house pleasant which it was possible for her 
 to do I would like to know who would please him. 
 
 "You, my dear," he replied. 
 
 The end of the matter was, I refused to go away from my 
 father's house with him ; said I would not be deprived of the 
 little comfort I now had in the sympathy of, and association 
 with, my family ; he had agreed, I reminded him, before our 
 marriage, to my remaining at home one year at least his 
 promises might pass for nothing with himself, they would not 
 with me ; if he chose to take a house he might do so, but his 
 housekeeping would be done independently of me ; if my 
 wishes were never to be consulted by him, I should have to 
 consult them myself that was all. 
 
 I never gave him greater pleasure, he replied provokingly, 
 than when I consulted-' my own wishes ; for his part, he could 
 have none in which I did not heartily concur. 
 
 lie admitted that he had eordially agreed to my rcrnaiiitDg
 
 44 PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 at home a year after marriage, bat that late experience had 
 slightly modified his views ; he was not infallible, however, and 
 probably erred in judgment indeed, he was quite sure he did, 
 since I differed from him ; he hoped I would pardon his unkind 
 suggestion, and believe him what he really was, the most faith- 
 ful and devoted of husbands. 
 
 Amongst my weaknesses was a passion for emeralds. Mr. 
 Doughty had heard me express my admiration for them many 
 a time. The day following our little rencounter he came home 
 an hour earlier than usual, seated himself on the sofa beside 
 me, and taking two little parcels from his pocket and conceal- 
 ing them beneath his hand, said playfully 
 
 " Which one will you have, Nell ?" 
 
 " The best one !" I replied, reaching out my hand. 
 
 " The better one," he rejoined quickly ; " the best of the 
 two is not elegant at least it was not till you made it so." 
 
 I withdrew my hand and averted my face. If he and I had 
 been alone, I might hare taken the reproof more kindly ; but 
 Kate heard it all, as it seemed to me she always did every 
 thing that was disagreeable. I might have made some angry 
 retort, but a visitor was just then announced an old classmate 
 of Mr. Doughty's, whom I had never seen. 
 
 " He is come specially to pay his respects to you," my hus- 
 band said as he rose to join him. " You will see him, of 
 course." 
 
 " If it is my lord's pleasure," I replied ; " bring him to me 
 when it suits you." 
 
 Involuntarily he put his hand on my hair, and smoothed it 
 away, glancing over me at the same time from head to foot. 
 The motion and the glance implied a doubt of my observance
 
 MARIUED LIFE OF ELKAXOK HOMES. 45 
 
 of external proprieties, and also I folt at the moment, personal 
 dissatisfaction with myself. The interview was embarrassed and 
 restrained ; I was self-conscious every moment, and crippled 
 completely by the knowledge, that in my husband's eyes I was 
 appearing very badly. 
 
 I misquoted a familiar line from Shakspeare ; expressed ad- 
 miration for a popular author, and when asked which of his 
 works I read with most delight, could not remember the name 
 of anything I had read. 
 
 My discomfiture was completed when my husband said apolo- 
 getically, " I dare say that wiser heads than my little Nellie's 
 have been cqnfused by similar questions in truth, she is not 
 quite well to-day." 
 
 The old classmate related some very amusing blunders of his 
 own, calculated to soothe, but rasping my wounded feelings 
 only into deeper soreness, and presently the conversation fell 
 into the hands of the gentlemen altogether ; and I am sure it 
 was felt to be a relief, by all parties, when our guest an- 
 nounced the expiration of the time to which he was unfartu- 
 nately limited. My husband walked down street with him, and 
 during his brief absence I wrought myself into a state of un- 
 womanly ugliness, including dissatisfaction with everything 
 and everybody. 
 
 The words "my little Nellie," which my husband had used, 
 rung offensively in my ears. My little Nellie, indeed ! What 
 implied ownership and what tender disparagement ! 
 
 When my husband returned he took no notice of my ill- 
 humor, but proceeded to his reading as usual. It was never his 
 habit to read aloud ; on this occasion I chose to fancy he had, 
 in his own estimation, selected a work above my appreciation.
 
 46 PASSAGES FROM THE 
 
 " There, Xell, I forgot 1" he exclaimed after a few moments 
 of silent reading, and he threw into my lap the little box which 
 I had declined to receive. I did not open it immediately, and 
 when I did so I expressed neither surprise nor pleasure, though 
 it contained what I had so much desired to possess a pin set 
 with emeralds. 
 
 " Very pretty," I said carelessly, " for those who can wear 
 such ornaments ; as for myself it would only make my plain- 
 ness seem the plainer by contrast." And before the eyes of my 
 husband, who had thought to make everything right by its 
 purchase, I transferred it to my sister Kate. From that time 
 forth it glittered iu the faces of both of us daily, but we 
 neither of ns ever mentioned it. 
 
 It was not many days after this occurrence that Mr. Doughty 
 informed me that he was called suddenly, by matters of some 
 importance to him, to a neighboring State. He did not say 
 us, but limited the interest entirely to himself nor did he inti- 
 mate by word or act that the necessity of absence involved any 
 regret. I inquired how long he proposed to remain away not 
 when should / expect him. 
 
 He was not definitely advised from one to three months. 
 We parted without any awakening of tender emotion. Our 
 letters were brief and formal containing no hints, on either 
 side, of a vacuum in life which nothing but the presence of the 
 other could supply. 
 
 I was informed from time to time that affairs protracted 
 themselves beyond his expectation, but the nature of the affairs 
 1 was left in ignorance of. The prospect of staying at home a 
 year added nothing to my happiness. Kate and I agreed no 
 better now that we were alone than before. I secretly
 
 MARRIED LIFE OP ELEANOR HOMES. 47 
 
 blamed her for my unfortunate alienation from my husband : 
 it was not tho importunate nature of his business that detained 
 him, I was quite sure. I grew uneasy, and irritable, wished to 
 have him back, not for any need my nature had, that he alone 
 could answer. I wanted him to want to come back that was all. 
 
 Kate accused me of unfilial and unsisterly preference for a 
 vulgar and heartless man, to my own family. 
 
 " The dear old Nell was completely merged in the selfish 
 Doughty," she said, " and she might just as well hare no sister 
 for all the comfort I was to her." 
 
 So we kept apart a good deal, and by keeping apart, soon 
 grew apart pretty thoroughly. In truth our natures had never 
 been cast in the same mould, and it was impossible that they 
 should more than touch at some single point now and then. 
 
 At the end of six months a portion of my fret and worry 
 had worked itself into my face. My hair had fallen off and 
 was beginning to have a faded and neglected look. I was 
 careless about dress, and suffered my whole outer and inner 
 person to fall into ruins. By fits I resolved to project my gen- 
 eral discontent into some one of the reforms, I hardly knew 
 which, when after a day of unusual irksomeness and personal 
 neglect, my husband unexpectedly returned. 
 
 lie was in perfect health, and rejoiced in the possession of 
 affluent beard and spirits he was really quite handsome. I 
 looked at him with wonder, admiration, and some pride kissed 
 him and said I was very glad ; but there was no thrill in my 
 heart no tremor in my voice the old fires of anger had left 
 the best part of my nature in ashes, I found. He was sorry to 
 find me looking so badly I must go with him on his next ad- 
 venture and get back my beauty again ! If I could only see
 
 48 PASSAGES FKOM THE 
 
 bis smiling, blushing cousin Jane, it would shame my melan- 
 choly and sallow face into some bloom ! And by the way, I 
 must know her he was sure I would love her just as he did 
 she had done so much to make his banishment from me delight- 
 ful no, not delightful but bearable. He would defy any 
 one to be very miserable where she was. She kept about her 
 under all circumstances such an atmosphere of cheerfulness 
 and comfort ; was so self-sustained and womanly, and yet as 
 capable of receiving pleasure as a child ; as an example of a 
 beautiful and child-like trait in her disposition, he told with 
 what almost pious care she preserved every little trinket he 
 ever gave her. She would clap her hands and laugh like a 
 very baby over the least trifle bestowed upon her. 
 
 I thought of the emerald pin, and of (as doubtless he did) 
 the contrast my whole character presented to his charming 
 wonder. 
 
 " Ah, me !" he concluded, and fell into a fit of musing. I 
 did not interrupt him by any poor attempt at cheerfulness I 
 did not feel. 
 
 Before long I succeeded in coaxing upon myself a headache 
 slighted the advice proposed, and at nightfall had my pillows 
 brought to the sofa, and gave up altogether. 
 
 I was almost glad to be sick it would revive in my husband 
 some of the old tenderness perhaps j but what was my disap- 
 pointment when he took up his hat to leave the house. 
 
 " What, you are not going out to night ?" I inquired in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Why, yes, my dear, why not ?" 
 
 " If you ask why not, I suppose there is no reason." 
 
 " Is there anything I can do, or shall I send the doctor ?"
 
 MAIUUEO LIFE OF ELEANOK HOMES. 49 
 
 " No, there is nothiag special I need, but I thought you 
 would stay at home to-night I am unhappy every way." 
 
 " I am very sorry, but my engagement to-night is impera- 
 tive I promised Jenny I would immediately see some friends 
 of hers, here." 
 
 I hid my face in my pillows and cried, and I confess there 
 was some method in my tears I did not think he would leave 
 me under such circumstances. I was mistaken he did. 
 
 " Have you seen any house that you thought would suit us ?" 
 I ventured to ask him before long. 
 
 " No, I have not been looking for a house." 
 
 He did not follow up my suggestion, and I added, as if I had 
 but to intimate my wishes to have them carried out, though the 
 hollowness of the sham was appalling " I really wish you 
 would look." He still was silent, and I continued " Won't 
 you ?" 
 
 He replied, evidently without the slightest interest in the 
 matter, " Why, yes, when I have time." He paid no further 
 attention to my request, however, and when I reminded him of 
 it again, he said he had forgotten it. 
 
 It seemed to me I could not live from one day to another 
 change would be a relief, at any rate, and my husband's indif- 
 ference to my wishes made me importunate ; but from week to 
 week he put me off with promises and excuses, both of which I 
 felt were alike false. 
 
 He could not see any places. " Inquire of your friends." 
 He had, and could not hear of any. 
 
 " Why, I saw plenty of houses to let,- and was sure I could 
 secure one any day would he go with me some time ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly at his earliest convenience.'
 
 50 PASSAGES FKOM TUB 
 
 I awaited his convenience, but it did not come. In Tery des- 
 peration, I set out myself ; but searching without having fixed 
 upon any locality, size of house, or price to be paid, was only a 
 waste of time, I felt, and accordingly I wandered about the 
 streets, looking at the outsides of houses, and now and then in- 
 quiring the terms at the door, but declining in all instances to 
 examine the premises, or take the slightest step towards the 
 securing of a house. 
 
 " Had you not better consider it a little ?" Mr. Doughty said 
 at length, as if I had not been considering it for six mouths ! 
 
 He feared I would find it lonesome he might be from home 
 a good deal, such was the unfortunate nature of his prospects. 
 Where was he going and what for ? 
 
 He was not going at all that he positively knew of, but his 
 affairs were in such a state that contingencies might arise at any 
 time, that would demand his absence for a few weeks or 
 months. 
 
 " A happy state of affairs !" I said with womanish spite ; 
 " I suppose one of the contingencies is your charming cousin 
 Jenny I" 
 
 He would only reply to my foolish accusation by saying it 
 was quite unworthy of my generous nature I wronged myself 
 and him, and also the sweetest and most innocent little creature 
 in the world. 
 
 For some days nothing was said about the house ; but I was 
 a woman, and could not maintain silence on a disagreeable 
 subject, so I renewed it with the importunate demand to know, 
 once for all, whether or not we were ever to keep house. Thus 
 urged, he consented to go with me in search of a house. 
 
 The air was biting on the day we set out the streets
 
 MAEJKIED LIFE OF ELEAXOR HOMES. 51 
 
 slippery with ice, and gusts of sharp snow now and then caused 
 women to walk backward, and bury their faces in their muffs. 
 
 We turned into streets and out of streets, just as it happened 
 Mr. Doughty did not care where he looked anywhere I 
 chose ; sometimes we passed whole blocks of houses that 
 seemed eligible, without once ringing a bell : he did not 
 suggest looking here or there, made no objection to terms, and 
 suggested no proposals. Now we turned into a by-street and 
 exarujued some dilapidated tenement, and now sought a 
 fashionable quarter, and went over some grand mansion to be 
 let for six months only, and furnished ! an exorbitant rent 
 demanded, of course. 
 
 The whole thing was so evidently a sham, that I at last 
 burst into tears and proposed to go home. Mr. Doughty 
 assented, and with my face swollen and shining with the cold, 
 my hands aching and my feet numb, I arrived there in a 
 condition of outraged and indignant feeling that could go no 
 further. 
 
 I comforted myself as I best could, for nobody comforted 
 me, and my husband, monopolizing the easy-chair and a great 
 part of the fire, opened the letters that awaited him. 
 
 When he had concluded the reading .of the first one 
 addressed, as I observed, in a woman's hand he said suddenly, 
 " Come here, Nell, and sit on my knee." 
 
 I did so. 
 
 " What should you think of taking the house in street ?'' 
 
 " I should like it very well." 
 
 " I think that would suit us room for ourselves, and a 
 visitor now and then, perhaps." 
 
 I did not sit on his knee any longer ; I felt instinctively that
 
 52 PASSAGES FKOM THE 
 
 the letter he had just read was from the charming cousin, and 
 that the prospect of having her for a guest had changed the 
 aspect of affairs. 
 
 The house was taken at once, and Mr. Doughty informed me 
 before long that I had a great happiness in prospect that of 
 knowing the little cousin I had heard him speak of. 
 
 She came almost before we were settled ; impossible, thought 
 I, that I should be jealous; the idea of affinity between her and 
 Mr. Doughty was so ridiculous. She was white, short, and fat 
 as a worm in a chestnut, and almost as incapable of thought. 
 The flax-like hair was so thin you could see her head beneath 
 it all the time ; her cheeks and chin trembled with fatness ; her 
 eyes were of the faintest blue, and cloudy with vague apprehen- 
 sion ; her arms hung stiff and round as two rolling pins, and 
 her pink and blue silk dresses were pinned up and fringed out, 
 and greasy : but she was amiable too simple-hearted and 
 indolent to be otherwise, indeed. 
 
 " She is a child, you see," said my husband, " and I bespeak 
 for her childish indulgences ; you must not be surprised to find 
 her arms around my neck any time playful little kitten, that 
 she is." 
 
 I was not so much surprised to find her big arms about his 
 neck, as by the fact which gradually broke in upon me, that 
 they had power to detain him from the most important duties. 
 
 Towards her he was gentle and indulgent to the tenderest 
 degree towards me exacting, severe, and unyielding. 
 
 If 1 fretted, he was surprised that I could -do so with so 
 patient an example before me ; if I forbore complaint, he gave 
 me no praise ; I had done nothing more thau I ought to do. 
 If I slighted or blamed Jenny, as I was sometimes driven to do,
 
 MARRIED LIFE OF ELEAXOR HOMES. 53 
 
 he was surprised and indignant that I, a reasonable woman, 
 should treat a mere child, quite incapable of defence or retalia- 
 tion, so cruelly. 
 
 By turns, I resorted to every device : grave and reserved 
 dignity, playful badinage, affected indifference, rivalry in dress 
 and manner, pouting, positive anger, threats of divorce and 
 separate maintenance all would not do. I ruined thereby 
 the slender stock of amiability and fair looks I began with, and 
 gained nothing . Now I went home for a few days, and now I 
 affected illness ; but I gained nothing, for of all lost things 
 most difficult to be regained, lost affection is the most hope- 
 less. 
 
 This state of feeling could not last always ; the nerves of 
 sensibility could not be laid bare and left bare without becoming 
 indurated, and by degrees I became incapable of receiving or of 
 giving enjoyment. In our treatment of one another, my husband 
 and I fell into a kind of civility which was the result of indifference. 
 Before folks we said " my dear ;" and when we were alone 
 but we never were alone we had ceased to have any of those 
 momentous nothings to communicate which require to be done 
 without observation. I had no longer any motive in life duty 
 was tiresome, and pleasure a mask that smothered me ; love 
 was a fable, and relisrion, I knew not what nothing that 
 comforted me, for it can only enter the heart that is open to 
 the sweet influences of love. 
 
 In a fit of the most abject depression I swallowed poison, and 
 lying down on my sofa awaited death with more interest in 
 the process of its approaches than I had felt for months. The 
 pain and the burning were easier to bear than I had borne 
 many and many a time ; gradually the world receded, my eyes
 
 54 MARRIED LIFE OF ELEAXOB DOMES. 
 
 closed, and a struggle shook my whole frame death had 
 indeed got hold of me. A terrible iioise filled my ears ; my 
 dead and stiffening body seemed to drop away ; I sat upright 
 and saw about me all familiar and household things. On the 
 floor beside me lay the picture of Mr. Doughty which I had been 
 holding in my hand when I fell asleep the noise of its falling 
 had waked me. 
 
 " Then it had been only a dream, after all ?" 
 
 " Why, to be sure ; did you not see all along that such 
 things could not have really happened ?"
 
 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 SATURDAY night lias come, and the last sunstreaks have drawn 
 themselves down the snowy hills of Clovernook, and where they 
 lately shone, the darkness is fallen and unfolding very fast. 
 The chickens are gone to roost among the cold, comfortless 
 boughs of the trees nearest the barn ; the cows are milked, and 
 in most places the work-horses, feeding in the stable, have had 
 an extra currying, preparatory to Sunday morning, when they 
 are expected to walk soberly and straightly to the village church, 
 drawing after them, in the newly-washed and tar-smelling wagon, 
 father and mother, and all the children, from the eldest son. 
 as proud of his darkening beard, and " boughten" coat and 
 hat, as he will be in years to come of more stylish appareling or 
 senatorial honors ; and the little girl on her mother's knee, more 
 pleased with the brass buttons on her father's coat, and her 
 own red shoes, than she will be, perhaps, with her point lace 
 and shining brocade, when a few years hence she shall dance 
 at the president's ball. 
 
 Another week has gone ; great, in its little events, to the 
 unambitious people who are now done with its hopes and fears, 
 its working and planning with their tending of sick beds, and 
 making of wedding gowns as great to them as the largest 
 experience to the largest mind ; and who knows but that in the-
 
 56 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 final summing up of good and evil, the highest glory will be set 
 down to the account of those who have thought always of the 
 pride and place of this world, as the child does of the marvels 
 of the fairy story ; for what, after all, can be got out of this 
 life but usefulness ? With all our racking of the soul, we 
 cannot solve the problem of fore-ordination and free will, of 
 good and evil, of life and death. I am not sure that they are 
 not wisest, as well as best, who are " contented if they may 
 enjoy the things which others understand," and let alone the 
 mysteries which all effort to unfold but folds anew. 
 
 It was about the middle of February, and along the northern 
 slopes of the hills, at the roots of big trees, and close in the 
 shadow of the fences, lay the skeleton of the great winter snow. 
 For all their searching, the sheep had not found a single patch 
 of green grass as yet, and the mother cow had brought home 
 to the stable her young calf, without waiting to be invited, so 
 sharply went the winds along woods and meadows. 
 
 The smoke issued briskly from chimney-tops, and the heaps of 
 dry wood near the doors, and the lights shining pleasantly out 
 along the frozen ground, told of quiet and comfort within. 
 Here and there an axe was busy at the woodpile, or a lantern 
 shone over the dry sunflower stocks by the garden fence, as 
 some less orderly farmer than the rest went from house to barn, 
 to attend some little chore forgotton or neglected. 
 
 Mostly, however, it was quiet, and cold, and dark, except at 
 one or two windows of each house, and the snow and frozen earth, 
 ground together, powdered the lonesome road before the late 
 travellers. Of these there was, on the night I write of, not 
 more than one to be seen ; at any rate, it is with one only my 
 story has to do. If you had seen him you would not have
 
 THE OUTCAST. 57 
 
 noticed him much, I suppose, they who saw him did not ; and 
 yet he seemed very tired, and bent under the bundle hung 
 across his shoulder, as if he had trudged a long way ; for this 
 bundle was not large, and it could not have been the weight of 
 it that so crooked his shoulders. You would have thought him 
 old, doubtless, for his face was browned and careworn, and a 
 slouched hat and tangly hair and beard gave him the air of 
 years. You would probably have said, if you had chanced to 
 look out of your own room, and observed him shuffling his tired 
 way through the grey chilly moonlight, " there goes a man with 
 a sack on his back ; I wonder if he knows where he is going and 
 what after ?" for so we see our fellows, brothers and friends, 
 going burdened and bent, past our warm hearths every day, and 
 to us they are only as men with sacks on their backs. 
 
 Once or twice he stopped where the lights shone brightest, 
 as if he would go in ; but having cut the air with his disen- 
 gaged hand, as if he were done with some vagary, went on, his 
 feet leaving a trail in the snow and dust, crooked as if he were 
 purposeless. And so, alas, he was ; and wondered, as much as 
 any one, as he pulled his hat lower and turned thought intro- 
 spective, where he was going, and what for. Ah, that was the 
 worst of it ! footsore and burdened as he was, he had no object, 
 not even a shapeless outline for his future. He might be going 
 into the lap of the best fortune in the world : such things have 
 been done, so he has heard, and he smiles at the bright sugges- 
 tion ; but reduce it to a where, and when, and how, and the 
 possibility loses all probability ; it is not at all likely any good 
 luck will happen to him ; everybody says he deserves no better 
 fate than he has, and he supposes he does not. He had an 
 object once, which was to get away from everybody that knew 
 3*
 
 58 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 him from his mother who sometimes cried and sometimes scolded 
 about him ! from his father, who said he was going down hill as 
 fast as he could, and the sooner he got to the bottom the better 
 for his family and himself too ; and from the black eyes that 
 looked scornfully upon him the last time he dared look up into 
 their searching brightness. 
 
 This last humiliation, more perhaps than anything else, made 
 him rise in the middle of the night, some weeks ago, bundle 
 together a few necessary effects, and steal like a thief away 
 from the house where he was born unblest of his mother, and 
 with no " God-speed you," from his honest old father. But back 
 of the scorn of the black eyes, the complaining of the mother, 
 and the sentence of the father, there are intemperance, and 
 idleness, and profligacy, that brought all about ; why these 
 should have been he doesn't know, he did not mean to be a bad 
 son nor an untrue lover ; he doesn't say he was ; he doesn't really 
 think he was ; but he knows other folks say so, and so, trying to 
 be indifferent to what men and women think of him, to all the 
 past and all the future, he changes the load on his shoulder, 
 and trudges on. 
 
 About half a mile down a narrow lane, that turns out from 
 the main road, he sees a house, small and apparently rude, but 
 with light shining so brightly and cheerfully through all the 
 windows, he is almost persuaded to turn that way ; he doesn't 
 know why nor what for, only it seems for a moment that he 
 has got home. The watch dog sees him from his post at the 
 gate, and sends him forward with a suspicious and unfriendly 
 growl. He fancies he hears a song in the cottage, it may be 
 the wind in the treetops ; he won't stop to see, for what are 
 songs or lights to him ! He is half disposed to lie down on the
 
 THE OUTCAST. 59 
 
 frozen ground, at the wayside ; but it is cold and hard ; and he 
 has always known the comfort of a warm bed he cannot quite 
 do that yet. He passes a good many snug farmhouses, but 
 the front doors are close shut, and he feels just as if they had 
 been closed to keep him out. But by and by he is very tired, 
 and his diffidence grows less and less under the necessity of rest; 
 he doesn't much care where it is, nor who accords it, but he must 
 have rest, somewhere ; that is the strongest feeling he has. The 
 wind blows against him harder and colder all the time, and he 
 concludes that has become his enemy too, as long ago he settled 
 into a conviction that mankind were leagued against him. 'Tis 
 a pity that he himself is his own worst enemy ; but he cannot 
 see it, and that is a pity too. Presently he sees a commodious 
 house, brightly painted, and with lights streaming from the 
 front windows, right before him ; the curtain is drawn aside, and 
 he discovers a man in black and goodly apparel, reading in a 
 large book, it is the Bible, he thinks ; he is very tired and 
 hungry and must have food and rest. Without more ado he 
 approaches the door and thumps with his stick confidently and 
 boldly. No hearty voice answers, " Come in 1" and as he 
 crouches, in dim expectancy, he hears the crackling of the wood 
 in the fireplace, and the prattling of children. The door opens 
 soon, carefully and narrowly, and the man in the black coat 
 looks out distrustfully and asks, " What do you want ?" 
 
 " I want to stay all night," answers the traveller. 
 
 The door is pushed round a little and the man in the black 
 coat says, " We have no accommodation for travellers." 
 
 " But I am tired and hungry," urges the stranger. 
 
 " We are sorry," says the man in the black coat, speaking 
 for himself and all the house ; and so closes the door.
 
 60 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 The tired man thinks he hears the key turn, but he is not quite 
 sure. His senses are bewildered, and he hardly knows whether 
 or not he saw a dish of apples, and another of cakes, on the 
 table before the fire, but he thinks he did, and that he also saw 
 a prim-looking woman, in a silk gown, shaking her head at the 
 man in the black coat, while he held the door so cautiously 
 open. 
 
 The house was not like a farmhouse, and he is almost sure it 
 is the- parsonage ; but he is not quite sure about anything, poor 
 fellow. He is sure enough, however, to anathematize all piety 
 as hypocrisy, and he says with an oath he doesn't care for all the 
 preachers in the world ; he will get to heaven as soon as any 
 of them ; and he wishes the white neckcloth of the man in the 
 black coat might choak him that very instant. And then he 
 imagines how he would take possession of the parsonage, and 
 sit by the warm fire and eat apples and cakes, and never pay 
 one cent for preaching as long as he lived. One thing he would 
 do, he knows, he would entertain poor travellers. 
 
 He has climbed a long hill, and gone over a hollow, where 
 there is a one-arched wooden bridge, and where he hears no 
 tinkling of water ; even that has shut itself away from him, 
 under ice ; he almost expected a murderer to come out from 
 beneath the dark arch, but there did not ; and now he ascends 
 another hill, abrupt and high ; and as he nears the summit he 
 sees a good many lights shining, and presently becomes aware 
 that he is entering a village. A number of covered wagons 
 almost block up the road before him ; each is loaded with boxes, 
 and barrels, and farming implements, full as it can be, and from 
 among them, or from under each wagon, looks out a huge dog 
 the faithful guardian while the teamster sleeps. Immediately
 
 THE OUTCAST. 61 
 
 overhead creaks the sign of entertainment ; be has found a 
 door open at last. He is so glad to throw down his budget, 
 and seat himself at the fire, that he heeds little the fumes of 
 whisky and tobacco with which the room is reeking. The 
 idlers there make him welcome, and offer him cigars and punch, 
 and in return for their kindness, he grows merry and talks 
 freely and indiscreetly ; sometimes profanely ; and so the night 
 wears into midnight, and the merry-making has become a ca- 
 rousal. We will not linger over it, it is too sad to see manhood 
 so debasing itself ; intellect burning itself out in evil passion, 
 and the likeness of the angel becoming more groveljing than 
 t!;e brute. 
 
 Sunday morning comes ; the heavens are full of clouds, and 
 of winds ; very rough and cold they are blowing everywhere ; 
 but roughest and coldest through the leafless locust trees that 
 grow along the fence of the Clovernook graveyard ; so thinks 
 the poor fellow who lies beneath one of them, his stick by his 
 &ide, and his bundle for a pillow all the wild merriment that 
 filled the tavern last night, dwarfed to a drunken dreaming. 
 The people ride by to church, one wagon load after another, 
 and now and then some one says, " There is a drunken man ;" 
 but many pass without seeing him at all, and no one stops to 
 see whether he is alive or dead. He is lying nearly opposite 
 the narrow lane, where he paused last evening, seeing the light 
 in the rude house, half a mile away. If he were roused up he 
 would not know how nor why he came to be where he is, nor 
 do I myself know, unless it were that Providence directed his 
 staggering, when he was found to be inebriate and penniless, 
 and driven away from the tavern where he had paid his last 
 sixpence for his present imbecility.
 
 G2 T11K OUTCAST. 
 
 Heavy and mournful through the dull air sounds the church 
 bell, like a summons to penance rather than a cheerful call to 
 thanksgiving ; the troubled sleeper hears it and thinks dooms- 
 day has come, and groans and turns on his comfortless pillow. 
 A stout grey horse, with an eye that looks kinder and nobler 
 than has been given to some reasonable creatures, climbs 
 steadily the steep hill in the lane, and trots briskly forward, 
 the neat little wagon behind him rattling in a loud and lively 
 key ; out into the main road he comes, and turns toward the 
 call of the bell ; but as he passes the graveyard he looks round 
 as if seeing the man lying there and pitying him. 
 
 " Dear me I" exclaims the woman who is driving the grey 
 horse ; and she draws up the reins and is on the ground in a 
 moment ; so is the young woman who sat beside her, and she 
 indeed is the first to climb the clay bank and reach the dead 
 man, as she thinks he is ; and truly he is dead to all that a 
 man should be alive for. 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother," she cries, clapping her hands joyously, 
 " he is only asleep, after all ! I am so glad ! What makes 
 him lie here, mother ?" 
 
 " I don't know, my poor child," answers the good woman, 
 wiping her eyes ; " I am afraid he has been drinking at the 
 tavern ;" and stooping over him, she shakes him by the shoul- 
 der. 
 
 " Yes, mother, I will get up in a minute," he answers, with- 
 out opening his eyes. 
 
 " How funny," says the young girl, laughing aloud ; " he 
 thinks you are his mother." 
 
 "Mercy," says the deacon, peeping from the front of his 
 dearborn, "if there is not Mrs. Goforth and her daughter ELsy,
 
 THE OUTCAST. 63 
 
 talking with a drunken man ; don't children, don't any of you 
 look at her." And he touches his horse smartly on the flank, 
 and does not apparently hear Mrs. Goforth call to him. 
 
 She is at a loss what to do, and well she may be ; for though 
 she has tugged and lifted the man to a sitting posture, he can- 
 riot retain it for a moment, unsupported by her ; how then is 
 he to stand or walk ? The air is bitter cold, and he may 
 freeze to death if she leaves him. She asks him who he is, and 
 how he came there ? but he says he does not know ; and pulls at 
 her shawl, and looks in her face like a bewildered child ; and 
 repeats that he will go as soon as he can walk, that he is sure 
 he is not harming anybody. 
 
 "But you are harming yourself, my son," says the good 
 woman ; " that is the trouble." 
 
 " Why, it is not any trouble to you," replies the young man, 
 " because what I do ain't nothing to nobody ;" and he relapses 
 again into his horrible unconsciousness. 
 
 The bells were already done ringing ; but Mrs. Goforth was 
 not a woman to go to church and leave a man freezing to death 
 by the roadside ; she could not, to use her own words, have 
 any comfort of the meeting whatever ; and though she did not 
 like to stay away from her place, she thought it was right to 
 do so under the circumstances ; so, having turned about her 
 grey horse, she brought the little wagon as close to the clay 
 bank as she could, and she and Elsy, half dragging and half 
 lifting the poor outcast, got him into it, in some way. 
 
 It had come to the ears of the parson, before the hour for 
 service, that a man was lying drunken by the road-side ; and 
 the fact afforded a text for the severest denunciation of sinners, 
 especially of this sort. He did not once reflect, let us hope,
 
 64 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 how large a share he had in bringing his fellow-mortal, and 
 fellow-sinner too, to the condition and exhibition of infamy 
 which he so unmercifully condemned. 
 
 The meaning of the vacant seat of Mrs. Goforth was hardly 
 construed, for in the preacher's mind, when taken in connection 
 with other absences of late, it argued conclusively a growing 
 indifference to the Lord's sanctuary. This was wrong, and 
 uncharitable, as the reader sees ; but none of the congregation 
 saw it then, or felt it then. Good Mrs. Goforth was casting 
 her bread upon the waters, with no thought of future reward ; 
 but after many days, as we shall see, reward came. 
 
 Monday morning it was still cloudy, and not only 'so, but 
 snowing a little fine icy snow, that strnck sharply like sand 
 against Mrs. Goforth's small windows ; for she lived in a small 
 house, and the windows were not much larger than a lady's 
 pocket handkerchief. It was but a cabin, indeed, built of logs, 
 very rudely ; and humble as it was, and small as it was, Mrs. 
 Goforth would have thought herself rich to own it. Yet she 
 did not own the house, nor the meadow, nor the wood adja- 
 cent, nor much in all the world, except a heart that was large, 
 and truthful, and loving. She did not complain, however, that 
 she did not own a great house and a hundred or more acres of 
 land, like most of her neighbors ; she was cheerful, under the 
 necessity of hiring a small lot, and milking her own cow, and 
 feeding her own chickens, and working in the garden. Now 
 and then she procured a few days' work, but for the most part 
 she and Elsy managed to get along alone. And very comfor- 
 tably they did get along ; no young woman iu the neighbor* 
 hood looked tidier than the widow's daughter, and surely none 
 was prettier ; in summer, no dress in all the church was whiter
 
 THE OUTCAST. 65 
 
 than hers, and no hat was so nice and so tasteful, albeit it 
 lacked the flowers and the rich ribbons of some there. She 
 was a dreadfully giddy young girl, to be sure, and her 
 mother had often to recall her eyes to her hymn-book from 
 a new dress or shawl which for the first time had made its 
 appearance in a neighboring pew ; perhaps sometimes from cast- 
 ing upon some young man an admiring glance ; so the older 
 and "more staid young ladies said, at least, though Elsy stoutly 
 denied it. She did not care whether the young men saw her 
 or not, she often said, but that she could not help seeing them 
 when they were in the same house with her. And anybody 
 who saw her blue laughing eyes, would have readily believed 
 she could not help it. 
 
 Jacob Holcom, for that was the name of our purposeless 
 traveller, awoke to self-consciousness early on Monday morning 
 perhaps with the tinkling of the snow ou the window- 
 panes, perhaps with the remorseful stirrings of his own mind, 
 and the dreamy memory of a face that looked kindly upou 
 him. 
 
 First, he saw the whitewashed joists above him, and felt that 
 he was not at home iu his own chamber, which was large and 
 substantial ; and as he sunk back on his pillow, his eye caught 
 the neat stitching in the pillow-case, he wondered whose hand 
 did it, and involuntarily linked it with one he had dreamed of 
 as loosening something that choked him, when he lay on a very 
 cold hard bed somewhere : he could not tell when or where. 
 He could not tell much better where he was now ; that he was in 
 the flesh he was sure, for his hands had the mark of the axe and 
 the hoe-handle ; but the room was new to him, and how he 
 came there passed all his recollection. Raising himself on one
 
 C6 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 elbow, he peeped curiously about, pleased as a child with a 
 new baby-house. 
 
 The second thought was of his unfitness for the place all 
 was so neat there was such an atmosphere of purity about 
 him and the bed itself was so sweet and so white what 
 business had he in it ? There was mud on his face and in his 
 hair, that had come from some sorry resting-place, of which he 
 had but a faint recollection now. 
 
 lie could not do much in the way of personal renovation ; 
 but all he could do, he did, brushing his soiled garments and 
 hair, and drawing upon his small bundle for such clean articles 
 as it contained. This done, he felt quite at a loss, and looking 
 out into the snow-storm, half wished he were in it, rather than 
 in a place of which he was so unworthy. 
 
 Mrs. Goforth and Elsy had been an hour astir ; the cow was 
 milked, the fire burning on the hearth, the table spread near 
 it, and the coffee sending up its pleasant steam with the smoke, 
 when the footsteps of the unknown traveller arrested their 
 attention ; and a soft rap on the door and the announce- 
 ment that breakfast was waiting, fell strangely enough on 
 the ears of the bewildered Jacob ; it was just as if his own 
 mother had called him, except that she had not spoken his 
 name. 
 
 More ashamed than he had ever been in his life, he obeyed 
 the call, and with downcast eyes and a blushing cheek, pre- 
 sented himself, expecting, notwithstanding the mild call, to 
 receive summary dismissal, with severe reproof. But a cordial 
 good-morning, and an invitation to partake of the breakfast 
 that awaited, almost caused him to think he was still dreaming, 
 and in his hesitation, he behaved so awkwardly that El?y \vou!d
 
 THE OUTCAST. G7 
 
 have laughed in spite of herself another time, but now, she felt 
 not only pity for the stranger, but in some sort responsible for 
 him. He did not look like an evil-disposed person to her ; she 
 did not believe he was one ; and she did not care what any- 
 body said, she would not believe it. Now no one had said any- 
 thing about the young man that Elsy knew of, and it was 
 strange her thoughts should run before and suppose an accusa- 
 tion, and take up a defence ; but such was the fact, and such 
 are often the curious facts with which love begins his impreg- 
 nable masonry. 
 
 As Jacob partook of the breakfast (without much appetite 
 we may suppose) he kept inventing stories, one after another, 
 with which to make himself appear better than he was, in the 
 event of being questioned by his hostess in reference to his past 
 life, which questioning he momently expected. 
 
 At first he thought he would say he was turned out of his 
 father's house for a supposed fault, of which he was guiltless, 
 and that he had travelled till quite exhausted by cold and hun- 
 ger, when, in a fit of temporary delirium, he had lain down by 
 the road-side, and that that was 'the last he knew ; he would 
 offer to pay for his entertainment after breakfast, and affect 
 surprise at finding his money gone ; and say that it had been 
 stolen from him during his insane sleep. But Mrs. Goforth 
 talked of the late storm, and of her fears that the apples and 
 peaches would have been killed of her plans for gardening 
 and farming in short, of her own affairs altogether ; so the 
 lies Jacob had invented died in his heart. If she had breathed 
 one word of blame of him, they would have come out, black as 
 they were. 
 
 His next plan was to modify the story somewhat ; he would
 
 68 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 blame himself a little more, his parents a little less ; ,and he 
 would say he laid down, because he was too tired to go on, 
 and growing numb with the cold, had fallen asleep ; that he 
 discovered that morning his money was all gone, though how 
 he had lost it, he did not know. This gave him a little more 
 satisfaction, and he was just on the point of commencing an 
 exculpation, unasked, when Elsy brought to the table' some 
 warm cakes she had been baking, and offered him ; he felt 
 obliged to refuse : and when with her own hand she laid one 
 on his plate, he felt the second story all going to pieces. 
 
 He now wished heartily the meal was concluded, and 
 resolved to steal away the first moment he could do so, without 
 saying a word. He had no money with which to pay for 
 his entertainment, and what were apologies and thanks ? 
 Nothing ; he would steal away unobserved, and somewhere, 
 and some time, try to amend. 
 
 He did not know when nor where, nor once ask himself, why 
 then and there would not be as good a time and place as there 
 would ever be. 
 
 When the breakfast was done, Mrs. Goforth gave him the 
 best chair and the warmest corner ; and having told Elsy to 
 run over to farmer Hill's, and see if he could not spare his son 
 John to chop for them that afternoon, she went herself to the 
 " milk-house," a little cellar that lay under a mound of snow, 
 a few steps from the door. 
 
 The opportunity Jacob had longed for was come ; he stole 
 back for the bundle he had left, took it up, and there was 
 nothing in the way of escape, nothing but a natural nobility of 
 soul that was not all gone yet. There was the white bed, 
 Elsy's own bed, he knew, which she had given to him ; and
 
 TUB OUTCAST. 69 
 
 there was the pot of winter-flowers, blooming bright in his 
 face ; and there was the Bible on the snowy cover of the table ; 
 all mute, to be sure, but they seemed to rebuke the purposes 
 he had formed, nevertheless. No, he would not, and could not, 
 steal away like a thief, which he was not. Was not the house, 
 and all that was in it, trusted in his hands ? If there had 
 been any suspicion manifested toward him, it would be easy to 
 go ; but he could not return basely the frankness and confidence 
 he had met. He would see Mrs. Goforth tell her truly his 
 destitute condition, nothing else give her his thanks, which was 
 all he could give, and somewhere seek for honest employment. 
 
 So resolving, and wishing the resolutions were executed, he 
 sat, when his hostess returned, followed almost immediately by 
 Elsy, her cheeks blushing red with the rough kisses of the wind, 
 and her eyes sparkling, notwithstanding the disappointment she 
 had met. John Hill had gone to town an hour before, and 
 who was to chop their wood she could not tell ; but she 
 looked at Jacob when she said so in a way that implied a sus- 
 picion of his ability to solve the problem. 
 
 Jacob ventured to say he would like to work long enough to 
 pay for his entertainment, if he dare ask such a favor ; it would 
 not be asking, but doing a favor, Mrs. Goforth said ; and, 
 throwing down his bundle, the young man took up the axe. 
 
 The old dog that had kept a suspicious eye on him all the 
 morning, arose now, and with some hesitation followed him to 
 the woodpile, whence the sturdy strokes, issuing presently, made 
 agreeable music in the widow's house. That day, and the next, 
 and the next, he kept at work, and that week, and the next, 
 faithfully he performed all the duties intrusted to him ; but he 
 Bpoke no word concerning his past life.
 
 70 TIIE OUTCAST. 
 
 Many of the neighbors expressed surprise that Mrs. Goforth 
 should pick up a man iu the high road, and hire him to do her 
 work ; they could not account for it, except by saving she was 
 a strange woman ; they hoped she might not be paid for her 
 foolishness by finding her horse gone some morning, and her 
 hired man with it. But when she was seen going to church, 
 and this hired man riding iu the wagon with her own daughter, 
 there was such commotion in the congregation as had not 
 been known there for many a year. Some of the women, in- 
 deed, passed by the pew where the widow and daughter sat, 
 pretending not to see them, and such sayings as that " birds 
 of a feather flock together," and " a woman is known by the. 
 company she keeps," and the like, were whispered from one to 
 another, all having reference to Mrs. Goforth and the drunken 
 man, as everybody called Jacob. But the good woman had 
 little regard for what her neighbors thought, so long as her 
 own heart did not accuse her, for " what have I done," she 
 said, "except practice what they preach ?" 
 
 All the truth about the young man, after his arrival in the 
 neighborhood, was speedily bruited about and lost nothing as 
 it went. Elsy believed not one word of it, for a nicer or a 
 smarter person than Jacob Holcom she had never seen 
 in her life. If she could believe it was true she would 
 not talk with Jacob so freely ; but she knew better ; and even 
 if it were true, she thinks those who talk of it might find some 
 faults nearer home to attend to. 
 
 It was about the middle of the sugar-making season night 
 and raining. Jacob had been busy iu the sugar camp two or 
 three days, so busy that he had scarcely been at the house ex- 
 cept for the doing of necessary chores. The day we write of
 
 THE OUTCAST. 71 
 
 he had not been at home since morning ; he must be very tired, 
 and very hungry, and very lonesome, Elsy thinks ; and she 
 goes to the window often, to see whether he is coming, but 
 she does not see anything of the torchlight gleaming over the 
 hill and Jacob is used to make a torch of hickory bark to 
 light him on his way home at night so she keeps standing 
 and looking out into the dark, and the rain, hoping her mother 
 will say, " You had better run across the meadow, Elsy, and see 
 whether some accident has not happened to Jacob ;" but her mo- 
 ther keeps at her knitting, by the fireside, and doesn't say any- 
 thing of the sort; her heart has not fluttered her steady common 
 sense into unnatural fears. At last she can bear the darkness 
 and rain no longer ; who knows she thinks, but that Jacob may 
 have had another of those dreadful fits, and so fallen into the 
 fire, or the boiling water. " Mother," she says, " it is not 
 raining much now : I think I will take Carlo, and run over the 
 hill and see if I can tell whether Jacob is in the sugar camp ; 
 if I see him from the hill top I will come straight back." 
 
 "Very well, my child," replies Mrs. Goforth ; "but I don't 
 think anything has happened to him." 
 
 Elsy was not long in tossing a shawl over her head, nor long 
 in reaching the hill-top ; she did not once think of darkness 
 and rain ; one moment she paused and stood on tiptoe, looking 
 earnestly into the great red light that shone against the trees, 
 and flickered along the ground of the sugar-camp. She did 
 not see Jacob, and therefore sped on faster than the wind. 
 
 Before the stpne furnace, where the sugar water was boiling, 
 a rude hut had been constructed, which afforded protection 
 from the storm ; and here, seated on a low bench, watching 
 the jets of flame as they broke from the main body of fire
 
 V2 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 quivered a moment, aud went out, sat Jacob Holcom, when 
 Elsy, her hair dripping with rain, and her face pale with fright, 
 presented herself before him. 
 
 " What can have happened ?" he asked in surprise, taking 
 her hand and drawing her to a seat before the fire. 
 
 Elsy's cheek grew red when she found that she was come of 
 a foolish errand, and she stammered the truth her fears for 
 him as the best excuse she could make. It was Jacob's turn 
 to be confused now, and taking up a handful of the straw that 
 carpeted his rude hut, he pulled it to pieces, his eyes bent on 
 the ground, stepping aside till he was quite out of the shelter. 
 
 " Oh, don't stay in the rain," said Elsy, " sit here by me, 
 there is room enough." 
 
 Jacob sat down, but kept his face averted from the gentle, 
 confidant eyes of his companion. " I am sure you have not 
 told me true," said Elsy, " and that you are not well. Oh, if 
 you should have another of those dreadful fits 1" 
 
 Well might she have thought, poor simple-hearted child, 
 from the strange behavior of the young man, that a fit was 
 about to seize him, for as she looked up in his face, he covered 
 it with his hands, and she presently saw the tears coming out 
 between his fingers. 
 
 All at once she divined the truth, she thought she had 
 wounded him by speaking of the fit, for people said it was a 
 drunken fit, and Jacob might fancy she believed it. 
 
 How to begin she did not know, but to sit in silence and see 
 Jacob weeping like a child, was not to be thought of, so she 
 stammered in some way that she did not know as anybody had 
 said anything against him, and if they had she did not believe 
 it, she did not care what it was. And the more she said
 
 THE OUTCAST. 73 
 
 she did not care what was spoken against him, and that 
 she believed he was all that was good and true; the more 
 discomforted the young man seemed. If she had joined her 
 denunciations to the rest, he could have denied their justice 
 perhaps ; but to be thought so much better than he was, made 
 him more sadly humble, more truly good, than he had ever 
 been in his life. 
 
 He assured Elsy, in a broken voice, that he was quite well, 
 but that he was not worthy of the interest she had taken in 
 him, though he thanked her for it. 
 
 " Poor Jacob," thought she, " I am sure his mind is wander- 
 ing ; he not worthy, indeed ! then I don't know who is." And 
 she went herself out into the rain to mend the fire, and after- 
 ward arranged her shawl against the crevices of the wall by 
 which Jacob sat, so that the wind and rain should not blow 
 against him. 
 
 " Sit here yourself," said the sugar-maker, rising from the 
 seat, and drawing Elsy toward it ; " do, I pray, for I cannot ; 
 I would rather stand out in the rain." 
 
 " Jacob, what do you mean ?" she asked in affright ; 
 " sit down beside me ; the bench is long enough, and tell me 
 what it is troubles you." And there, the rain beating around 
 them, and the fire brightening, and fading, and brightening again, 
 Jacob told all the story of his life, sparing himself no whit. 
 
 But if he has done wrong sometimes, thought Elsy, what of 
 that ? I suppose every one has some faults, and if everybody 
 has turned against him I am sure there is the more need I 
 should not. In fact, she believed he made his vices greatly 
 larger than they were ; but even if he did not, it was so mag- 
 nanimous to confess them, and to come back to virtue. Verily, 
 4
 
 74 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 she admired and loved Jacob more than ever before. When 
 he came to tell of the black eyes that had made all the woods 
 about his home brighter than the May sunshine, and how their 
 loving beams changed into sharp arrows, and pierced him 
 through and through, Elsy's little foot tapped smartly on the 
 ground, and her own eyes looked as indignant as it was in their 
 power to do, for in her heart she felt that the woman who 
 could scorn Jacob, no matter what the provocation, did not 
 deserve to have a lover. It is to be supposed that Jacob saw 
 all this, for such thoughts shine right in one's face as plainly as 
 written words ; nevertheless, to make assurance doubly sure, no 
 doubt, he said, " and you, Elsy, would have spurned me just 
 as she did, if I had been a lover of yours !" 
 
 " How can you say so, Jacob ?" she replied, " I should have 
 felt that you needed me most when that you were not strong 
 enough in yourself to resist temptation." 
 
 " Dear Elsy I" he said, and the bench, which a little 
 while before was not big enough for two, might have accom- 
 modated three very well as he spoke. But there is no need to 
 repeat what more they said ; suffice it, they forgot to make a 
 torch to light them home, each confidently believing the full 
 moon was shining in all her splendor, they saw the way so 
 well. 
 
 When Jacob rapped next at the parsonage, it was not to 
 entreat a night's lodging, and the door opened so wide, and 
 the parson smiled so blandly, he could hardly believe it was 
 the same house or the same man he had seen before ; and 
 when he sat next in the pew, at church, with Mrs. Goforth and 
 Elsy, not Elsy Goforth any more, there was nobody in all the 
 house that did not see them, and smile, and shake hands.
 
 THE OUTCAST. 75 
 
 Jacob never had another fit, and the manly dignity and 
 propriety of his conduct soon won for him, not only the esteem 
 and admiration of all the neighborhood, but led the people 
 to believe they had wronged him in their first accusation ; and 
 they bestowed upon Mrs. Goforth the reputation of having a 
 gift for curing fits, and many were the applications for advice 
 she received in consequence. When she assured them that she 
 practised no art, and that simply doing as she would be done 
 by, was all her wisdom, there was invariably disappointment 
 and sorrow, so hard is it to understand the hardest of human 
 possibilities, and the most wonder-working. Five years after 
 the mysterious cure, Jacob Holcom owned one of the prettiest 
 little farms about Clovernook, and in all that time Elsy and he 
 had never had any disagreement, except when he affirmed that 
 she was an angel, which she always stoutly denied ; but she 
 was a good and true wife, and that is but a little lower than 
 an angel.
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 " GET out of my way !" said Luther Brisbane, pushing the 
 gate against the little girl whose face was pressed on it. He 
 was just coming home from school, two miles away, and in 
 no very amiable humor having made bad recitations that day, 
 and failed of receiving his customary honors. 
 
 " I thought the gate opened the other way," answered the 
 child, modestly, and stepping confusedly aside. 
 
 " There is but one right way to do anything," replied the 
 boy, " and this is the right way to open the gate ; and shoving 
 it roughly against the little girl, he went hastily down the 
 smoothly-gravelled walk, without once again turning his eyes 
 towards her. 
 
 She looked after him, feeling sorry for the offence she had 
 given, but quite at a loss what to say ; and when he disap- 
 peared round the corner of the house, her slim little fingers 
 were pulling at one another, and her brown eyes slowly filling 
 with tears. 
 
 " Well, my son," said Mrs. Brisbane, looking up from her 
 work, and smiling, as he entered the room where she sat, and 
 dashed himself into a chair, sachel in hand, and hat lowered 
 over his brows. 
 
 He made no reply to her pleasant salutation ; but fixed his
 
 HASTY WOEDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 77 
 
 grey eyes sharply and demandingly upon her. Mrs. Brisbane 
 was well used to that ungracious demand, but she was Luther's 
 mother, and humored the selfish caprices of her son, as fond 
 mothers are likely to do. 
 
 She put down her work at once, and slipping the sachel from 
 Luther's arm, hung it in its proper place, and then removing 
 his hat, smoothed away the heavy black hair from his forehead, 
 and said she would have the supper prepared at once, she was 
 sure he must be very tired and hungry. "Yes, as tired and 
 hungry as I can be," said Luther, lopping his head heavily 
 against his mother, and never once thinking she might be tired 
 too. He was the only son, and his parents, not a little proud 
 of him (and indeed there was a good deal in him to be proud 
 of), had given way to his natural strong will, till it had grown 
 to stubbornness, a stubbornness quite too hard to melt, and 
 which, if subdued at all, must needs be broken by some terribly 
 sharp blow. Perhaps those little fingers, in their workings, 
 were gathering strength for such a blow we shall see. 
 
 Luther saw that it was a little girl's dress his mother was 
 sewing on ; but he was too proud to seem interested in little 
 things, and without appearing to notice her occupation, threw 
 himself at full length on the sofa, and taking up book after 
 book, went over the day's studies in good earnest. But it was 
 not his nature to forget himself long, or allow others to forget 
 him ; and suddenly, without regard to his mother's preoccupa- 
 tion, he took off his waistcoat, and throwing it at her feet, said, 
 " That most have two buttons sewed on," which meant, of 
 course, " You, my mother, who should have nothing to do but 
 attend to my wants, must sew them on." 
 
 For once she did not allow herself to be interrupted, but kept
 
 78 HASTY WORDS, AXD THKIU APOLOGY. 
 
 on steadily stitching the ruffle to the short sleeve of the blue 
 dress she was making. 
 
 " I say, mother, did you hear ?" said Luther, holding his book 
 aside, and fixing his grey eyes upon her after the old fashion. 
 
 " Yes, my son," she replied, " but I can't do it just now." 
 
 "Why can't you?" 
 
 Mrs. Brisbane said simply that she was busy perhaps 
 Luther thought she would explain what she was busy about, 
 and why the work was urgent ; but she did not, and pushing 
 the curtain back, further and further, as the light grew dim, 
 and lifting the sewing a little closer to her eyes, kept on. 
 Luther would not for the world ask his mother what she was 
 doing he was quite above such trifling interests, or wished 
 to be thought so ; but try as he would, he could not suppress 
 the wonder as to whether the dress was for the little girl he 
 had seen at the gate ; and, if so, why it was for her ; and why 
 indeed, she was there. With every shadow that crossed the 
 door he glanced aside from the page, but he saw not the little 
 girl he looked to see. 
 
 Presently he might have been seen coming round the corner 
 of the house, whistling carelessly, and looking for nothing in 
 particular certainly not for the little girl, for scarcely did he 
 turn his head towards her. 
 
 She was sitting on the border of grass at the edge of the 
 walk close by the gate, where Luther had left her, and with 
 one hand was pulling the curl out of her brown hair, while the 
 other rested on the head of the big watch-dog thai lay with his 
 speckled nose half buried in the turf at her feet. 
 
 Luther mounted the steps of the portico, and looking in all 
 directions but where the dog was, whistled for him loudly per-
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 79 
 
 haps to arrest the attention of the little girl ; but her brown 
 eyes looked steadily at the ground ; and when the dog, slipping 
 his head from beneath her hand, trotted down the walk, she 
 remained quiet, looking on the ground all the same, only 
 betraying that she felt herself observed, by pulling her scanty 
 skirts over her bare feet. 
 
 Luther petted and scolded the dog by turns, but without 
 eliciting any notice from the child ; he then took his play-fel- 
 low's ear in one hand, aud raced up and down the walk, close 
 to her feet, but she, turning slightly aside, picked out the grass, 
 spear by spear, never once lifting her brown eyes. 
 
 She had gone to the gate to meet and welcome him home ; 
 he had given her the unceremonious greeting recorded, and no 
 second friendly overture would she make. Luther had found 
 his match : half way down the walk he stopped suddenly, 
 exclaiming, " Oh, I have found something beautiful ; whoever 
 comes for it may have it." Now, there was no one to come 
 except the child at the gate ; but he had not called directly to 
 her, and she would not go. Luther now sat down on the bank 
 and fixed his grey eyes on the little girl (for he was not used to 
 be so disregarded), but in vain were all his looks of displeasure 
 when she would not see them. 
 
 He was sorry in his heart for what he had said, but he would 
 not openly acknowledge it ; and modulating his voice to some- 
 thing like entreaty, he said, " Come here and see what I have 
 found." 
 
 " It is nothigg that belongs to me," the child answered, for 
 the first time lifting up her eyes. 
 
 Encouraged by the mildness of her voice, he added, authori- 
 tatively, " I tell you to come and see."
 
 80 HASTY WORDS, AXD TIIEIK APOLOGY. 
 
 " I will not," answered the little girl, tossing the curls from 
 her bare brown shoulders, and returning his gaze. 
 
 " Well," said Luther, "if you won't come for it, you shan't 
 have it that's all ;" and he affected to put something in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " I don't want what is not mine," she replied. 
 
 " But how do you know that it is not yours ?" 
 
 " Because," said the child, wiping her eyes with her hand, 
 " I had nothing to lose." 
 
 Luther regarded her more attentively now, and saw that she 
 did not look as if she had much to lose her dress was faded 
 and outgrown so much, that, try as she would, she could not 
 make the scanty skirt stay over her bare brown feet. One by 
 one the tears fell from her eyes slowly down her cheek?, and 
 with each that fell the boy took a step towards her. He had 
 not spoken as yet, however, when the gate opened, and Mr. 
 Brisbane entered. He brushed aside the brown tangles that 
 had fallen down the little girl's cheeks, gave her a flower which 
 he had in his hand, and led her down the walk towards the 
 house, saying to Luther as they came where he was standing, 
 " This is to be your playmate hereafter, my son ;" and as he 
 spoke he joined the hands of the two little folks, telling the girl 
 that that was his son, and his name was Luther ; and the boy, 
 that the girl's name was Almira Curtiss. 
 
 "Myrie my mother called me Myrie," said the little girl. 
 
 " But it is not right, for all that," said the boy. 
 
 Myrie spoke not ; but her fingers loosened their hold of ,the 
 boy's hand ; and though they entered the bouse side by side, it 
 was in dissatisfied silence on the part of both. 
 
 Thus much of the first acquaintance of the lover and ladv, as
 
 HASTY WOKDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 81 
 
 they were to be hereafter. Not far away from the substantial 
 and comfortable home of good Mr. Brisbane (for he was a 
 good and exceedingly benevolent man), there had lived and 
 the day previous to the opening of our story, died a widow, 
 whose only wealth was her virtues and her little Myrie. When 
 Mr. Brisbane had prayed at her dying bed-side, she had said, 
 " What shepherd will take care of my little lamb till the heav- 
 enly shepherd calls her ?" and he had laid his hand on the 
 drooping head of the little girl, and comforted the mother with 
 the assurance that the orphan should not be forgotten. 
 
 And the funeral was over, and the mother laid to rest to 
 that deep, deep rest, to which she had gone gladly the 
 promise had been kept ; and Myrie had opened her brown eyes 
 wonderingly to feel the kiss of a stranger on her cheek. 
 
 The door of the empty and poor little house where she was 
 born, and where all the nine years of her life had been passed, 
 was closed behind her ; and in a pretty carriage, drawn by gay 
 sleek horses, she was carried to a new home a very fine one 
 as she then thought. So came the meeting of the littte folks 
 the poor orphan and the rich man's son. 
 
 When Myrie had been living two years at Mr. Brisbane's, 
 she went one day to pick berries a good way from the house. 
 When she came near the hedge where the blackberries grew, 
 she saw on the next side-hill a boy not much older that herself, 
 binding sheaves of wheat in the sunshine. Sometimes he 
 stopped to pick the briers from his fingers or his feet, for he 
 wore no shoes, and was indeed in all respects poorly clad. He 
 did not sing or whistle as he bound up the bundles, but stooped 
 along the hill-side as though work was his doom. Myrie 
 stopped quite still to look at him his patched trousers, and 
 4*
 
 HASTY -\VOKDS, AXD TUEIK APOLOGY. 
 
 torn' hat, and tanned and bleeding feet, drew her sympathy ; 
 and if she had done as her heart inclined, she would have pnt 
 down her basket and assisted him for an hour or t\vo at his 
 tiresome work. 
 
 It was so cool and pleasant where she was, for the wild 
 grape-vines were looped from limb to limb along the hedge 
 where the briers grew, that she every now and then turned to 
 observe the poor tired worker in the hot sunshine. 
 
 Her basket was not yet half full when the twittering and 
 fluttering in the leaves overhead were greatly increased, a 
 sudden gust of wind turned the leaves all wrong-side out, and 
 a heavy black shadow ran along the hill, chasing the sunshine 
 away. She ran out of the hedge to see if the sun was going 
 down, it was so dark ; and taking off her hood, turned her face 
 towards the sky, where the blackness was becoming dense. 
 There was a flash of blinding light and a thunder-peal that 
 seemed for a moment crashing the sky, and then went rumbling 
 and muttering into silence. 
 
 Plash, plash in her face came the heavy rain drops. 
 
 The little boy threw down the bundle he was binding, and 
 bending forward as he ran, came towards the hedge. 
 
 " Here, little girl," he said, as he parted the heavy tangles 
 of leafy vines that roofed a scrubby tree, and drooped around 
 it almost to the ground : " come in here, and the rain will 
 never touch you." 
 
 She was quick to avail herself of the offered shelter, and in 
 a moment the two children were sitting side by side on a mound 
 of turf, listening half afraid and half delighted, to the music of 
 the rain on the broad green leaves above them. 
 
 " Don't be afraid," the boy would say, again and again, after
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 80 
 
 the subsiding of the sharp thunder and lightning : but though 
 he said so often, " Don't be afraid," he was greatly awed, if not 
 fearful, and with every flash uplifted his hands appealing 
 involuntarily for protection. 
 
 Presently the rain found its way through the leafy roof, and 
 the curls of Myrie were full of it ; but the violence of the storm 
 was past now, and little cared the children for the plashing of 
 the bright drops on their heads, or in their faces. It was 
 natural they should begin to talk about going home as the storm 
 subsided, and then it was that the homes, and afterward the 
 names of the strangers, became known to each other. Charles 
 Eobinson was the name of the lad he had no father, nor 
 mother, nor other friend, he said he was lately come to the 
 neighborhood to seek his fortune, and chanced to be at the 
 time in the employ of the farmer who owned the adjoining 
 wheat field. He brushed the rain drops carefully from his 
 worn hat, saying, half aadly though jocularly, that he should be 
 very sorry to have it spoiled. 
 
 Myrie told how poor she had been, and how poor she was 
 then, except for the kindness .of the good man with whom she 
 lived, for she felt that her pretty bright dress contrasted with 
 the old soiled clothes of the boy, and she knew that he felt it 
 too, and in the gentle goodness of her heart, tried to make 
 their positions as nearly equal as she could for Myrie was not 
 proud or willful, except to those who towards her were proud 
 and self-willed. 
 
 Charley smiled, for he felt the kindness, and for a moment the 
 dew came to his eyes ; but having twisted off a handful of grass 
 that grew up pale and tender in that shady bower, by way of 
 diverting his thoughts, he brushed the rain drops from the thick
 
 84 IIASTY WOIIDS, AND TIIKIIi APOLOGY. 
 
 curls that fell along his forehead, and parting the viny curtains, 
 stepped resolutely out into the sunshine for the clouds were 
 breaking up, and hedge and wheat field, and the wet woods 
 close by, were all shining in a flood of splendor. The birds 
 were singing in full chorus, hopping from ground to tree, and 
 from limb to limb, for their exuberance of joy would not let 
 them remain quiet. " Come, Myrie," called Charley, " and 1 
 will help you fill your basket before I go back to my work." 
 
 " But you will lose the time," answered Myrie, glad of com- 
 panionship, yet at the same time mindful of the lad's interest. 
 
 " Oh, no matter, I can work by the moonlight I meant to 
 do so, at any rate." 
 
 " What for ?" asked Myrie. 
 
 Charley laughed gayly, and said, " To finish the field's work, 
 to be sure what else should I do it for ?" 
 
 " I thought, perhaps," said Myrie, half ashamed to place the 
 sordid calculation beside the generous impulse of the boy " I 
 thought perhaps, you would get more money." 
 
 Charley laughed again, and said, " that some way or other 
 money slipped right through his hands when he had it, and 
 that he believed he was just as well off without a cent as with 
 it;" and treading carefully, for the briers were sharp, and his 
 feet bare, he made his way to where the berries were thickest, 
 and Myrie's basket was presently heaped almost up to the 
 handle. 
 
 On the hill-side, opposite the wheat field, she turned as she 
 went towards home and saw Charley bending along the stubble; 
 he looked up and, with a wave of his old hat, bade her a 
 second and genial good bye. 
 
 " Only see, Lu, what beautiful berries !" and taking the
 
 HASTY WOEDS, AND TIIEIR APOLOGY. 85 
 
 *eafy covering from her basket, Myrie ran dowa the walk 
 toward the portico, where sat Luther, with a book before his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Very beautiful 1" he replied, scarcely glancing aside from 
 the page. 
 
 " Where have you been !" asked Myrie, in good-natured sur- 
 prise, bending one knee on the step at his feet, for she saw 
 that his shoes, generally so polished, were positively muddy, 
 ,ind that the hems of his white trowsers were almost dripping 
 wet, while the usually prim collar lopped, damp and limberly. 
 
 Luther did not so much as lift his eyes this time, but in 
 answer to the question of where he had been, replied concisely, 
 " in the rain." 
 
 Myrie said not another word, but having adjusted the leaves 
 that covered her basket, skipped round the corner of the house, 
 provokingly indifferent. 
 
 " Did you see Luther ?" asked Mrs. Brisbane, as Myrie came 
 in ; " he has been w r atching for you this half-hour." 
 
 " I did not think he was watching for me," she replied ; " he 
 would hardly speak." 
 
 " Well, poor boy," said the mother, " he is a little vexed, I 
 suppose, and no wonder ; he went out with the umbrella to 
 bring you home, and could not find you ; and besides that, was 
 caught in the rain, and soiled his clean clothes, as you saw." 
 
 " Oh how sorry I am !" said Myrie, and filling the cup with 
 the berries, she hastened to offer them to Luther, with the 
 expression of her sympathy and regret. 
 
 " Where were you ?" asked he, setting down the cup as 
 though for his part he cared nothing about blackberries. 
 
 Myrie said where she was, and with whom, adding that
 
 86 HASTY WO EDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 Charley Robinson was the nicest and best little boy she ever 
 saw. 
 
 " Dear me," said Luther, tartly, " if I had known you were 
 so well protected, I 'might have spared myself much trouble, 
 and the danger of getting cold and dying, perhaps." 
 
 Myrie laughed a little derisively, and replied, " that the 
 warmth of his temper would be likely to keep off a chill ;" and 
 sitting down on the portico, opposite him, amused herself by 
 humming a tune. Perhaps she thought that Luther would 
 speak to her ; but he did not, and directly, as though the tune 
 interrupted his studies, closed the volume and retired to his own 
 room, leaving the berries untouched. 
 
 " It would not be Charley Robinson that would ever be so 
 sullen, I know," thought Myrie ; and as if the thought were 
 some retaliation upon Luther, she recalled all the pleasant 
 interview of the afternoon, and at last ended in a dreamy 
 musing, forgetting Luther altogether. 
 
 With now and then some such ruffling of the current as we 
 have described, the lives of the little folks ran on. Many 
 a spring they gathered flowers together along the fields and 
 in the woods many a morning they planned and planted the 
 garden and many a time picked together the white nuts 
 from the ground, and the red apples from the trees ; and so 
 they stepped up the years, one after another, into manhood 
 and womanhood, and the blushes many a time shone between 
 Myrie's curls, when Luther found place for some tender senti- 
 ment, as he instructed her in French, or drawing, or music. 
 
 And during these years, Charley Robinson went tossing 
 about the world, drifting every now and then into his boyhood's 
 harbor, by chance as it seemed perhaps it was so, neverthe-
 
 IIASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 87 
 
 less lie was sure to come first and last to see Myrie she 
 always joyously, demonstratively glad to see him he always 
 bashfully, silently, more than glad to see her. 
 
 Sometimes his pockets were well lined, and his coat glossy 
 and new ; and at other times his feet were badly shod, and the 
 brim of his hat not much less torn than of old. Poor Charley ! 
 fortune played all games with him. 
 
 He had seen many countries, and a number of the great 
 cities of the world, picking up some knowledge, but not much 
 wisdom ; enlarging experience, but reaping small profit ;-now 
 on the sea as a common sailor, now as a traveller with money 
 and leisure ; sometimes prying stones from the hard quarry, 
 for the sake of daily necessities, and then again coining money 
 by this or that chance speculation : but his hands had still the 
 old trick the money slipped through them no poor man nor 
 woman crossed his path who was not the richer for it, and 
 often his last shilling went with the rest. 
 
 It was nothing Charley said he would get more some way ; 
 and so he did, but it was often some very hard way. But he 
 seemed rather to like bad fortune, and put his shoulder to the 
 wheel with the same desperate energy, no matter how small 
 the benefit accruing to himself, or if, indeed, the advantage 
 were all another's poor Charley ! there was no method in his 
 nature all was just as it chanced. 
 
 Up and down the world were scores of people who had enjoyed 
 his liberality, and said, " What a good, careless fellow he is !" 
 and forgotten him, for though a genial companion, the impres- 
 sion he left was generally evanescent. There was not in his 
 character strength and power enough to leave its impress on 
 others fixed and well-defined.
 
 HASTY WOUDS, AND TIIK1K APOLOGY. 
 
 Luther never, with all the advantages of education and man- 
 ners, prospective wealth and respectability of position, and 
 beloved, as he knew himself to be, felt quite easy in the pres- 
 ence of the self-cultured and really noble-hearted Charley. He 
 invariably spoke of him as one so much his inferior as by no 
 possibility to come in competition with him, but when they met, 
 Charley compelled from him an acknowledgment of social 
 equality. For it is hard to frown in the face that smiles upon 
 us confidingly, or to draw back our hand from a cordial grasp. 
 But he was careful to repeat to Myrie whatever stories of 
 Charley's improvidence he could hear, doubtless with no inten- 
 tion to exaggerate, and yet the character of Charley never 
 shone the brighter for his handling. 
 
 If he had ever said, " My dear Myrie, I am ashamed of the 
 weakness ; but I am pained, jealous if you will, when I see 
 you so much entertained by the adventurous tales of Charley 
 Robinson, for I fear the glow of his really generous nature 
 makes my selfishness seem all the darker." If he had said 
 this, or anything like this, Myrie would have told him frankly 
 and truly that Charley was to her like some poor brother who 
 had shared all the hardships of her cabin-home, and with 
 whom her sympathy, in consequence of shared pain and poverty, 
 was very close ; that it seemed her duty as well as pleasure to be 
 to him strength and comfort to make, as it were, a dewy morn- 
 ing in the weary workday of his life ; for lightly as he talked, 
 and gayly as he laughed over the struggles he had had with ad- 
 versity, she knew that it was not in human nature to be insensi- 
 ble to suffering that " the flesh will quiver where the pincers 
 tear," however the martyr may suppress the groans. 
 
 But such was not the course of Luther Brisbane ; he would
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD TIJLEIR APOLOGY. 89 
 
 not confess the weakness of fearing any man, but strove to 
 make void his real fear by pretence of its non-existence ; and 
 by the frequent assertion of supremacy and declaration of his 
 dislike of Charley, he called out defences from Myrie, which 
 she would never otherwise have made ; and whatever woman 
 is required to defend, she speedily learns to love ; so, whatever, 
 coolness Luther showed the young man, she atoned for by a 
 double warmth. 
 
 When Luther went away to college it was with a heart 
 quite at rest. Charley was gone, Heaven only knew where. 
 When he came to say good bye to Luther that young man had 
 treated him with unusual cordiality he quite received him 
 into friendship, even to confidence ; it is to be hoped he did 
 not know the full extent of the harm he was doing, that he 
 was in truth but softening a heart that he might press the 
 thorn down deep. 
 
 As they sat under the summer trees together, the young col- 
 legian unfolded to his pleased listener the plan of his future 
 life, the crowning bliss of which was, of course, to be 
 his marriage with Myrie, to whom he was already betrothed. 
 
 The next day Charley was gone from the neighborhood, no 
 one knew why nor where. The full moon that had shone so 
 brightly over the lovers the night past had lighted his lone- 
 some steps anywhere he cared not, so it was to new scenes 
 and new adventures ; yet every step that divided him from 
 Myrie, stirred the thorn that was in his heart, and made it 
 bleed afresh. Poor, poor Charley ! 
 
 There is a sort of love, if love it may be called, that only 
 lives upon opposition it will break down every barrier, climb 
 to every height, and descend to every depth, to obtain its 

 
 00 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 object, or in other words to triumph it is like the boy's pas- 
 sion for the butterfly, prompting the chase through brier and 
 bush, up steep^ places, and over rough grounds but when the 
 treasure is captured, the passion dies the pretty wings, 
 handled roughly, lose all their beauty ; and feeble and spirit- 
 less, the insect is let go to creep and flutter as it can, admired 
 of its captor never more. It is, perhaps, wrong to 
 call what is only love of power, love but I have called 
 it so, because it is a counterfeit that passes current in most 
 places. Selfish natures, wishing to subdue all things to their 
 own interests, are apt, I think, to deceive themselves ; and it 
 is not that those men are hypocrites beyond all others who 
 smile, and smile, and murder while they smile, but simply more 
 ambitious of subjugating others to themselves. It may be 
 that Luther so deceived himself. 
 
 After the first sorrow of separation, no bird in the meadows 
 was so happy as Myrie ; you might hear her singing under the 
 trees, and skipping nimbly about the garden, now telling the 
 dog about his absent master ; sometimes, indeed, she would 
 sit in her chamber for an hour or more ; but if you could 
 have peeped over her shoulder, you would have seen that she 
 was writing and rewriting letter after letter, and yet all the 
 same letter ; for one and all began with " Luther, dear Luther," 
 and ended with " Luther, dear Luther." She was trying to 
 maker her letter good enough to send to him poor, sweet 
 child ! 
 
 He had not gone three days, when she began to watch 
 anxiously for Mr. Brisbane as he returned evenings from the 
 village where the post-office was ; he might bring a letter, she 
 thought ; indeed it was the most likely thing in the world, that
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIK APOLOGY. 91 
 
 Luther would seize the first spare moment, and, perhaps, from 
 the first inn at which he should stop send back a line to say 
 how he thought of her every waking moment, and dreamed of 
 her every sleeping one, and pined to be back in the past, or 
 away in the reunion of the distant future. She was more 
 troubled for Luther -than for herself she had so many com- 
 forts of which he was deprived. Could she not sit in the 
 shade of the very tree where they had sat so often read the 
 poems they had read together ; and were not these things the 
 accessories of a closer spiritual communion than he could 
 have ? Ah, yes ! Luther had the hardest had, indeed, all 
 the suffering. She had flowers, and books and walks, and a 
 thousand things to assure her and reassure her ; but Luther, 
 poor Luther, could see no evidence of the blessed past out of 
 his own heart. That, she knew, was filled to aching fullness 
 with its honied sweets ; and she saw that the pleasure of new 
 sensations and new experiences were his that his zest of mere 
 animal life was much keener than hers that he had, too, the 
 sustaining stimulus of prospective endeavor and triumph ; but 
 with all, and for all, Luther, poor Luther, had the worst of it. 
 
 After the few first evenings, Myrie prolonged her watches 
 by beginning them an hour too soon ; and when in the distance 
 she saw her guardian approaching, she could not stay within 
 doors any longer, but would go out to meet him at first only 
 to the gate, then to the next hill, and so further arid further 
 as the nights went by and no letter cume. 
 
 She never said she had come for anything, or expected any 
 thing ; but the smile and eager look with which she always 
 met Luther's father would presently fade away, and, taking 
 his hand, she would walk beside him, looking on the ground,
 
 92 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 and speaking not a word. If asked what the matter was, she 
 would say, " Nothing," and that was all. 
 
 The color began to fade in her cheeks, except now and then 
 when they flushed with the old brightness at the thought of 
 Luther's constancy, or with her own shame for indulging a 
 doubt. Were there not a thousand reasons for his silence 
 the hurry and confusion of settlement, and all the engrossing 
 occupations of a new life's beginning. She had been foolishly 
 exacting, and would wait her lover's leisure and pleasure more 
 patiently. Then the fearful thought would come that he might 
 be ill, for love is of all passions most tormenting ; and in measur- 
 ing the strength of his attachment by her own, she could not by 
 any possibility reconcile herself to the silence. She could not 
 have thus kept him waiting, if life and liberty were hers, no 
 matter what else intervened. Then would come the thought of 
 forgetfulness and desertion, and the mental and bodily prostra- 
 tion would be followed by the bitter energy of reacting despair ; 
 but this came at moments and at intervals, and for the most 
 part she felt that some dreadful calamity had befallen her dar- 
 ling ; for, underlying all possibilities and probabilities, was the 
 deep-seated conviction that, whatever her sufferings, he had the 
 worst of it. 
 
 One week two weeks ten days nearly two weeks were 
 gone. The caty-dids in the top of the high pear-tree that 
 grew near the door were noisily welcoming in the early autumn, 
 and in the distant woods the winds were making that moaning 
 murmur that comes when the glory of summer is gone : the 
 sunshine was lessening on the hills, and the gladness in Myrie's 
 heart was lessening like it. She had scarcely spoken all day, 
 and yet she was not ill, she said, nor sad ; and to every
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD TIIEIE APOLOGY. >3 
 
 inquiry as to her disaffection, the reply was, " Nothing, 
 nothing." 
 
 Mrs. Brisbane, kind, motherly soul, put down her sewing 
 more than once, and laying her cool, moist hands on the girl's 
 forehead, besought her to lie down for a little while to taste 
 of cordial, or to walk among the late garden flowers, and try 
 to steal from their beauty some color for her cheeks. 
 
 Myrie's eyes would fill with tears ; but she would say she 
 was very well and very happy, and remain quietly gazing away 
 across the fading woods and hill-tops she herself knew not 
 where. It was not the cordial, nor the walk, nor the bodily 
 rest she required. Poor Myrie ! 
 
 She thought now, as the sun went down, she was watchjbg 
 the fading light, and the motion of the leaves, and the darting 
 hither and thither of the night-hawks, that were come out an 
 'hour before their time ; but all the time her eyes kept gazing 
 in one direction ; and if the look fixed itself nowhere, it took in 
 nearly all the dusty length of the road till it wound down 
 among the hills beyond the village, where the one spire, beauti- 
 fully white, held up its glittering cross. She wondered how Mrs. 
 Brisbane smiled so cheerfully, and went about the house possess- 
 ing her soul in peace how could she be so calm and fearless of 
 harm, saying lightly, when she spoke of Luther, that it was 
 enough, like the boy, to remember them only when he needed 
 them. 
 
 The sun went down, and the owl hooted dismally, as if in 
 mockery of all gayer sounds, and still Myrie kept the old position. 
 She would not go to the gate even to meet her guardian that 
 night ; ' she was trying to believe she was no longer hopefully 
 expectant, as if she could shut her heart from her heart.
 
 94 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 Foolish girl ! Many hills were yet between them when she saw 
 him, and though, to fortify herself against disappointment, she 
 told her soul over and over that he would not have any letter 
 and if he had, it would not be for her the first approach- 
 ing footfalls made her heart beat the brightest color up to her 
 cheek that had been there for days and days. 
 
 She would not turn her eyes towards her guardian as he 
 came in ; but when he said, " here is a letter from Lu," there 
 was an involuntary reaching out of her hand, and such an 
 exclamation of joy as one might make if the dead were brought 
 to life. It was a very little sheet of note-paper, folded neatly, and 
 addressed simply, " For Myrie." " How did you get it !" and 
 ^could it come to me this way?" were Myrie's first happy 
 exclamations ; and when she learned from her guardian that it 
 had been inclosed in the envelope containing one to himself, 
 the first enthusiasm was gone. She hardly knew why, but site 
 would rather have broken the seal, and that the superscription 
 had been all to herself. 
 
 " And how does he excuse himself for not having written till 
 this late day?" inquired the mother, still evenly 'drawing up 
 the threads of her sewing work. 
 
 "Let me see what he does say," replied the father, and, 
 adjusting his spectacles, he unfolded the letter, and placing the 
 candle between it and himself, read aloud slowly : " ' Deal- 
 parents, I have been too busy and too happy to write.' " 
 
 "There, Myrie," exclaimed Mrs. Brisbane, interrupting the 
 reading, " I told you so !" 
 
 " I know it," replied the girl, and, crushing the letter she 
 held, glided out of the honse, the bitter waters that had been 
 stirring in her heart, brimming over her eyes.
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 95 
 
 The moon came out of the lonesome woods, and looked 
 down on her tenderly and sadly, and climbed higher and higher 
 to the middle of the great quiet sky before she ar.ose from the 
 seat she had taken under the low apple tree the same on which 
 she sat when Charlie stooped over her, and with one kiss 
 turned heavy-hearted away how heavy-hearted she felt now 
 for the first time, for she suffered now with a kindred pang. 
 It was as if her tears, watering a hitherto unnoticed bud, 
 caused it to burst open, and she saw what manner of flower it 
 might have been. 
 
 Then, as she smoothed out the as yet unopened note, and 
 with a step steadier than that with which she came, turned to- 
 wards the house, came the thought that had come to her once 
 before, when she was a little girl. " Charley would not have 
 done so." But where was he ? She could not tell ; but in her 
 heart she wished heaven would keep him and guide him back 
 some time, and with no conscious significance, she sang, as she 
 walked under the moonlight, " Jamie's on the stormy Sea." 
 Who shall say that thoughts go not like arrows to their 
 marks, and leave their impress more or less deep, as spirits arc 
 kindred or impressible. 
 
 Luther did not say to Myrie he had been too busy and too 
 happy to write he did not intimate any thought of her expec- 
 tation of a letter earlier, or of one at all indeed. True, he 
 began with " Dear Myrie ;" but to the reader the words seemed 
 dead, as it were there was no earnest and deep meaning in 
 them. He expressed no fear of her unfaithfulness there was 
 nothing to be faithful to, as the letter suggested no concern 
 lest she might be unhappy of course she was happy why 
 should she not be ? Life was before her, and the choice of her
 
 90 HASTY WOEDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 own way thus implying freedom from any obligation to him. 
 He did not say he thought of the old walks, or repeated the 
 old poems ; but the entire letter was in a light, flippant strain, 
 and chiefly about himself, his occupations, plans, and prospects, 
 with some allusion to the weather, an attempted description of 
 the scenery about his new residence, ending in an elaborate 
 account of one of his professors, meant to be exceedingly fuuuv. 
 
 He hoped Myrie would write at her leisure and inclination, 
 and tell him all the news of her little world ; and if she found 
 herself oppressed with any superfluous amount of tenderness, 
 after duly caring for Brave (the dog), her birds and flowers, 
 she might bestow it upon him if she could so far forget his 
 unworthiness, and so oblige her devoted friend and humble ser- 
 vant Luther Brisbane. No abbreviation from, nor addition 
 to, the full and simple name just as he would have written to 
 any one else. The butterfly had opened its wings wide before 
 him had nestled close in his bosom he had counted all its 
 rings of gold and brown, and was willing, nay, glad, to toss it 
 off his hand. 
 
 Strong in health and strong in hope, selfish, proud, and 
 ambitious, we must let him alone ; he will learn, perhaps, by 
 and by, that affection has taken deeper root in his heart than 
 as yet he is aware of. 
 
 Sometimes Myrie thought she would not write at all then 
 she would make bitter accusations, and by showing him how 
 desolate and broken, and altogether helpless her heart was, 
 make him, perforce, take it up tenderly, as of old. Then 
 again she resolved to affect indifference, and reply to his care- 
 less and flippant letter in a tone as careless and flippant as his 
 own.
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD TIIEIIl APOLOGY. 97 
 
 Hope and despair, and much suffering, doubtless, ran through 
 all this unsteadiness of purpose, and whether she in the end 
 adopted a middle course now silent, and now speaking, half cold- 
 ness and half fondness I know not, but think this course like- 
 liest ; one thing, however, is certain, the less strength Luther 
 gave her to lean upon, the more she leaned upon herself. 
 Choke up the fountain in one direction, and it will make itself 
 a channel in another ; and unless the living waters of love be 
 dried up at their source, as sometimes happens, they will flow 
 over something, not unlikely over weeds as well as flowers. 
 
 More than a year had passed since Luther went away, and 
 Myris was coming at sunset along the dusty path by the road- 
 side, looking thoughtfully and walking slowly perhaps she 
 dreaded to say at home that she had no letter from Luther 
 and this was the ninth week since the last one came. 
 
 Hard struck the hoofs of a fast rider on the clay of the 
 beaten and sunbaked road nearer and nearer they sounded, 
 and the shadows of the gay horse and hasty rider were just 
 before her, she turned into the deep dusty weeds and thick 
 shadows of the low elms that grew by the road-side. The 
 hands that lay on her bosom, one on the other were suddenly 
 unclasped, and a voice to which joy lent so solemn and so deep 
 a music that she scarcely recognized it for Charley's, said 
 " Myrie !" how often we turn aside like her and so meet our 
 fate ! 
 
 When Myrie wrote next to Luther she told him (who shall 
 say why or wherefore ?) that the social enjoyments of the 
 neighborhood had been greatly quickened by the unexpected 
 return of Charles Robinson ; and she added, as a pleasant 
 bit of information, perhaps, that his growth of manly beauty
 
 98 HASTT WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 and mental stature were alike remarkable. f This was all or 
 nearly all, she said about Charley ; nevertheless, it was suffi- 
 cient to rouse the old jealousy, and make Luther himself again. 
 The return mail brought a long letter, assuming all the old 
 authority, if less than the old lore. 
 
 Night and morning Myrie was heard singing again in her 
 chamber, in the garden, up and down the dooryard walks. 
 The leaves faded and fell, and the sun rose and set in the dull 
 glory that comes duly with the dying year ; but the winds were 
 now pleasant companions to the heart that thought them so 
 lonesome the year past. 
 
 Xot unfrequently Charley sat at the supper-table and told 
 stories, less perhaps, for the good old folks than for Myrie, and 
 often in the moonlight, under the trees at the door, he sat with 
 her alone, telling stories still ; and under all, felt by both, but 
 spoken not, was the one story which he did not tell. 
 
 Suddenly, without intimation or excuse, Luther appeared at 
 the old homestead. Without excuse, I said, though he said 
 he was suffering from ill health, and required relaxation and 
 quietude. Whether in ill health or not, it is quite certain he 
 came in ill humor, and that poor Myrie was from the first the 
 recipient of it. He had grown handsome, grave, and reserved ; 
 but there was one subject which darkened all the beauty of his 
 face with frowns, and swept away his reserve with a torrent of 
 angry denunciation nothing connected ^with Charles Robinson 
 would he suffer to be mentioned in his presence, and yet himself 
 made the most constant allusions to him. He was astonished that 
 his mother should find entertainment in the inflated inventions 
 which the vagabond Charley was in the habit of passing off as 
 experiences. It was quite proper, to be sure, to show a certain
 
 IIASTY WORDS, AND TIIEIR APOLOGY. 99 
 
 civility to inferiors ; but when they presumed upon it as did 
 this vulgar person, it was time to put some protecting restraint 
 upon politeness ; he could plainly see, though no one else 
 could, a pitiful deterioration in the morality of the neighbor- 
 hood within the year past, and who so blind as not to know to 
 whom to trace it all. Why, nobody could be so blind ; he was 
 very sure Myrie could not, she was quite too sensible, too capa- 
 ble of higher appreciation ; he was not in the least afraid of her 
 being misled by the pleasantries of a mere adventurer by 
 what he was sure she knew was but the shining of rottenness. 
 Oh no, it was not for her he feared ; but for the artless and 
 unsuspecting village girls, not one of whom would be suffered 
 to escape the serpent's fasciuations. He had one sure hope, 
 however doubtless the spendthrift would soon find himself re- 
 duced to his customary shameful poverty, and have perforce, 
 to make another recruiting expedition, and relieve the neighbor- 
 hood of his presence, while he pursued, his trade of begging, 
 borrowing, or stealing. Luther was not certain whether to 
 one or to all the said makeshifts Charles Robinson was addicted. 
 
 Some such tirade as this he concluded one day by saying, 
 " Perhaps Myrie can tell." 
 
 Myrie smiled quietly, and replied, " that as it did not especi- 
 ally concern her to know in what particular manner Charley 
 possessed himself of money, she had never made it a subject of 
 speculation much less of inquiry ; she doubted not that it was 
 fairly won ; for one thing she had admiringly observed of Char- 
 ley, and that was that when he could not speak of man or 
 woman in honest approval, he was always generously silent." 
 
 " And so you own to me," said Luther, biting his lip, " that 
 you admire this profligate who calls himself Robinson ?"
 
 100 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 " I admire his abstinence from evil speaking ;" and seeing 
 the frown gathering darker and darker in the face of Luther, 
 she continued, perhaps with the perverseness and daring of 
 which we all have our share, " he has many noble and generous 
 qualities which I admire, and which I wish were more common." 
 She hesitated a little on the close of the sentence, and Luther 
 taking it up, said sneeringly, " which you wish I possessed 
 thank you, Miss Almira." 
 
 Now Luther had never once said Almira, much less Hiss 
 Almira, since the day of their first acquaintance, and she smiled 
 again at the meaning formality. She made no other reply, and 
 Luther continued, in deepening anger, " Perhaps you would have 
 me say Miss Curtiss I will endeavor to gratify you, though 
 the associations are anything but agreeable to me.' 1 Myrie's 
 eyes flashed with fiery indignation ; but the thought of her 
 sweet, patient, dead mother, who in all the trial of her hard 
 life had never dishonored that name, put out the fires with 
 moisture, if not with tears, and she answered with a slow 
 epeech, that showed she weighed the words as she uttered them ; 
 " As to what you shall call me, please yourself hereafter you 
 can neither please nor displease me." As she finished speak- 
 ing, she arose and turned to leave him. 
 
 " One moment, Myrie," said Luther, startled into something 
 like earnestness, " one moment, till I explain truly I did not 
 intend to convey the meaning you have received." Myrie 
 turned half round and said, " One moment would not serve to 
 explain away the bitter meaning of your words I will give 
 you a year ; yes, twenty of them, if I live so Ions:, to devise an 
 apology." 
 
 "I wonder" said Mrs. Brisbane, who had come to the door
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 101 
 
 to thread her needle, and smiling on Myrie as she passed, " I 
 wonder what can be burning ; there is such a great smoke 
 across the fields, and it seems to me just about where your 
 mother's house used to stand. I hope no accident has hap- 
 pened." 
 
 Glad of an excuse to be alone, Myrie said she would go and 
 see. 
 
 There are times in life when the saddest memories are com- 
 forting ; from the aching of some present grief they draw us 
 away, and casting a shadow over all our life, make the cloud 
 and the night less gloomily visible. So as Myrie walked on and 
 on, she tried to define distinctly the almost forgotten memories 
 of her childish life ; but it was only some isolated experience 
 here and there, which had been deepened she knew not how, 
 that she could bring distinctly out of the almost forgotten past of 
 early childhood. Gradually she could make the picture more 
 clear so clear that she trod softly, lest the rough stubbly way 
 should hurt her feet, for she seemed a little girl again, a poor 
 bare-footed little girl, and almost believed herself going home 
 with the scanty earnings of her mother's hard week's work. 
 She could almost see the pale, anxious face at the window, the 
 narrow, hard-beaten path leading up to the door, the hearth- 
 stones and the fire, the one better chair than the rest, the 
 floor so white and so nice, the whitewashed wall, and her own 
 two or three faded dresses hanging against it. Quite uncon- 
 scious of time and distance, she kept on walking and musing as 
 she walked, till the summit of the slope, on which stood the 
 little house where she was born, was reached. 
 
 A look of bewilderment displaced the one of sorrow that 
 had been deepening in her face all the way. Could she be
 
 102 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 mistaken ? Xo ! surely that was the hill, that was the very 
 clump of trees, under which she remembered to have played 
 many a time, while her mother sat by and sewed ; the very 
 trees under which that mother's coffin had rested, when she 
 for the last time looked upon her ; there was the little house 
 itself, the same, yet not the same. New porches, and new 
 roof, and new blinds, and new paint had so completely 
 changed it, that had she seen it elsewhere, it would scarcely 
 have reminded her of her birthplace. The trees were newly 
 trimmed, the briers removed from the rear grounds, and these 
 it was which made the smoke that showed so far away. The 
 sod was shaven smooth, and the old rose-bushes, carefully 
 pruned and tied together. She was not yet done surveying 
 the scene in astonishment when, as her eyes ran down the 
 walk, she saw Charley Robinson coming forth to meet and wel- 
 come her. 
 
 "Come in," he said, a smile of joy illuminating all his face, 
 while Myrie was yet in the midst of delighted exclamations 
 that her poor old home could be made to look like such 
 a paradise. " Come in and see how you like my style of fur- 
 nishing." 
 
 How pretty it all was ! just as she would have done it her- 
 self. Curtains so fine and so white, chairs and tables so small 
 and so neat, just as if they had been made for the very cot- 
 tage they adorned ; and the carpet ! what a pattern of beauty 
 a green ground, dotted with bright red roses ! Who could 
 have chosen it ? Was it Charley, and simply to please him- 
 self? 
 
 " Xo, dear Myrie, it was to please you. I thought you 
 would like to see the old place looking bright and comfortable,
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 103 
 
 and that you would perhaps come and see me sometimes, 
 for I am going to live here, and be a sober farmer here- 
 after." 
 
 There was a mingling of sad and joyful sensations in Myrie's 
 heart as she walked home, for it had been a long while that 
 the love had been lessening for Luther, the liking increasing 
 for Charley ; and she could not help saying over and over, as 
 she remembered what seemed whether it were so or not 
 the taunt of her early poverty, " Charley would not have done 
 so !" and had he not now given her living proof of his kinder 
 and nobler disposition ? How much tenderness and poetry 
 were concealed in his careless and seemingly unsusceptible 
 nature, after all. 
 
 It was after midnight when she went to sleep, and then 
 with a confused image in her mind that was neither Luther 
 nor Charley partly one and partly the other ; for so some- 
 times it seems as if we surrendered to fate, and as for our- 
 selves had no choice in the matter. To us all there come 
 seasons when one thing seems little better than another ; 
 when there is nothing that seems very bright, or very much 
 worth having. 
 
 And so, says the reader, they were married, Myrie and 
 Charley, and lived very happy, and Luther remained a dis- 
 contented old bachelor all his life as he deserved to. You 
 may as well say so at once, for I see that will be the end. 
 
 Now, dear reader, I am not a story-maker ; if I were I 
 should perhaps shape fortunes more smoothly sometimes ; often 
 what would seem to me more equitably just ; but I am simply 
 the writer of stories life has made for me, and life's stories or 
 life's histories do not always run as we would suppose they
 
 104 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 would, or as we wonld have them. Xow iu shadow, now in 
 sunshine ; now where it is extremely rough, and then, for a 
 little while, along smooth ground, we go on and on, and lose 
 ourselves ia the silent sea. 
 
 Myrie's life was not Tery different from the rest, nor was 
 Charley's, though his ran faster, and was sooner lost to the 
 windings and shadows of time than are some others ; per- 
 haps, however, he had his share of the sunshine who shall 
 tell? 
 
 A letter from Luther's mother was laid one day on his 
 table where he sat composing what he hoped to be a gradu- 
 ating honor. The letter was superscribed in the usually clear 
 and steady hand of his mother, which seemed to say, plainly 
 enough, that all at home was well. That was all Luther 
 cared to know ; so he thought, and so the letter lay till he 
 penned sentence .after sentence. Coming to the foot of a 
 page, he glanced along it with a satisfied smile, tossed it 
 aside, leaned back in his chair for a little respite, and broke 
 the seal of his mother's letter. For a moment he thought he 
 saw this great, shining world dizzily drifting away from him ; 
 he involuntarily reached out his hand and caught at nothing ; 
 there was nothing left to catch hold of aching, empty dark- 
 ness, that was all ! He might not be Luther Brisbane, and 
 that fair writing before him might not be a prize essay : it was 
 nonsense nothing : himself was nothing for all he knew. 
 With one hand he swept letters and papers together, locked them 
 in the desk and walked out, perhaps to see if the world were 
 really gone, and himself and his little dusty room all that were 
 left. 
 
 Luther did not know none of us know what a great hope
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 105 
 
 is to us until it is dead. Not till we take it up aud find how 
 cold it is, and how heavy it is, and that we have nothing to do 
 but to bury it, do we, or can we know. 
 
 He learned then how much all his future life had been 
 colored by the dream of his love : he saw for what all his strife 
 had been ; now there was nothing for which to strive. Not- 
 withstanding the estrangement, he had never thought of home 
 disconnected from Myrie ; she was not there, and his mother 
 said she rejoiced while she mourned rejoiced that Myrie was 
 so happily mated, and living so near, and yet sad for the break- 
 ing up of the different future she had planned for her. She did 
 not say what that future was. Luther's own heart told him 
 what it was. " I cannot be sad," the letter concluded, 
 " when I see our darling the crowning beauty of her beautiful 
 home." 
 
 Here, then, was something to catch hold of. When Luther 
 re-read the letter, he lingered a long time upon those closing 
 words. " So, then," thought he, " Myrie is happy ; I wonder 
 if it will not send a shadow across her threshold when she hears 
 of what honors I am come to," and he carefully adjusted the 
 papers containing what was to be the prize essay. " And this 
 is the strength of woman's attachment, is it ?" he went on ; 
 " they are all artful and fickle alike not worth regretting in 
 fact, I consider myself a fortunate man." 
 
 And as the disappointed student mused, he tore his mother's 
 letter into little slips and scattered it to the winds, saying, " so 
 perish my boyish fancy, and now for a career of ambition, of 
 manly effort now for a life that is a life ;" and he concluded 
 with a flat contradiction of all he had said by exclaiming, " I'll 
 sec if she can forget me ! I'll be a man yet, she might have 
 5*
 
 106 HASTY WOEDS, AND TUEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 been proud of ! I'll make her see, and make the world see, 
 that I am sufficient to myself ! Men shall not think of naming 
 me in the same breath not in the same day with Charley 
 Robinson." 
 
 So Luther resumed his pen, and a vehement and nervous 
 energy mortised the words one to another, as all his artistic 
 ability could not previously have done. 
 
 If we could see the influences that sometimes work out fine 
 results, we should be sadly taken aback. It is not best, per- 
 haps, to inquire too far, but to enjoy the shadow without 
 having first pryed into the tree's heart, to see if that be sound. 
 The blackest cloud gives out the brightest lightning ; the grass 
 grows greenest and highest where the carcass lay. The thought 
 of the applause of men may have mingled with the most beauti- 
 ful charities, and stimulated the missionary to do his work, the 
 martyr to do his. 
 
 Certain it is, Luther Brisbane made a fine speech on the 
 sufficiency of the mind to itself, showing very clearly, and to 
 the satisfaction of most who heard him, that the bitterest 
 experiences and sharpest disappointments of life are but the 
 steps by which it goes up and on the breaking of the heart's 
 idol but the breaking of a child's toy suffering, all privation, of 
 whatever sort, but the process of education towards higher and 
 wider knowledge. 
 
 Many faint-hearted striplings went home that day, built up 
 in hope and encouraged in faith ; with cheeks glowing, and 
 eyes resting on some bright Eden in the future, between which 
 and themselves they were determined, just then, nothing should 
 intervene. 
 
 Luther, meantime, victor where all were honored, with con-
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND TIIEIK APOLOGY. 107 
 
 gratulatious ringing in, his ears, and the smile of a proud satis- 
 faction shining on him from his parents, shut himself away from 
 all who sought his company, buried his face in his pillow, and 
 shall I say to the honor or the shame of manhood ? wet it 
 with his tears. On. the whole, I think it were better said, to 
 manhood's honor, he wept ; for it is the weaknesses of our 
 fellows more than their strength that endears them to us ; we 
 love those who need our help more than those who need no 
 support. 
 
 Myrie sat at the window of her pretty cottage, glancing from 
 her sewing work now and then down the walk ; it was time 
 for Charley to come home from the village. She had not 
 waited long (for Charley was a good husband, and never 
 kept her waiting long) when she heard his quick step 
 coming. 
 
 " I have kept you waiting, Myrie," he said, shaking back his 
 curly hair ; " but never mind, I have brought you something 
 that will more than pay you. I waited for the mail, and here 
 is Luther Brisbane's prize-essay." 
 
 He threw it in her lap, and went on : " Put down your work, 
 my dear, and read it ; everybody is praising Luther, and I 
 almost feared to bring you this, for it throws me all in the 
 shadow ; indeed, Myrie, I don't know how it was you ever saw 
 anything in me to admire !" He spoke lightly, but the moisture 
 came to his eyes, and affirmed that he was not idly depreciating 
 himself. 
 
 " Charley," said Myrie, putting the grand essay aside, and 
 her arm about his neck, " I should love you for your generosity, 
 if you had not one of your other thousand good and admirable 
 qualities." After a moment she added, " Luther is not great
 
 108 IIASTY WOEDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 enough to praise you ; but no matter about him at all ; let us 
 go water the flowers while the tea is making." 
 
 And in their cheerful and healthiful occupation they present- 
 ly forgot all about Luther Brisbane ; and when, the following 
 evening, Charley read the prize-essay aloud, Myrie said she had 
 not thought of it since he brought it home. 
 
 If Luther could have heard her say so, he would have taken 
 another upward step, perhaps, in his long and bright progress. 
 
 When Mrs. Brisbane came to drink tea with Myrie she said 
 she had hoped to bring Luther with her, but that he had been 
 complaining all the day of headache, and did not look a bit 
 well, poor boy and besides, he had taken a long walk in the 
 morning, and felt quite overcome. Had he seen Myrie's white 
 curtains gleaming through the roses, and heard the music of 
 her voice as she called across the hill to the good and loving 
 Charley ? Perhaps so. 
 
 The next day not when Charley saw her, however Myrie 
 gathered the prettiest bunch of flowers she could cull from all 
 her choice collection, and sent it to the indisposed Luther. 
 Was it in the hope they would wake "disagreeable associa- 
 tions ?" or was it to show him that she had so far outgrown her 
 childish fancy as to regard him only as a sick neighbor, whom 
 she would fain do kindly by ? 
 
 Why should we pry into what it does not concern us to 
 know ? Let us for once leave vulgar curiosity, and receive 
 simply that " Mrs. Eobinson sends Mr. Brisbane some flowers, 
 with her very kind regards." So the errand-boy said, and that 
 is all we have to do with it. Daily, Luther made long walks 
 about the neighborhood, and on each return his mother in- 
 quired whether he had been to see Myrie ; and again and
 
 II AST X" WOilDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 109 
 
 again be replied that it was too late or too early, or that his 
 walk had been in a different direction ; and perhaps these 
 answers were all made in good faith at any rate, it does not 
 concern us to know. 
 
 His stay at home was brief, and his visit confined chiefly to 
 his parents, avoiding all society in as far as was possible. The 
 momentary enthusiasm created by his prize-essay went down 
 wonderfully during that brief visit. He was grown so unsocial, , 
 the villagers said too proud to recognize them any more. 
 What else could they infer, seeing not the heart of the young 
 man, and how indifferent it was become to all things. 
 
 One young lady of the village, who had admiringly read the 
 essay half a dozen times, growing enthusiastic at each reading, 
 and essaying her own powers on some too ambitious theme 
 which, alas ! only showed how insufficient, as yet, her mind was 
 for her task resolved that Luther should be brought within 
 the magic circle of female influence ; and, after a great deal of 
 coaxing of the old folks, leave for a little merry-making was 
 obtained. But vain are all human calculations, as the ambitious 
 young woman found ; for after all the preparation, and all the 
 expectation, there came at the latest hour, and when hope was 
 weary with standing tiptoe not Luther, but a message from 
 his mother, saying that increasing debility had hurried his 
 departure beyond his design. She was only comforted for his 
 absence for he was gone, perhaps, for years in the hope of 
 his restoration to health. 
 
 Poor young man 1 said one and another; and while they 
 talked of him other young men came, and thought turned back 
 into light and lively channels, and Luther Brisbane was forgot- 
 ten. He might have left deeper impressions if he had chosen
 
 110 HASTY AVOKDS, AXD TlIEIlt APOLOGY. 
 
 to do so ; but easy acquisitions were not among the tilings he 
 valued ; and nothing would so surely have kept him away from 
 the little festival as the knowledge that he was anxiously 
 expected there. The hearts of the best of us are sadly per- 
 verse, I am afraid. 
 
 December was come, the seventh one since Myrie was mar- 
 ried, and far out over the sunset-snow gleamed the bright, 
 warm light through her windows. The maid was busy prepar- 
 ing the tea-table, stopping now and then to give the cradle a 
 tip, or to slap together her strong brown hands in the face of 
 the baby, that was old enough uow to sit up and look about and 
 smile and she did look about almost constantly, seemingly to 
 be all the time wondering what manner of world she was come 
 into. Her brown eyes were browner than her mother's, as it 
 were with melancholy shadows ; and her hair, thick and dark, 
 hung a hand's breadth over her neck, or shoulders rather, for 
 it was not much of a neck that little Lucy had. She sat up in 
 the cradle, not looking in the fire, as she often did, but keeping 
 her eyes steadily towards the door, and her white fingers work- 
 ing one with another, as if she were anxiously looking for her 
 father to come. The maid might slap her hands merrily as she 
 would, pull her hair, or shake the cradle like a playful storm, 
 the child would not laugh, scarcely smile ; nor could any 
 device turn her for more than a moment from her watching at 
 the door. Once or twice, when the wind rattled the shutters, 
 and drifted from the eave a light cloud of snow, a shudder 
 passed over her, and she looked beseechingly at her mother, 
 who, talking through her to the maid, kept watch beside her. 
 Warm and bright, and cheerful the room was, and nothing was 
 wanting to make it a perfect picture of a happy home but the
 
 HASTY AVOHDS, AXD TIIEIU APOLOGY. Ill 
 
 coming of Charley, who had been away all day. Myrie looked 
 often down the snow-path, and seeing him not, stitched on with 
 nervous energy, and looked again, and stitched again faster 
 than before. 
 
 Shadows crept over the snow where the sunshine had been, 
 and the wind calmed itself down into keen and biting stillness 
 deeper grew the shadows, and deeper, and it was night. 
 The sewing had been changed to the book, and the book had 
 been opened and closed a dozen times, and was at last laid on 
 the shelf ; and stooping over the cradle, the young mother, 
 perhaps to strengthen herself, told the baby again and again 
 that father was coming now he was almost come to Mr. 
 Brisbane's house, and now he was past it now he was on such 
 a hill, and now riding beneath such a tree now just in sight 
 and now coming up the path ; and so she would lift the baby 
 up to see him ; but no, he was not there all was still and cold, 
 and white. Presently there was a stamping at the door. 
 Myrie hurried to open it, and the baby reached out its hands ; 
 but it was not the husband and father. Neighbor Brisbane 
 was come to talk with him about some proposed improvement 
 in the village that was all : for Charles Robinson was looked 
 upon as the most public-spirited and liberal of the people 
 among whom he lived ; and it was largely owing to his gene- 
 rous encouragement and aid that the new school-house was 
 built, and the meeting-house, and the Lyceum-hall, and the 
 turnpike-road ; in fact, and in short, that the village was the 
 pretty, and populous and thrifty village it was. Mr. Brisbane 
 said he had heard of the failure of a great bank in town, and 
 he feared it was business connected with that which kept 
 Charley so late. Any excuse was a relief to Myrie, and she felt
 
 112 HASTY AVOEDS, AXD TUEIK APOLOGY. 
 
 for a moment that if that were all she should not care, even 
 though every cent were gone with the bank. Mr. Brisbane 
 said, too, that it was reported that Peter Mendenhall had run 
 away, but that he hoped it was not true. Myrie said she 
 hoped not ; but just then she cared very little whether or not 
 Peter Mendenhall had run away with the thousand dollars 
 Charley had lent him. Once or twice neighbor Brisbane arose 
 to go ; but Myrie said so earnestly, " Won't you wait a little 
 longer ? I am sure he will come " that he stayed more for her 
 sake than to talk with Charley. 
 
 At last they sat by the fire very still, for it is hard for one 
 to keep up talk where there are two, and for her life Myrie 
 could not say anything but, " Why doesn't Charley come ? 
 Oh ! why doesn't he come ?" 
 
 The baby was wide awake, quietly watching the door, when 
 the gate-latch made a joyful sound ; then came a quick step, 
 the door opened, and a stranger stood before them ; his clothes 
 frozen stiff about him, and his words frozen too. He was come 
 to tell the saddest news that ever can be told. Charley was 
 dead. When he had ended the story the baby left its watching 
 towards the door, and with lips curling and trembling with the 
 bitter cry it did not make aloud, hid its face in the cradle- 
 pillow and would not be comforted. 
 
 Poor Charley ! he had gone bravely, generously just as he 
 had lived. 
 
 As he was riding homeward, he saw a boy who was skating 
 on the ice suddenly slip under, and springing to the ground, he 
 plunged in, brought him up, bore him almost ashore, and with 
 the effort that lodged him on safe ground, slipped himself, went 
 down under, and was lost 1
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 113 
 
 Poor, poor Charley ! 
 
 " When the deep gives up its dead you will see him," said 
 good Mr. Brisbane, and he laid his trembling hands on Myrie's 
 head, stricken down with that sorrow which will not know 
 hope ; for across the valley of the shadow of death hope trav- 
 els slowly. 
 
 Misfortune comes not singly, it is often said, and I think 
 there is truth in the saying. So it is with good fortune an 
 agreeable thing rarely comes to us isolated ; there is, perhaps, 
 attractive power in a good thing for its kind, and in a bad 
 thing for its kind, and so it comes that if we slip, our neighbor 
 gives us a push ; and " if we have a sheep and a cow, every- 
 body gives us good-morrow." 
 
 Mr. Brisbane's fears were not without foundation ; it was 
 true that Peter Mendenhall had run away, and that the bank 
 where Charley Robinson had put his money for safe keeping 
 (and so done what everybody said was a very wise thing in 
 Charley Robinson) was gone to ruin, and Mrs. Robinson saw her- 
 self a widow, with poverty, if not actually at the door, coming 
 thither very fast. She knew nothing about self-reliance, and it 
 is not easy to stretch one's self up to an equality with fate, 
 especially when there is a great sorrow dragging us down. 
 We are more likely to sit and nurse our woes, most of us, till 
 necessity says, " arise or perish," than to gather up our cour- 
 age and press on alone. So sat poor Myrie, a long, long 
 time. 
 
 The ring which Luther had given her on the day of betrothal 
 she had always worn on the finger with the wedding ring ; but 
 now, as if it were a wrong to poor Charley, she took it off, and 
 wore only the wedding-ring. Every book he had liked was
 
 114 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 preserved with scrupulous care, every flower he had planted 
 tended better than the rest, and her best comfort was in telling 
 the little Lucy what a good father she had had, and how many 
 things he would have done for her if he had lived, and in ask- 
 ing her over and over if she remembered how he looked, or any 
 word he had ever said to her ; and whether it were from 
 hearing it so often, I know not, but the child learned to say 
 father long before she could say mother. 
 
 When the little girl could run about, she looked like another 
 Myrie. Her faded dresses and bare feet looked like hers too ; 
 her brown eyes only had more sadness and less sparkle than 
 her mother's had at the same time of life. 
 
 We are soon forgotten when we cease to minister to the 
 happiness of others, and a great deal of beauty is reflected in 
 the face sometimes from a costly dress ; certain it is, Myrie 
 was never praised any more except for her nice nee die- work, 
 which was more in demand than her company, when the table 
 that used to be so bountifully spread was left against the wall, 
 and nothing more than bread and butter on it. 
 
 The pretty cottage and the grounds went out of repair, and 
 one room was let, and then another, till finally there was but 
 one poor chamber left for Myrie and her little girl. 
 
 And the village grew and flourished, and children grew to 
 " fair women and brave men." Lucy grew with the rest in 
 beauty as well as height, but nobody thought of calling Lucy 
 beautiful. Laurie Morton, who had a rough red face ar.d an 
 impudent stare, was thought to be a great beauty ; everybody 
 saw her big costly ear-rings, and nobody saw her big ugly ears ; 
 her father was a very rich man, and of course Laurie's beauty 
 could not be questioned.
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 1.15 
 
 Annie Clough, too, a white-haired pale-faced, slim young 
 woman, with 110 particular expression in her grey eyes, but 
 with a great deal of money prospectively in her purse, was 
 thought to be of quite an elegant order of beauty, and a dozen 
 children of the town were named Annie Clough, and lifted up 
 to kiss the pale cheek of the young woman as often as possible. 
 But Lucy Robinson had no namesakes, and only the winds 
 kissed her fair cheeks. She was only the daughter of a widow, 
 and a seamstress. 
 
 In the free-school and the Sunday-school she could say as 
 good lessons as any of them ; but it happened she never woii the 
 first prize, nor the second. Her quiet manner, and wealth of 
 hair and soft and wondrous eyes, were not so striking to the 
 vulgar gaze as the broad bright stripes of Laurie Morton's 
 dresses, or the dead pallor of Annie Clough. 
 
 The day Lucy was fifteen years old, she came home from 
 school with her eyes more filled with shadows than their wont, 
 and, turning her face from her mother, bent low over her open 
 book. Bending at her weary task sat the mother, as she had 
 sat all day long. At length, drawing a long breath of relief, 
 and breaking her thread, she said, " What is the matter, my 
 child ?" 
 
 Lucy replied that she had studied hard that day and knew 
 her lessons quite perfectly, and yet had received more bad 
 marks than good ones. 
 
 " Well, never mind," said the mother ; " but tie on your 
 bonnet and carry home this bundle of work, for you know how 
 badly the money is needed indeed, we have no tea nor bread 
 to-night." 
 
 It was a pretty collar for Annie Clough, and a gay skirt
 
 116 HASTY WORDS, A^D THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 for Laurie Morton, that Mrs. Robinson had just finished ; and 
 half smiling and half crying, Lucy took the parcel and did as 
 she was directed ; but when she returned, half an hour later, 
 the smile was wholly gone she was crying outright. Mrs. 
 Morton had said nothing about paying for the wor-k, and Miss 
 Clough was not at home. " I met her, though," said Lucy, 
 " walking with Laurie Morton, and neither of them noticed me 
 at all." Mother and daughter went supperless to bed that night, 
 and sad enough. 
 
 A night or two after this, Lucy brought home most of her 
 books there would not be any school the next day there 
 would be a great meeting of citizens in the afternoon, and a 
 dinner, in honor of some distinguished gentleman and traveller 
 who had just arrived. " Mrs. Morton, don't you think," con- 
 tinued Lucy, " is to give a fine ball ; and that is what you 
 made the lace capes and things for, mother." 
 
 After a moment she added, pettishly, " Well, they may have 
 their fine ball and their fine traveller too ; don't you say so, 
 mother ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my child," replied Mrs. Robinson and directly 
 she asked Lucy if she knew who it was that was come ? " You 
 read so much, you perhaps know something of him," she said. 
 
 Lucy tossed back her curls, quite contrary to her usual 
 method of softly brushing them away, and replied that nlie 
 never heard of him in her life, and that his name wo.s Brisby, 
 she believed. The quickened beating of Mrs. Robinson's heart 
 caused the work to drop from her hands, and a bright, warm 
 blush clouded the settled pallor of her cheek. She turned away, 
 seeming to search for her lost needle, and asked Lucy again 
 what she said the stranerer's name was.
 
 HASTY WOEDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 117 
 
 " Bushby," answered the girl, " I did not call it right 
 before, did I ?" 
 
 Mrs. Robinson drew a long sigh half of regret and half of 
 relief, and presently putting down her work, unlocked a drawer, 
 opened a miniature case, kissed the poor semblance of. what 
 was once Charley, and when she returned to her seat the quiet 
 and the customary paleness were back again. But she did not 
 work any more for a long while, and sat silent, rocking to and 
 fro till the shadows had deepened into night, and till long after 
 that. 
 
 Lucy brought her stool to her mother's feet presently, leaned 
 her cheek on her knee, and with her long hair dropping down 
 her neck and shoulder, and almost to the floor, fell asleep, quite 
 unconscious of the strange tumult her careless words had awak- 
 ened and stilled. 
 
 While they sat so, mother and child, in their dark little 
 room, Mrs. Morton's fine house was full of lights and merriment. 
 Laurie choked on the tea, and was obliged to leave the table 
 in convulsions of laughter. "Dear Annie Clough," she ex- 
 claimed at length, "did you ever hear anything so prepos- 
 terous ?" But that white little person had turned aside, and 
 was concluding her laughter with a violent cough. Still hold- 
 ing both her sides, Laurie resumed her seat, and as soon as she 
 could calm herself sufficiently, said, " Seriously, mother, it is 
 not possible you thought of asking old widow Robinson and her 
 girl ; a pretty figure they would make at our ball, wouldn't 
 they. Why the widow is forty years old, ain't she ?" 
 
 " No, my dear ; not much more than thirty," answered Mrs. 
 Morton, who was really a good and kind-hearted woman ; and 
 she added, " when you young girls are thirty you will find your
 
 118 HASTY WOEDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 hearts fceliug just as young as they do now, perhaps ; and 
 besides, Mrs. Robinson aud Mr. Brisbane were thought to be 
 lovers once." 
 
 " Oh mother !" cried Laurie, and " Oh, Mrs. Morton, !" cried 
 Annie ; " it is not possible 1" 
 
 " Why, Mr. Brisbane is just in his prime, young enough for 
 cither of us, and Mrs. Robinson is an old woman." 
 
 Mrs. Morton repeated agaiu that Mrs. Robinson could not be 
 much beyond thirty, aud going back to the time Lucy was bora, 
 guessed at how old Myrie was then, and so guessed again at 
 what Lucy's age must then be, and assured the laughing young 
 ladies that Myrie Robinson could not be more than thirty- 
 three. 
 
 " At any rate," said Laurie, " it would be an absurdity to 
 ask her to our house to meet Mr. Brisbane. AVhy, he is the 
 handsomest man I ever saw, and rich too, it is said, and she a 
 poor old sewing woman ridiculous 1" 
 
 Mrs. Morton was half ashamed of her suggestion, and said 
 she had not really thought of inviting Mrs. Robinson ; and 
 to smoothe over, in some sort, the terrible absurdity of the 
 thing, she related to the young ladies what she knew, and the 
 much more she had heard, respecting the relations existing long 
 ago between the handsome Mr. Brisbane and the widow. 
 
 They, however, could not believe there had ever been any 
 serious attachment between them ; they knew, indeed, there 
 could have been none on Mr. Brisbane's part. In short, they 
 concluded the girl Myrie, as any other presuming dependent 
 might foolishly do, had fallen in love with the elegant student, 
 and probably married at last to cover the mortification of defeat. 
 
 Mrs. Morton said it was not unlikely, but she said it with an
 
 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 119 
 
 ill grace, and had evidently her own thoughts in the matter ; 
 and when she arose from her nicely spread tea-table, she said, 
 with some heartiness, she would go and see Myrie Robinson 
 before a week, and her manner seemed to say, " Laugh as you 
 will you cannot keep me from doing that." 
 
 Lively and busy times there were in the village, but Mrs. 
 llobinson's little room was as still and as lonesome as usual. 
 Lucy selected the poems in her school-books, and read them to 
 her mother again and again ; sometimes she even ventured upon 
 a song, but it generally ended in a sigh, for poor Lucy had no 
 mates and no joys but her duties, and such reflective silences 
 as were little suited to her yCars. 
 
 It was a suushiuy day of about the middle of August, that 
 they saw, mother and child, through the dusty vines at the 
 window, the many people hurrying to the grand reception, for 
 which the school had given its recess, and for which so many 
 preparations had been making the week past ; they saw as if 
 they saw not, for it was not for them, poor and unmirthful, to 
 have to do with festivals. 
 
 " Dear mother," spoke Lucy at last, " don't sew any more 
 to-day ;" and with gentle force she took the work from her 
 weary hands and folded it away. " No, no, my child," said the 
 mother ; " what will become of us if I leave off working ?" 
 
 Lucy opened the hymn-book, one of the few books they had, 
 and read : 
 
 " Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
 
 But trust him for hia grace ; 
 Behind a frowning providence 
 He hides a smiling face." 
 
 She added nothing, but the mother saw the beautiful and trust- 
 ing light in her face, and suffered the work to be laid away.
 
 120 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIE APOLOGY. 
 
 " Dear good mother ?" exclaimed the happy child, and pull- 
 ing down her long hair, she combed and curled it as she 
 saw it in the picture that was laid away. There was a gentle 
 protest against the curls, but the mother yielded in that too, 
 though when they were made she pushed them back half care- 
 lessly and half conscientiously, for she had worn her hair all put 
 plainly away since Charley died. Lucy declared that her 
 mother had actually added to the beautiful effect of the curls, 
 and in her strangely playful and sunny mood brought forth 
 from the drawer the white dress she so liked to see her mother 
 wear. " Really," she said, standing apart and looking at her in 
 loving admiration when she was dressed, "nobody would believe 
 you were my mother, you look so young, and oh, so pretty !" 
 and, indeed, they did look more like sisters than like mother 
 and child. She tied on her hood directly, and, concealing a 
 small basket under her apron, went out, saying only that she 
 would be back in an hour or two. It was her habit to wander 
 often about the woods and fields ; but it was not simply her 
 own pleasure she was seeking that day. She saw everybody 
 having a holiday, and, after her own fashion, she was trying to 
 make one too, and the concealed basket she hoped to bring 
 home full of berries an addition to the supper which would 
 happily surprise her mother ; but little did she then dream of all 
 the happy surprise she was preparing for her. She knew well 
 where the vines were, and that the berries were ripe to black- 
 ness ; but she turned her feet away from them, and hurried 
 towards Mr. Brisbane's house, to ask the liberty which she knew 
 would be cordially accorded. She did not see the old family 
 carriage moving up the road, and Mrs. Brisbane, in her best 
 black silk dress, seated so comfortably and so respectably
 
 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIE APOLOGY. 121 
 
 beside her husband ; she was thinking where the ripest berries 
 were, and of the nice supper they would have at home, and 
 lightly crossing the porch, tapped on the door of the parlor, 
 which stood ajar. " I have come to ask you, Mr. Brisbane," 
 she said, stepping within the room, " if I might go to the hedge 
 for berries." 
 
 Luther Brisbane for it was he who was reading by the win- 
 dow dropped the paper he held, and in his bewilderment said 
 nothing. 
 
 Astonished at his silence, Lucy, rubbing her sunblinded eyes, 
 drew nearer, saying, " Dear father (for she often called Mr. 
 Brisbane so), what is the matter ?" 
 
 " My pretty child," he said, in tones tremulous with emotion, 
 " you have mistaken me, I fear. I have no right to the name 
 you call me." Blushing and ashamed, Lucy explained and 
 apologized as well as she could, and having obtained leave to 
 pick the berries, hurried away, scarcely in her confusion, hav- 
 ing noticed the many questions the stranger asked in reference 
 to her home and her mother. She reached the hedge and filled 
 her basket before she was aware, so full of thoughts was her 
 heart, and hastened home to relate her little adventure. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Mrs. Robinson, " he came directly here and 
 told me all about it ; he is an old friend of your mother's ; we 
 were playmates you know ;" and she added, after a moment, 
 that he had partly engaged to come back and drink tea with 
 them ; but she hardly thought he would do so, he would receive 
 so many better invitations. However, the supper was arranged 
 for three, and not in vain ; that fittle room, with its loved 
 inhabitants, was to Luther the brightest spot he had ever 
 found.
 
 122 HASTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 Mrs. Morton's guests waited wearily for the most honored 
 guest of all. At last he came, so late as to make necessary an 
 apology. Laurie's bright flounces seemed to drop suddenly 
 from their wide flaunting, and Miss dough's white cheek grew 
 still whiter, if possible, when they knew it was Mrs. Eobinson 
 who had come between them and their crowning pleasure. 
 
 " I told you so, young ladies," exclaimed Mrs. Morton, lifting 
 one finger in sly exultation ; but Laurie stoutly maintained that 
 she was the first to suggest the propriety of inviting Mrs. 
 Eobinson, and Annie Clough was quite sure she had seconded 
 the proposal. 
 
 It was December again, the snow lay white and cold over all 
 the ground ; the wind blew roughly, now and then sending the 
 flame down the chimney, and almost to the feet of Myrie and 
 Luther, for we may call them so again, rattling the shutters, 
 and sometimes driving quite through the broken pane. Myrie's 
 hands were clasped together, and her eyes rested on the ground ; 
 but Luther's eyes were resting on her lovingly, tenderly, and 
 his hands moving uneasily, as if they sought something. At 
 length she raised her eyes and asked Luther for woman is apt 
 to be impatient of such silences whether it was the rough 
 night he was thinking of ? 
 
 " Myrie," said he, taking both her little hands in his, clasped 
 together as they were, " do you remember once when I said 
 no matter what I said something that was rash, boyish, 
 foolish wicked, I am afraid and you gave me twenty years 
 to frame an apology ?" 
 
 The trembling of Myrie's hands showed that she remembered, 
 but she said nothing, and he went on : " All those twenty 
 years I have tried to frame that apology, and now I have only 1 *
 
 H.VSTY WORDS, AND THEIR APOLOGY. 123 
 
 to throw myself on your goodness, your generosity ; for what I 
 said there can be no apology made. Can you forgive me ?" 
 The tears were in Myrie's eyes ; the deep humility of the strong, 
 proud man had touched her heart, and, in a voice sweet and 
 unsteady, she answered she had nothing to forgive, just as she 
 would have answered twenty years before if he could only have 
 bent his stubborn will to speak those simple words. How it 
 ended the reader sees well- enough, and I will only add that 
 Lucy stammered and blushed anew when, an hour after the 
 apology, Mr. Brisbane awoke her with a kiss for with cheek 
 resting on her arm she had been asleep all the evening awoke 
 her, and asking if she remembered calling him father by mistake 
 when they first met, said that for the future it would be a 
 mistake if she called him anything else, and that he hoped to 
 merit at least some part of the affection and respect belonging 
 to that name. 
 
 The ring of betrothal took its old place again, but the wed- 
 ding-ring Charley's, ring was never removed. Happy as mortals 
 may expect to be, their lives glided on ; but in spite of all the 
 brightness around her, in spite of all efforts to the contrary, some 
 days were full of clouds and shadows to Myrie, and at such times 
 she was sure to say Charley instead of Luther he. had spoken 
 no word to her that it was not sweet to remember, and held to 
 the last the purest place in her heart let us not be curious to 
 know whether the deepest or not, or if the glitter of gratified 
 ambition and pride did not dissolve itself into a vain and foolish 
 thing when set against the memory of a heartfelt smile. Of 
 course Mrs. Brisbane became the pet and admiration of the 
 people among whom she lived, especially among those who had 
 been least conscious of her existence previously to her second
 
 124 HASTY WORDS, AXD THEIR APOLOGY. 
 
 marriage ; but " she had learned the world's cold wisdom " now, 
 she had learned to pause and fear ; and doubtless it was well, else 
 might her heart have been made vain by the constant adulation, 
 and her life have been rather a strife to be great thau good. 
 As it was, she never forgot the instability of earthly things, or 
 ceased from laying up treasures were moth and rust doth not 
 corrupt. So we leave her with her wealth ; her husband, 
 hospitable and stately ; her daughter, beautiful and dewy as a 
 rose-bud ; her sacred memory, and her heavenly hope.
 
 SARAH MORRIS. 
 
 SARAH MORRIS was termed a smart girl by everybody who 
 knew her, and her acquaintance was only limited by the num- 
 ber of people in the neighborhood. And with all she was a 
 favorite, as she deserved to be, for she was blessed with a 
 large share of plain, common sense ; and beneath the fun 
 and frolic that always sparkled on the surface of her nature 
 there was a quick intelligence, a singularly happy tact, and a 
 generous amiability. 
 
 She was not pretty, but there was a heartiness in the grasp 
 of her little black hand, and a cordiality in the brightness that 
 illuminated her little, dark face, when it approached you, that 
 made you forget her plainness ; for plain she certainly would 
 have been to critical, or indifferent eyes, if such could have 
 looked upon her. 
 
 There was a rough honesty in her nature that no refined 
 instinct counteracted the expression of, and that ears polite 
 would have required to be toned down ; but with the unculti- 
 vated people among whom she dwelt, it was, perhaps her most 
 potent charm. Wherever there was funeral, or church, or 
 quilting, wedding or sickness, there came a sprightly little 
 body, black-handed, and black-haired, and black-eyed, laugh- 
 ing or weeping, as the case might require, active with words
 
 126 SAEAII MORRIS. 
 
 and works, or coquettish with nods and becks tossing of rib- 
 bons arid flirting with parasol and fan rustling and stirring, 
 and winning all eyes from their tears or their devotions and 
 that was Sarah Morris. 
 
 Iler horse was the gayest and the best groomed of any one 
 in the neighborhood, the cushion of her saddle of the deepest 
 crimson, and its stirrup of the most elaborate silver plate. No 
 sober filly for her I and many a time her scorn and derision 
 came in the shape of a cut across the flank of the more gentle 
 and unsuspecting one her neighbor rode. 
 
 But when the offender was discovered nobody was ever 
 offended, and the quick spring of the animal and the jolt of 
 the startled rider were sure to be followed by a laugh and a 
 good-humored exclamation. 
 
 She might catch the chair from beneath her grandmother 
 and send her headlong to the floor, but nothing was thought 
 of it by anybody, except that it was Sally Morris's way. She 
 might laugh in meeting so loud as to make half the heads in 
 the congregation turn towards her, but still it was Sally's way, 
 and no face was so rigedly solemnized that it would not relax 
 when it saw the black eyes of Sally twinkling above her fan. 
 
 How lightly she used to spring upon the back of her dapple- 
 grey, spurning the assistance of the many hands reached out to 
 assist her, and how proudly she galloped away, sending a cloud 
 of dust in the faces of her admirers, for their worshipful pains ! 
 
 " Touch us gently, gentle time," was a song that Sarah had 
 no inward prompting to sing. She was equal, she felt, to all 
 changes and to all chances ; and, in truth, her little black 
 hands, with the assistance of her shining black eyes, could 
 well make their way through opposing combinations.
 
 SARAH 1IOK1MS. 127 
 
 There was nothing to which she could not turn her talents, 
 from raking in the hay-field and dropping corn, to the braiding 
 of a straw bonnet and the fashioning of a silk gown ; and a 
 good deal of broad, brilliant taste had Sarah, as was always 
 manifested in the gay colors and striking contrasts she wore. 
 
 The black hair under .her red ribbons, the bright blue petti- 
 coat, and the flaunting rainbow sash gave her quite the air of 
 some half-civilized Indian queen, as, on her gallant grey, she 
 leaped fences and divided hedges and underbrush as lightly as 
 the rye-stalks. 
 
 The glee of the children was doubled when they saw her, and 
 breathlessly they hurried into the house to communicate the 
 fact of her having ridden past as a piece of most stirring. news. 
 The young men paused from their occupations in the wayside 
 fields as she rode by, and were ready to throw off their enthu- 
 siasm by shouts and hurrahs for anything, at any moment, for 
 hours thereafter. 
 
 Doubtless they would have sighed many a time, if they had 
 not felt the utter futility of such an expenditure of breath, as 
 she disappeared behind the next hill, or as the woods shut her 
 in. 
 
 No love-lorn maiden dare show her pining cheek in Sarah's 
 presence, for lier laugh of scorn and derision was iiever done 
 ringing from one to another of her young acquaintances. 
 
 " What fools you are," she would say, " to put your hearts 
 out of your own keeping, and then cry to have them back ; 
 just as if any bear of a man would take as good care of them 
 as yourselves ! 
 
 " I wish some of your charmers would steal ray heart," she 
 used to say ; " I'd show you how long they would keep it in tor-
 
 128 SARAH MORRIS. 
 
 ment. Catch me crying for the best man alive, and yon may 
 expect the sky to fall next. 
 
 " Just as if all the goodness in the world could be in any 
 one man, supposing him even to be ' all your fancy's painted 
 him.' Why, bless me, the least atom of common sense will 
 teach you what dunces you are ! 
 
 " Let me tell you, a feather bed, and a blanket, and a good 
 dinner are decidedly more cheerful to think about than that 
 little dark place you will get into soon enough. Come, pluck 
 up a little courage, and show the poor, Tain coxcomb that 
 roses can grow in yonr cheeks independent of his plant- 
 ing." 
 
 This was her softest manifestation of sympathy and comfort, 
 and if the disease yielded not to this method she was apt to 
 resort to severer applications. 
 
 She would offer to gather willows, and speak in solemnly low 
 and affected tones of her friends' grievances, treading on tiptoe 
 and carefully shotting oat the light singing hymns of awful 
 dolor, and in all ways possible exaggerating into the ludicrous 
 the miserable suffering of which she had no conception ; health- 
 ful, light-hearted creature that she was. 
 
 Sarah's mother was a common-sense, common-place, hard- 
 working, hard-feeling old woman, out of whose nature the 
 sweetness of human sympathy seemed to have died. A count- 
 less number of wrinkles in her cheeks and forehead cradled an 
 everlasting expression of care, and her little stampy feet, trot- 
 ted up and down, and down and up, and in and out, and out 
 and in, from morning till night, and from year's em! to year's 
 end. She never went from home and never stopped toiling 
 long enough to contemplate the accumulations of her industry.
 
 SARAH MORRIS. . 129 
 
 There was no holiday for her, and no rest except in the 
 variations of her work. She seldom spoke, except it were to 
 Job, her husband, and never to him unless to scold. 
 
 She had probably married because four hands could do more 
 work than two. 
 
 But why Job had married her was still more questionable 
 he had been crazy at one time of his life, and it may have been 
 during that malady, or induced by it ; for certain it is, no mor- 
 tal ever saw any manifestation of love for the other on the part 
 of either of them ; but though it would be curious to inquire 
 into the origin of their relation, our story leads us forward, not 
 backward, and our interest in the latter direction must be 
 sacrificed. 
 
 Enough that Sarah's father was a hardy, hen-pecked old 
 man, who did the drudgery, and was kept, or kept himself, 
 mostly out of sight. - 
 
 Whether he was ever quite sane, nobody could determine, 
 as he was never heard to say enough, and never seen suffi- 
 ciently to warrant a conclusive judgment. If he appeared at 
 all, it was only in dodging from one concealment to another ; 
 and if he spoke at all, it was merely in reply to some order 
 from Sarah or Sarah's mother. 
 
 Sarah herself has been known to say, in her wildest moods, 
 that he had vacant rooms in the garret. 
 
 No one ever thought of saying Mr. Morris ; it was all old 
 Job, and the old man Morris ; and the greatest deference he 
 ever received was to be called Sarah Morris's father, as, by 
 some of her more favored admirers, he has been know to be. 
 Even his house was not his own, nor his grounds ; both were 
 considered and designated as Sarah Morris's, and in truth, and 
 *
 
 130 SAEAH MORRIS. 
 
 notwithstanding the shrew-tongue of her mother, she was mis- 
 tress of all. 
 
 There remains yet another individual, who, together with her 
 parents and herself, comprised all the household this was a^ 
 youth named Elijah Burbank. In his boyhood he had been 
 indentured to Job Morris, and in his young manhood, as he 
 always had been, was known by the opprobrious epithet of 
 Sarah's bound boy. 
 
 He was slight and delicate, with hands as small as those of 
 his mistress, and much fairer ; a face of extreme reGnement, 
 and a mouth of that peculiarly sensitive expression that is apt 
 to awaken the tenderest sympathies in the opposite sex and 
 the derision of men. His blue eyes and soft flaxen hair com- 
 pleted the effeminacy of his appearance, and made his man- 
 hood seem farther away by some years than it really was. 
 It was the evening of the day that Lije was twenty-one years 
 old that Sarah sat alone on the high south porch, known as the 
 two-story porch. There was no look-out from it except towards 
 a near and thick wood, and, moreover, it was prettly closely 
 curtained by trumpet flower and creeper vines ; so the view, 
 rach as it was, was considerably obstructed : and why she 
 chose this retired position was perhaps hardly known to her- 
 self, for her custom was to recreate of evenings on the steps 
 of the front portico a position commanding a mile-length view 
 of the high road. 
 
 Out upon this porch opened the door of Elijah's room, and 
 presently out of Elijah's room came with a soft step Elijah him- 
 self. 
 
 He was dressed in his new freedom suit ; and as he stood 
 blushing in the moonlight, with one hand hiding itself in his
 
 SAK.VH MOKKIS. 131 
 
 yellow curls, there came to the heart of Sarah a feeling of 
 bashfulness and tremor that she could iu no wise account for. 
 " What do you want, Lije ?" she said directly. She meant by 
 her tone to demand why he was there, but somehow it yielded 
 concession and solicited confidence. 
 
 " I want you," Elijah answered timidly, and looking down. 
 
 Sarah laughed a little foolishly, but recovered herself quickly, 
 and answered, playfully extending her hand, " Well, here I 
 am, take me." 
 
 Elijah took the hand in earnest thus offered him in jest, 
 and bent his head so low over it that his lips more than touched 
 it. 
 
 " Nonsense V cried Sarah, withdrawing her hand, " if you 
 are very hungry, Lije, you will find something in the cupboard 
 more eatable than my hand." 
 
 Poor Lije ! abashed and trembling for what he had done, 
 dropped on one knee and said, " I only wished, Miss Sarah, to 
 thank you for all your goodness to me, and if I if I kissed 
 your hand, it was because I could not help it." 
 
 " And if I box your ears," replied Sarah, " it is because I 
 can't help it ;" so saying she affected to slap his face, but it 
 was done so softly with the tips of her fingers that Lije did not 
 suffer any physical pain. " Besides," continued Sarah, " what 
 do you want to thank me for ? I have done nothing to 
 deserve your thanks that I know of." 
 
 "Why, Miss Sarah, do you forget these nice new clothes, 
 and then your goodness to me all the while for so many years ?" 
 
 " No, Lije, I don't forget that as my bound boy I was bound 
 to give you a freedom suit ; and, by the by, I suppose you have 
 come to remind me that you are free."
 
 132 SAKAH MOKEIS. 
 
 " No Sarah, not that ; I am not free I am your slave, and 
 always shall be." He bent over the unresisting hand again 
 and kissed it again ; but Sarah's pride, which as yet was the 
 strongest feeling of her nature, was aroused by this time, and 
 risina" shs said, " I am glad to know I have a slave ; but how 
 do you think you will like Mr. Hilton for a master ?" 
 
 Poor Lije said he did not know, and went despondently away. 
 
 The Mr. Hilton alluded to was an old admirer of Sarah's ; 
 and though it was suspected by Elijah that she had refused 
 him more than once, he was none the less annoyed by the 
 intimation she threw out. So, as I said, he went moping away, 
 and putting his hand in a cutting-box designed to chop oats 
 for cattle, made as if he would cut it off, almost hoping tha.t by 
 accident he might do so, and that Sarah would then at least 
 pity him. He felt as if his brain had undergone some fearful 
 shattering, and for his life he could not tell whether Mr. Hilton 
 owned a thousand or fifteen hundred acres of land, nor could he 
 determine whether he owned two flouring mills and a saw mill, 
 or two saw mills and a flouring mill ; but he was fully con- 
 scious that in whatever shape his riches lay, he was a rich man, 
 and that the black shadow of his big stone dwelling-house 
 fell right over him, and would not even suffer him to see the 
 sunshine. His heart received a most thrilling telegraph pres- 
 ently in the voice of Sarah calling him in a tone softer than 
 its wont. She had spread the table with unusual care, and was 
 herself waiting to serve the tea. 
 
 The little that was said during the meal had no reference to 
 what both were thinking of. Sarah praised the new clothes 
 at length, and intimated that Elijah wonld be leaving her for 
 some better place
 
 SAKAII MOEKIS. 133 
 
 Elijah remembered that she had called him her bouud boy, 
 and, drawing his manhood up to its full height, replied that he 
 should try to find some place to live where he was not despised, 
 and that the farm of his mistress, big as it was, did not com- 
 prise the whole world. 
 
 Sarah replied, with a proud toss of her head, that she hoped 
 he would not only find a nice place to live, but that he would 
 get just such a wife as he desired, and she supposed that 
 would be some one very unlike herself. 
 
 " Unlike you in some respects, certainly," replied Elijah, 
 rising from the supper of which he had partaken very spar- 
 ingly. 
 
 Sarah began to sing gaily as she tossed the dishes together, 
 
 " I care for nobody, no, not I, 
 Since nobody cares for me." 
 
 Elijah whistled his way to his own room, but returning 
 directly, threw a letter into Sarah's lap, saying he had forgotten 
 to deliver it sooner, and was especially sorry for it, as it was 
 probably from her lover, Mr. Hilton. 
 
 Sarah replied that she hoped so, though nothing was farther 
 from probabilities, and she knew it. It was addressed to her 
 mother, and iu the writing of her mother's only sister, announc- 
 ing her severe and protracted illness, and begging her sister to 
 come and see her. Sarah did not that night go through the 
 formality of making the reception of the letter known to her 
 mother, but having broken the seal and read it, retired to her 
 own room, whether to think of Elijah or of her far-away rela- 
 tive was known only to herself. 
 
 Sometime in the course of the following day Mrs. Morris was
 
 134 S.VUAII MORRIS. 
 
 made acquainted with her sister's illness, and shortly afterwards 
 fifty dollars were demanded of Job, and in a humor of especial 
 courtesy, Sarah informed him that she was going to visit aunt 
 Ruth, and that her return was uncertain. 
 
 AVhen it became known to Elijah that she was actually going 
 from home, and for an indefinite time, the little pride that had 
 been developed in him wilted away, and he drooped like a plant 
 that lacks its proper nutriment. " If you are going away," 
 he said one day to Sarah, " I will remain here till you come 
 back, for what would become of Job if both of us were 
 away ?" 
 
 " Very well," said Sarah, " don't let the old man suffer ;" 
 but she was much more particular and earnest in her directions 
 for the care of her favorite riding horse. She need not to have 
 given any orders about anything that was hers, and Elijah in a 
 trembling voice could not help telling her so. Sarah tried to 
 laugh, but it was sorrowful laughter, and turning her face 
 away asked him she had always ordered him till them if he 
 would bring from the harvest-field a nice bundle of rye straw. 
 An hour had not elapsed when it was laid at her feet. 
 
 Sarah made no parting calls, and left no messages for her 
 friends " if I die," she said, " what good will it have done 
 that they smiled over me when I went away ; and if I live to 
 come back, why we shall be just as glad to see each other as if 
 we had a formal parting." 
 
 Up to the last moment of her remaining at home, poor Elijah 
 had promised his trembling heart one more interview with her, 
 and what was his disappointment and humiliation to find, as he 
 sought to join her on the portico the evening previous to her 
 departure, that she was already engaged in conversation with
 
 SARAH MOUKLS. 135 
 
 the rich miller, Mr. Hilton ! All that night there was a rum- 
 bling in his head as of mill-wheels, and all that night he 
 dreamed one dream over and over, which was that Sarah had 
 lost all her proud spirit and was a pale-cheeked prisoner of Mr. 
 Hilton's gloomy old stone house. 
 
 The miller had been married once, and report said the 
 gloomy old stone house had chilled the lost wife to death ; but 
 Sarah only laughed when this was told her, and replied that if 
 she were born to be chilled to death she would not die any othei 
 way ; to the miller himself she was capricious as an April day, 
 now shining upon him in smiles, now frowning like a thunder- 
 cloud ; but he was an obstinate prosecutor of his purposes, and 
 in no wise awed by a cloud, never so black though it were. It 
 was a matter of interesting speculation among Sarah's acquain- 
 tance whether or not she would ever marry the miller ; but it 
 was the opinion of the shrewdest of them that she was merely ' 
 dallying with him as the cat does with the mouse, and that 
 when the mood suited she would toss him aside contemptuously 
 and forever. 
 
 Probably such was her purpose ; but she loved power, and as 
 almost all her young friends would have been proud of his 
 attentions, she exercised through him a pretty extensive 
 supremacy. 
 
 To Elijah, the big, silent house of Job Morris was desolate 
 enough when Sarah was gone it seemed that the noon would 
 never come, and when it was noon that it would never benight. 
 Job worked silently on the same, and Sarah's mother scolded 
 and worked the same, but Sarah's wheel was still and Sarah's 
 busy feet were not to be seen, and so to Elijah there was 
 nothing worth listening to in the world.
 
 130 SARAH MORRIS. 
 
 All the first evening long he sat on the stoop and talked with 
 Sarah's mother, albeit she scolded incessantly ; it was now and 
 then about Sarah that she scolded, and to hear Sarah's name 
 pronounced in any way was a sort of miserable happiness to 
 the poor young man. He could not prevent himself from 
 speaking of the time when she would come back, as if it 
 brought it any nearer, and of talking of places greatly more 
 distant, as though that brought her nearer. 
 
 She had bidden him adieu with some careless jest about the 
 pain of parting, and he could not avoid recalling the tone and 
 the manner over and over, and of trying to find some latent 
 meaning that no one else could have found. Who but one who 
 is famishing for hope, can judge of his surprise and joy, when 
 on entering his room for the night, he discovered lying on his 
 bed, where Sarah had laid it, the new rye-straw hat she had 
 braided for him. It was trimmed with a bright blue ribbon, 
 and lined daintily with silk of the same color, and with this 
 slight and perishable foundation to rest all his future upon, we 
 will leave him till such time as he shall again cross the path of 
 our story. 
 
 The husband of the aunt Ruth, at whose door Sarah found 
 herself one morning in June, was a man of considerable culti- 
 vation and some wealth. He was a dealer in furs, and 
 employed, in one way and another, a good many men, in one 
 of whom only we are particularly interested this person's 
 name was Rodney Hampton. He was exceedingly handsome, 
 and Sarah thought his full auburn beard, penetrating blue eyes, 
 and polished manners contrasted with every one she had known 
 so as to throw them altogether in the shade. Aunt Ruth's 
 home was a comfortable and even pretty one, situated in oue
 
 SARAH MOREIS. 137 
 
 of the frontier towns of the "West ; but there was a refinement 
 aud nicety about it that, to Sarah's uncultivated ideas, appeared 
 the height of style and elegance. Aunt Ruth was an invalid, 
 delighted with the sprightly companionship of her niece, and 
 rendered doubly dependent by the absence of her husband. 
 Rodney Hampton was this man's most confidential clerk, and 
 necessarily a good deal at his house oftener still from choice, 
 after the arrival of the romping niece. She was speedily 
 known to half the inhabitants of the town, and a universal 
 favorite, as she was at home. 
 
 Is it any wonder if an impulsive, careless girl, as was Sarah, 
 should never have stopped to inquire who Rodney was, nor 
 whence he came, and how, more and more, the interest 
 awakened by her first introduction to him was settling down 
 into her heart ? or if it be a wonder, why it must remain so ? 
 for certain it is she did not inquire till she awoke one day to 
 find that only within the circle of his influence was there any 
 world for her. They rode together into the country, and came 
 home under the starlight and by the light of their own imagin- 
 ations ; they walked together in the suburbs of the town, and 
 found interest in every ragged urchin or thorny shrub in their 
 path ; they sat together in Aunt Ruth's pretty parlor and 
 smiled unutterable things. 
 
 By degrees the ruder portion of Sarah's rusticity became 
 toned down, and her extravagant taste subdued itself to a more 
 artistic fashion, so that when she had been with Aunt Ruth six 
 months she was regarded as quite the belle of the little city of 
 which she was an inhabitant. 
 
 Aud as the fall came on, not an evening passed that did not 
 find Rodney conversing with his gay-hearted favorite in tones
 
 138 SARAH MORRIS. 
 
 that insinuated more than they said, and lingering and linger- 
 ing in such fond way as certainly contradicted indifference. 
 And to Sarah's credulous belief indifference was not only con- 
 tradicted, but admiration, respect, love all proclaimed with 
 more than trutnpet-tongued assurance. 
 
 He was a fine singer, and many a romantic song made 
 sweet "promises to her heart, and many a meaning glance 
 confirmed the promises. 
 
 Every pretty cottage in the neighborhood had, at one time 
 and another, been selected as the future home of our lovers, 
 when there came one day to Sarah a letter, written in the 
 trembling and unpracticed hand of the almost forgotten Elijah. 
 
 It told her how much her mother wished her to come home ; 
 how much, indeed, s.he needed her, and enlarged pathetically 
 on the miserable way the good woman was wearing off her 
 feet j it told, too, how much everybody wanted to see her, and 
 said how dreary and desolate the neighborhood was without 
 her ; it even hinted that Mr. Hilton was pining away, and for 
 sake of pity of him, if for nothing else, she must come. 
 
 " The old house here seems lonesome as the barn/' urged 
 Elijah, but he did not say whether it were thus lonesome to 
 him, or to whom. -"Your beautiful grey," he concluded, "is 
 looking handsome, and is impatient to bear you about as he used 
 to do. Oh, Miss Sarah, for everybody's sake you must come !" 
 
 The funds for defraying the expenditure of the homeward 
 journey were inclosed, and when Sarah had finished reading 
 she was more sorrowful than she had been for a long while. 
 
 The door of an old and less enchanting world was again 
 open, and she saw that she must leave her soft dreams for 
 Lard realities, for she had been used to hard work and hard
 
 SAKAI1 M011KIS. 139 
 
 fare at home,-for the most part, aud if she felt less tenderness 
 than a child should feel for its parents, why, they had felt less 
 for her than parents should feel for their child. 
 
 In reference to again meeting Elijah, she could not herself 
 understand the nature of her feelings there was so much of 
 pity and tenderness, so much of protection on her part, and of 
 servitude on his, and, above all, so much love for Rodney, it is 
 no wonder Sarah could only cry, and wish she had never gone 
 away from home. 
 
 The letter was lying open in her lap, and the tears dropping 
 silently down her cheeks, red as roses still, when Rodney joined 
 her, and with a tenderness that seemed real, inquired the 
 nature of her sorrow. 
 
 She wpuld have spoken, but grief choked her voice, and she 
 could only indicate the letter. 
 
 " Prom some lover ?" asked Rodney, half angrily and half 
 reproachfully. Sarah shook her head, and he proceeded to 
 read it, saying, " Then of course you have no secrets from me ?" 
 thus implying a right he had never asked for. 
 
 As he read he laughed many times in a sneering fashion that 
 Sarah did not like, and would have resented when her heart was 
 less softened than now, indicating, as he laughed, the numerous 
 blunders in the manuscript before him. 
 
 " Every one has not had your advantages, remember," 
 pleaded Sarah ; for Rodney was a ready, correct, and graceful 
 writer. 
 
 " I knew this fellow was your lover," replied the dissatisfied 
 young man, and he mockingly placed the letter upon the heart 
 of the weeping girl. 
 
 " And what if he were my lover?" said Sarah, with some-
 
 140 SARAH MORRIS. 
 
 thing of her old ironical manner, smiling as she dried her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," replied Rodney, dropping the hand he 
 had been demurely coquetting with, and speaking in the tone 
 of one vitally injured. "But," he added, "you must have 
 known, Sarah, you must have seen, you must have felt [here 
 he pressed his hand against his heart, as though, if possible, to 
 prevent its breaking then and there], that you were cherishing 
 hopes never, never to be realized. Sarah ! may heaven 
 deal gently with your conscience, and never suffer it to reproach 
 you, as mine would me under a similar accusation." He ceased 
 speaking, and hiding his face in his hands, seemed to be weep- 
 ing. Sarah put her arms about his neck, for she loved him, and 
 love is not ashamed of such demonstrations, and said artfully : 
 
 " And if Elijah were not my lover, dear Rodney, why, what 
 then !" 
 
 " Can you wrong me so cruelly as to ask ?" spoke Rodney, 
 still hiding his face from her. " You know that to make you 
 my wife was a hope dearer than life to me." And he went on 
 with a pitiful deceit men are fond of practising upon credulous 
 women, to speak of a predisposition to early death in his 
 family, and to say it mattered not ; nobody would grieve for 
 him, and least of all, Sarah. 
 
 Sarah affirmed that his death would break her heart, and 
 especially if she knew that by a single moment she had hastened 
 it, and she gave him abundant proof of what her grief would 
 be, in the passionate outburst of tears which even the sugges- 
 tion of so melancholy an event produced. 
 
 " No tears for me," said Rodney, " I am not worth them. 
 You are so good, so pure I would not have been worthy of
 
 SARAH MORRIS. 141 
 
 you, dear Sarah, and it is better as it is. I must try to forget 
 you try to live on ; and you you will soon forget me with 
 him." 
 
 He hid his face in his hands again, as if to hide from himself 
 the terrible truth ; for it is astonishing to what sacrifices of 
 truth men will resort in order to appear true. 
 
 Blinded by her love, and bewildered by his pathetic appeals, 
 Sarah told him in the honesty of her full soul, that Elijah was 
 not her lover, or if he were, that she did not love him in turn ; 
 that only himself was dear to her, and that if it were true he 
 loved her as he said, there was nothing between them and 
 happiness. 
 
 Rodney kissed her cheek, and said he was blessed ; but the 
 voice seemed devoid of meaning, and the kiss more like the 
 farewell to a dead friend then the betrothing to a living love. 
 
 When they parted it was under a positive engagement of 
 marriage even the day was arranged that he was to come to 
 her father's house and " bear her away, his bride." 
 
 Many times he sought to drag poor Elijah forward, and to 
 make him an insurmountable obstacle in the way of the fulfill- 
 ment of his dearest hope, as he called his engagement ; but 
 Sarah saw in this the jealousy, and not the weariness of love ; 
 and would not suffer the happiness of her life, and of her dear 
 Rodney's life, to be thus idly thwarted. So they parted be- 
 trothed lovers. Aunt Ruth was better, and with the prospect 
 of so soon again seeing her niece, smiled her benediction, and 
 Sarah went away ; the bloom in her cheek softened to the 
 tenderest glow, and the flashing of her dark eyes subdued to 
 the gentlest radiation. 
 
 Rumor runs- faster than the wind, and the report that
 
 142 SARAH MOEBIS. 
 
 Sarah was coming home to get married preceded her, and 
 curiosity was on tiptoe to know who the intended husband was. 
 
 She made no denial of her engagement when her young 
 friends came round her with playful banter and laughing con- 
 gratulations. The general impression prevailed, that the rich 
 miller was the happy man ; and that the engagement was of 
 old standing an impression that Sarah did not discourage. 
 There was one who did not come to offer congratulations, to 
 entreat pity, or to breathe reproach and this was Elijah 
 Burbank. With the intelligence that Sarah was coming home 
 only to get married, he had gone, no one knew why or 
 whither. Sarah's mother could divine no motive for his suddeu 
 resolution. All at once, she said he had seemed to droop like a 
 motherless kitten, and scold hard as she would, she could get 
 no spunk into him. It seemed, she said, as though he had no 
 interest in any thing but Sarah's horse and Sarah's garden, 
 and that by the hour he would talk with the dumb critter, and 
 the flowers, as if they had been sensible beings that his last 
 visit was to the garden, and that he had gone away with a 
 rose from Sarah's favorite tree in his hand. 
 
 Tears came to the eyes of the young girl when she heard 
 this ; but they were speedily dried in the sunny happiness that 
 awaited her, for when we are very happy it is hard to believe 
 there is any great misery in the world. 
 
 And the wedding-day came near, and the wedding-people 
 were all invited ; but who the bridegroom was, was still a 
 secret. The miller was observed to be repairing his old house 
 about this time, and the fact gave credence to the rumor that 
 he was to carry off the prize. 
 
 How proud and happy Sarah was as she half admitted the
 
 SARAH MORRIS. 143 
 
 correctness of the suspicion, in the thought of the brilliant 
 undeceiving that awaited ! What a triumph it would be to 
 have her friends look up expecting to see the miller, and 
 behold Rodney the handsome, accomplished, and elegant 
 Rodney ! 
 
 And the wedding-dress was made ; and the wedding-veil was 
 ready ; and the wedding-heart was beating with joyous expec- 
 tations, when there lacked three days of the marriage-day. It 
 was an evening of the late November that Sarah sat among 
 her myrtle pots on the portico watching the gloomy gathering 
 of the clouds, and the last yellow leaves as they fluttered on the 
 almost bare branches, and dropped now and then on her head 
 or at her feet. It would not rain she was quite sure it would 
 not rain. She thought the clouds -were breaking and drifting 
 away, though any one else would have seen them closing more 
 darkly and darkly, and any one but she would have heard in 
 the sound of the wind the prophecy of the long November storm. 
 
 She wore a dress of red and black stripes, and a little gay 
 shawl coquettishly twisted about her neck, some bright scarlet 
 flowers among her black hair, for Rodney had oftentimes ad- 
 mired the contrast of scarlet blossoms in her dark hair, and it 
 was for him she was watching, as her quick vision swept the 
 long distance again and again. 
 
 At length, as the last daylight lost itself in shadow, her 
 heart beat so quick and so loud as almost to choke her. She 
 had heard hoof-strokes in the distance, and who should be com- 
 ing but Rodney ! 
 
 Nearer they came and nearer. She could see the horseman 
 more and more plainly fear completed what hope began, and 
 she sank down almost fainting.
 
 144 SAEAH JtORKIS. 
 
 The miller for it was he attributed her emotion to the 
 delight she felt in seeing him ; and his spirits rose, and his ten- 
 der attentions and soft insinuations were doubled. 
 
 Every moment 1 Sarah hoped Rodney would come and rid her 
 of his disagreeable presence ; but he came not. 
 
 Across the field, half a mile away, lights were seen and 
 voices heard. They were near the road-side, and as Sarah's 
 imagination linked everything with Rodney, she proposed 
 going to see what was doing, for she feared that some accident 
 might have happened to him he might be dying perhaps 
 within sight of her. 
 
 Silently she went along, leaving the breathless miller tugging 
 after as he could, till she reached a little knoll that overlooked 
 what was going forward. A glance convinced her that Rodney 
 was not there ; and in the reaction of mind she experienced, 
 she laughed joyously, and running back to meet the miller, 
 told him in a lively tone what she had seen. 
 
 The lights were the fires of a camp made for a night's rest 
 by some people who were moving from one part of the country 
 to another. As they descended the slope together, they conld 
 see two women preparing supper, by a fire of sticks and logs, 
 while one man was busy chopping wood, and another with 
 some children lay on the slope in the light of the blazing fire. 
 Beneath a low oak tree, yet full of dry rustling leaves, a rude 
 tent was spread, within which voices of women in low and 
 earnest conference were heard. 
 
 " Seeing your lights," said the miller, addressing the man at 
 the fire, " we crossed the field from our home, which is just 
 over the hill, in the hope that we might be able to serve you ;
 
 SARAH MOKEIS. 145 
 
 this is my good lady who is with me, and indeed it was her 
 kindly heart that drew us this way." 
 
 Sarah smiled her acquiescence in what the miller said, and 
 the delight he felt in being for half an hour believed to be her 
 husband, even by a few strangers whom he might never meet 
 again, manifested itself in a thousand exuberant antics. He 
 quite made himself master of their little camp, and pressed 
 their own hospitalities upon them with a generous kindness 
 that was amusing to witness. 
 
 Meantime the women and children hastened to do reverence to 
 Sarah by offering her a mat to sit upon, and insisting that she 
 should remain and partake of their fare. They seemed to be 
 poor people, scantily enough provided with necessaries, to say 
 nothing of comforts. The children were barefoot, and most 
 untidily dressed and combed, but they seemed healthful, and 
 were noisily frolicsome. The women who were preparing sup- 
 per looked pale, and seemed discouraged, but patiently endur- 
 ing. What they were going to they knew not ; but they had 
 come from poverty and suffering, and they were willing to go 
 forward even faintly hoping for something better. Recogniz- 
 ing instinctively, perhaps, the presence of strangers, a gossiping 
 old crone emerged from the tent, and pulling Sarah by the 
 sleeve, began to address her in whispers. She appeared to be 
 the mother of part of the campers, and affected or had mater- 
 nal feelings for all. 
 
 " You see," she said, " we would get along well enough, niy 
 sons and daughters and me, though I am ninety, but for one 
 we have in there she don't belong to us, though she is sick, 
 and I'm afraid she will never live to get to him, though if reso- 
 lution could keep a body up, it will keep her up, for I never
 
 146 SARAH MOEEIS. 
 
 saw so much soul, as] you may say, in one poor little body. 
 Her baby was born after we were on the road, and that de- 
 layed us a week a'most ; but it was her, and not ourselves, that 
 we cared most about : poor young woman, maybe it will 
 brighten her up like to see your face it looks cheery and 
 good : suppose you just step inside and see the baby, and en- 
 courage her a little ;" and as she spoke she took Sarah by the 
 hand and led her into the tent, while the wistful eyes of the 
 miller followed her. 
 
 It was a pitiful picture that presented itself : on a rude bed 
 of straw that was spread on the ground, and with the light of 
 a tallow candle falling npon her face, lay a young and beauti- 
 ful woman. One hand lay on the quilt of patch-work that 
 covered her ; and Sarah could not but remark the extreme 
 delicacy and smallness of it, while the other rested on the head 
 of her baby. Her voice was low and sweet ; but when she 
 spoke of the baby's father, whom she said she was soon to join, 
 it grew strong and full of enthusiasm and courage. By extreme 
 necessity, she said, and no fault of his, she had become separ- 
 ated from him ; and when the old woman alluded to the suf- 
 fering she had endured, she said, with an entreating earnestness 
 again and again, that it was not the fault of the baby's father. 
 
 She seemed so well-bred, and so continually ignored any 
 endurance on her part, that poor Sarah, whose sympathies were 
 all interested, was at a loss how to behave, or in what way to 
 offer such charities as she felt to be required. 
 
 She was not without a woman's tact, however, and by prais- 
 ing the baby won her way to the heart of the mother for 
 the child she would accept some milk nothing for herself. 
 She was comfortably, nay more than comfortably provided.
 
 SARAH MORRIS. 147 
 
 She held up the child for Sarah to kiss as she was about 
 going away, and as she did so her own enthusiasm was awak- 
 ened anew the eyes, the hands, the hair, were all so like the 
 father of the dear baby " If you could only see him," she 
 exclaimed, " I am sure you would not wonder that I love 
 him !" 
 
 " Show the young lady his picture, won't you ?" interposed 
 the old woman. 
 
 "Oh, she would not care to see it," replied the loving wife ; 
 and she added, pressing the hand of Sarah, " pray, pardon me 
 for talking of him so much ; but then he has never seen the 
 baby, nor me for so long dear Rodney, how much it must 
 have grieved him !" 
 
 Sarah's eyes fixed themselves with a new and terrible inter- 
 est on the baby, as it lay asleep in its smiling innocence and 
 beauty the blood settled back to her heart a faintness came 
 over her and she sunk to the ground. 
 
 The old woman dashed a cup of water in her face, and she 
 recovered enough to say it was nothing ; she was used to faint" 
 ing fits, and would presently be quite well. 
 
 " Show the picture, it will revive her like," insisted the old 
 nurse. 
 
 " Yes, yes," gasped Sarah, " I must see the picture I" 
 The young mother took it from her bosom, with some apol- 
 ogy for its not looking so well as the original, and presented it, 
 to complete, with its fair familiar smile, the undoing of a too 
 trustful heart. Her eyes in one long stony stare fixed them- 
 selves upon it, as though she would faiu look away the horrid 
 lie, that in some fearful way had obscured the truth of her be- 
 trothed. Catching at the shadow of a hope, she whispered to
 
 148 SARAH ilOKEIS. 
 
 herself, " I see, I see how it is, it is the brother of my Rod- 
 ney." 
 
 " Can there be another in the world," cried the sick lady, 
 " who resembles Rodney Hampton? Where did you meet the 
 
 person you speak of? not surely in ?" She named the 
 
 place where Sarah had met Rodney where she had loved him, 
 and where she had promised to be his wife. 
 
 " No, not there not there," replied Sarah ; " the person I 
 know, you have never seen ;" and pressing a kiss on the white 
 hand of the startled invalid, she went away with an unsteady 
 and hurried step. 
 
 Heavily she leaned on the arm of the miller as she slowly re- 
 turned homeward. " I suppose those people took you for my 
 wife," he said, laughing foolishly. 
 
 " And what if they did ?" replied Sarah. 
 
 " Nothing," answered the miller, " only I wish it were true." 
 
 Sarah walked on in silence ; but more and more firmly till 
 she reached the homestead-door, and then she said with a 
 calmness that was fearful to hear, " There is a rumor abroad 
 that I am to be married the day after to-morrow it was a 
 silly jest of mine if yon please you may make it truth." 
 
 When she had received the miller's affirmative response, she 
 coldly silenced his tender demonstrations, and forbidding him 
 to see her again till the hour appointed to unite their fates, 
 she retired to her chamber, and gave herself np to the awful lest 
 of all tortures the rack of unrequited love. 
 
 AM the wedding day came, and the guests stood silent and 
 wondering when they saw the bride, for her eyes had lost their 
 lustre, and her cheek was hueless as death ; but in due form 
 she was made the wife of Mr. Hilton, and in due time she accom-
 
 SARAH MORRIS. 149 
 
 panied him to the gloomy old stone house. From her marriage- 
 day she was never seen abroad, and her gay laughter was never 
 heard to ring out anywhere ; her bright saddle was hung up 
 in the dusty garret, and her bright cheeks faded and grew thin. 
 The gallant grey was tied to the mill-wheel, and trod his sober 
 round ; and Sarah trod her sober round, doing her duty, but 
 scolding the miller as loudly and sharply as her mother had 
 scolded Job. In the main, however, she was a good wife, and 
 if stie scolded the miller, so the neighbors said, it was no more 
 than he deserved, for he was a hard, selfish, and tyrannical 
 master. 
 
 Many years they plodded on together ; but at length the 
 miller was gathered to his fathers ; and other years Sarah lived 
 on alone, wearing a mourning dress, and caring little to conceal 
 the silver streaks that were beginning to show above her tem- 
 ples. One winter night as she sat by the blazing fire, the 
 flinty snow rattling against the pane, there was a loud knock- 
 ing at the door, and the next moment a strange gentleman was 
 borne in, who had been thrown from his carriage at her gate, 
 and considerably hurt. He was carried immediately to bed, 
 and the village doctor called, who pronounced his patient 
 badly bruised, but in no wise seriously injured. He was par- 
 tially unconscious at first, but after his face for a few minutes 
 had been bathed, he recovered sufficiently to thank his hostess, 
 and to inquire whether his luggage were safe one box he was 
 particularly solicitous about, and could not rest till Sarah had 
 brought it to his bedside. On seeing it he smiled, and shortly 
 afterwards fell asleep. That smile seemed to join itself to some 
 old memory, but Sarah could not tell what ; it might be with 
 Rodney perhaps, but if it were, it stirred no troubled thought.
 
 150 SARAH MOKEIS. 
 
 The stranger was certainly handsome, and from his dress and 
 belongings was evidently of 110 mean position in the world a 
 man of leisure and money, Sarah thought, travelling probably 
 for his health, and while she mused and turned her eyes from 
 the refined and expressive face to the little white hand that 
 seemed reaching towards her, wondering who her guest was and 
 when she should find out all about him, the clock struck 
 twelve, more loudly than it had ever struck till then, it seemed 
 to Sarah, and the sleeping gentleman unclosed his eyes', and ' 
 fixed them earnestly and tenderly upon the watcher by his 
 side, and as he gazed his pale cheek blushed, and his mouth 
 lost the firm expression of manhood, and took the sweet sensi- 
 tive look of the loving boy. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ?" asked Sarah, not well know- 
 ing what else to say. 
 
 " Yes," replied the stranger, " I fear a long cherished trea- 
 sure is lost from this box. Will you please remove the lid that 
 I may see ?" 
 
 Sarah slipped the covering aside, and for a moment stood 
 paralyzed, and then, as her 'eyes fell inquiringly upon the 
 stranger, the blush of twenty years again colored her check. 
 
 The box contained a coarsely-braided rye-straw hat, trimmed 
 with a faded blue ribbon ! 
 
 Elijah ! Sarah ! was all they could say in the first joyous 
 shock of surprise. What more they said ultimately, let us not 
 care to inquire enough that the day broke for them at mid- 
 night, and there was never any more darkness in all their 
 lives.
 
 THE 
 
 HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOORS. 
 
 TWENTY-FIVK years ago there stood in a straggling village on 
 the banks of the Ohio, an old house, with two doors, and a 
 good many irregular windows in the front. Two clumsy chim- 
 neys of stone showed squattily above the steep red gables the 
 one for architectural effect, simply, the other the extension of a 
 veritable flue ; and from this last, a cloud of black smoke 
 worked itself out, and after a little vain effort to keep itself up, 
 sagged towards the ground, for the air was heavy the orange 
 light rapidly blackening against the yellow moss on the tops of 
 the western hills, and the evening coming in with the promise 
 of a wet night. 
 
 The village was not at all picturesque ; a great hill that 
 extended as far as the eye could see, and the summit of which 
 seemed almost to touch the sky, formed its background, and 
 completely shut out the view in that direction. It was not one 
 of those poetic hills that are beautified with pasture-fields, shady 
 trees, flowery thickets on the contrary, its village-side was 
 bare of vegetation, except, indeed, a scanty growth of stunted 
 oaks, together with some thistles, and dwarf blackberry vines, 
 which, in some sort, relieved its monotony of baked clay,
 
 152 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FEOXT DOOES. 
 
 cracked by the sunshine, and washed into deep gallics by the 
 rain. 
 
 The village streets were still less attractive unpaved for the 
 most part full of ruts, where refuse soaked and rotted, and 
 obstructed at all points with idle carts, coopers' stuff, heaps of 
 shavings and the like. They had their share, too, of stray cows 
 and quarrelsome dogs, and were provided with mud-holes, at 
 convenient distances, where swine, with patches of bristles 
 scalded off by the ill-natured housewives, took such ease as their 
 nature loveth, and by grunting and squealing further provoked 
 the wrath of their oppressors, for the hearts of women are not 
 always so gentle as poets say, and if the truth be fairly spoken, 
 are, I am afraid, no less accessible to induration than the faces 
 with which hard fortune plays such terrible havoc. But not- 
 withstanding the facts recorded, the town was not without pre- 
 tensions which no transient abider therein could gainsay with- 
 out disadvantage. 
 
 The clergyman's house, with its close-shut windows, carved 
 portico, and grey garden wall, set round with austere box its 
 gravelled walk, along which tall sunflowers baked their great 
 cakes brown, together with the red brick meeting-house, 
 with its solemn burial-ground, where a thousand low head- 
 stones shrugged their shoulders beneath the two or three grand 
 monuments, were perhaps, the distinguishing ornaments of the 
 place the centre about which clustered the more exclu- 
 sive piety the evangelical pride, so to speak, of the village 
 folks. 
 
 The market-house, which was, in point of fact, a dismantled 
 canal boat set upon dry land, was also an object, not only of 
 general interest, but one which kindled local admiration almost
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOORS. 153 
 
 to enthusiasm. Real estate in this vicinity was estimated to 
 have doubled its value in consequence of this " improvement," 
 and two or three owners of lots thereabouts retired from 
 business, and were thereafter clothed and fed, simply by virtue 
 of the market-house. No one will be disposed to doubt this 
 statement who has observed what a number of idlers a single 
 grocery store or turnpike-gate will maintain. I once knew two 
 able-bodied men to support themselves and their families on the 
 merits of a cross-road but this, perhaps, was an extreme 
 case. 
 
 Then there was the squire's office, a diminutive lean-to of the 
 corner dry-goods store, in the official glory of which all ordinary 
 considerations of right and morality sunk completely out of 
 sight. The squire wore a weed on his white hat in memory of 
 the lamented Mrs. Bigsham, and this drew after him more than 
 a third part of the feminine sympathy of the town, and was per- 
 haps the basis of his popularity every unmarried woman felt 
 as if that black band was an electric link between herself and 
 the great squire, which might at any time be converted to a 
 bond of perpetual union. 
 
 " The office," as it was called, was the habitual resort of the 
 big academy boys decayed pilots of river-boats, doctors' stu- 
 dents, who jested about " subjects" and drew teeth for half-price 
 and, as may be inferred, the convocations of these learned 
 disputants were not a little promotive of exclusive feeling in the 
 neighborhood. True, the legal prestige was somewhat marred 
 by the fact that a poor shoemaker plied bis trade in the rear of 
 the magisterial office, but aristocracy did all it could in self- 
 defence by suspending a curtain formed of a mosquito-net be- 
 tween the bench of the obnoxious workmen and the arm-chair
 
 154 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FUOXT BOOKS. 
 
 and the mottled spittoon of the squire. Inadequate as the 
 screen would seem, it required not even that to separate the 
 young shoemaker, who was lame and melancholy, from the rude 
 and boisterous frequenters of the official department, so that a 
 more impenetrable stuff was not in the least necessary. He had 
 been in the village a year, or more, and nobody knew anything 
 about him except that he was a faithful and honest worker, and 
 put himself in nobody's way, for he moved about quietly as a 
 ghost, and with as little interest in the earth apparently. He 
 was known to the old woman with whom he boarded, as Peter 
 Gilbraith, and to the other towns people, who knew him at all, 
 as "Shoe Pete" but whether called by one name or another eli- 
 cited from him no indication of pleasure or displeasure. Nature 
 had gifted him with eyes of wonderful beauty hair that curled 
 itself all the more gracefully for his careless management, 
 and a smile of that strangely fascinating sort, that seems made 
 up of mingled scorn and sweetness ; but accident had dishonored 
 his fair proportions by curtailing oue leg of its rightful dimen- 
 sions, which obliged him to walk with a stick, and gave to his 
 shoulders a perpetual stoop. 
 
 Whether it were poverty or lameness, or both, that made 
 him shrink from the little observation he excited, or whether 
 misanthropy were a part of his nature, nobody knew, and very 
 soon nobody cared for in what way could '' Shoe Pete," they 
 argued, enhance the value of town-lots, or contribute to social 
 pleasure ? And true it is that his great sad eyes seemed to 
 rebuke the spirit of mirth, and his smile made the beholder of 
 it feel as if he were more than half despised. His dress was 
 careless (with the exception of the high-heeled shoe, which was 
 neat in the extreme) not slovenly, however, and it always bore
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FKOXT DOORS. 155 
 
 evidence of refinement, as did also his pale face, hi spite of 
 neglected hair and beard. 
 
 From sunrise till sunset his hammer was never still, and 
 sometimes late into the night, even, its whack, whack, sounded 
 upon the soft leather, so that it is not strange that reports 
 gradually went into circulation, that Shoe Pete was " laying 
 up " money ; nor that overtures towards his acquaintance began 
 to be warmly pressed. He remained inaccessible, however, and 
 was observed to walk with less stoop, and to show a bright 
 indignant spot on either cheek, after some customer had 
 been unusually condescending with him. 
 
 But whether the season was a busy one or not, the young 
 shoemaker was never idle his candle made the small window 
 above his work-bench shine till midnight, and his leather apron 
 was in requisition late and early. There was always a book or 
 a newspaper under his pillow, in the morning, his landlady 
 reported, and this fact was accepted by her as presumptive 
 evidence, that Peter Gilbraith was a great scholar, and though 
 it may seem like a small basis on which to found a reputation 
 for scholarship, it was sufficient, and puzzling questions in geo- 
 graphy and grammar began to be propounded to him by the 
 young villagers when they came to have their feet measured. 
 Nevertheless, the sun threw his last rays from the yellow moss 
 on the tops of the western hills and sunk completely out of sight 
 on the evening upon which our story opens, and the shoemaker 
 had never as yet received the slightest recognition from the 
 great Squire Bigshara. Is it very singular if he started and let 
 fall his hammer, as the great man pulled his chair about so that 
 he faced the mosquito-net curtain, and said with easy familarity, 
 and as if he were in the habit of addressing him every day
 
 156 THJE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOORS. 
 
 " You are a happy dog, Gilbraith I almost wish I was a shoe- 
 maker instead of the public functionary I am ?" 
 
 Gilbraith smiled, and took up his hammer. 
 
 " Let me see," continued the squire, " how long have we 
 been acquainted ?" 
 
 " I have worked in your office about a year, sir." 
 
 " A year ! Zounds ! why it seems jest t'other day yon come !" 
 He knew the time very well, but he wanted to make believe that 
 he was surprised so much time should have clasped without his 
 having cultivated friendly relations with his excellent neighbor. 
 
 The shoemaker had resumed his hammer and his old expres- 
 sion of sad indifference. 
 
 The squire went on : " Bless my soul ! a year ! I wouldn't a> 
 believed any feller, if he'd a tole me that, exceptin' you, your- 
 self." He laid special stress on the you, as if he held the youug 
 man's veracity in high esteem. 
 
 The shoemaker smiled again at the implied compliment, but 
 made no other acknowledgment. 
 
 The squire was not to be thwarted, however the news had 
 come to his ears that morning, that Shoe Pete had actually 
 purchased a lot adjoining the market-house, and paid a hundred 
 dollars ddwh, for the same ! so he gathered up his feet and said 
 " Look-a-here now, did you ever see any man make a boot to 
 fit a feller's foot like that ?" 
 
 Gilbraith clutched his hammer, or it must have fallen again 
 the squire had, of a verity, indicated that shoemakers were 
 men, and at the same time had designated himself as a fellow ! 
 He was too proud to disparage another man's work, and said 
 something to the effect that the boots seemed to have done 
 good service.
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TAVO FUOXT DOOUS. 157 
 
 " Well, sir, I'll tell you, sir," continued the squire, br'mg-ing 
 his courtesy to a climax, " I want for you to make me a pair of 
 tip-top stogy boots, and you may jes put your own price onto 
 'em, too." The shoemaker said his time was fully engaged for a 
 month or nur-3, bit that hs would attend the order at his 
 earliest convenience, and limping forward he took the requisite 
 measure with the air of conferring, rather than of receiving a 
 favor. 
 
 The customary loungers dropped in one after another, and 
 each, after a little subdued talk with the squire^ the upshot ol 
 which was, it is reasonable to infer, the prosperous fortunes of 
 the shoemaker dexterously dipped his conversation so as to 
 include that hitherto ignoble person. But his replies were brief 
 and cold, and on the entrance of the doctor's student, who was 
 usually inflated with great news the mosquito-net resumed its 
 ancient effectiveness, and Gilbraith, the transitory man, was 
 resolved once more into Shoe Pete. 
 
 " I say, Doc, what is it ?" said one of the idlers, smelling the 
 news afar off, " anything new about that ere miss what was 
 smuggled into the two-door house t'other night ?" 
 
 " A. few particulars have transpired," replied the student 
 whom they called Doc, and sliding his legs apart, he* thrust his 
 hands deep in his pockets and waited to be questioned fur- 
 ther. 
 
 "What miss ?"" Which two-door house?" "Yon one 
 with so many winders ?" were a few of the twenty questions 
 asked in a minute. 
 
 " He means the house with the two front doors into it, and 
 the two stone chimbleys onto it well one ov them chimbleys is 
 false, and maybe there's someten else 'ats falser an what the
 
 158 THE UOUSK WITH TWO FIIOXT DOORS. 
 
 chimbley is, about that ere house uiy daughter posted me up 
 as we went to rneetin' last night." 
 
 Having thus brought himself to a level in point of import- 
 ance, with the young doctor, the squire moved his hand gra- 
 ciously towards him, and abdicated in his favor. He, neverthe- 
 less, was slightly offended slid his legs a little farther apart, 
 and said haughtily " that he didn't know that he could enlight- 
 en the fellers so well as Squire Bigsham." This obliged the 
 squire to make a humiliating confession to say, in fact, that 
 he " knew nothing except that a young woman, no better un 
 what she ort to be, appeerently, had been lately smuggled into 
 the two-door house, and that the feller what brought her, 
 had shortly afterwards disappeared between two lights, leav- 
 ing her with a limited amount of chink, and with no livin' 
 soul to do for her, except the greenest kind of a green- 
 horn." 
 
 The shoemaker had lighted his tallow candle, and the squire 
 his big lamp, for it had grown quite dark, and a sudden gnst 
 had just driven a dash of rain, mixed with yellow leaves, against 
 the window. The door burst suddenly open, and a slender, 
 freckled-faced girl, with blue eyes, staring wide, and red hair 
 flying in wild disorder, stood fronting the wondering group, and 
 with many catchings of breath and earnest gesticulations, made 
 known the facts that she lived with a lady " that was took 
 awful sick that she had been after the ould dochther and the 
 ould dochther wasn't in it, and she was afther the young 
 dochther to come with her to the lady, who lived in the house 
 beyant, wid the two doors and the young dochther had a right 
 to go wid her if he had any sowl." 
 
 " Hooraugh !" shouted some of the rude fellows, " Go wid
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOORS. 159 
 
 her, Doc ! Why if the chap ain't a blushin' up to his eyes 
 thought he had more pluck." 
 
 And one of the most disreputable of the fellows seized his 
 hat, and volunteered to accompany the frightened girl, asseve- 
 rating that he himself was the young dochther. 
 
 All at once the shoemaker dashed aside the frail curtain, 
 and with his eyes flashing fire, stood in the midst of the vul- 
 gar crew, almost erect. 
 
 " Whoever dares to lie further to this poor child, or to 
 insult her in any way," he cried, " does it at his peril." And 
 leaving the dastards dumb with astonishment, he motioned the 
 girl to follow him, and without another word went out into the 
 rain. Ten minutes afterwards the old woman with whom he 
 boarded, wrapt in shawls and bearing a lantern in her hand, 
 was feeling her way through the wet weeds of an alley towards 
 the old house with the two front doors. 
 
 Presently, through the windows of an upper room, the cur- 
 tains of which were carefully drawn, the lights were seen to 
 shine, and shadows to pass, as if there was hurrying to and 
 fro within, but the most watchful gossips could discern no- 
 thing more. Rumor had not exaggerated the truth that night, 
 when the storm was loudest and the sky blackest, the poor 
 young lady who had been a few days before cast helpless upon 
 her own sad fortune, took in her trembling arms the unwel- 
 come child that must bear witness to her frailty, through time 
 as deathless as the years of God. 
 
 The little window by which the shoemaker worked looked 
 toward the house with the two front doors, and often as he 
 drew out his long threads, his eyes wandered that way, his 
 own isolated condition quickened his sympathies for the yonng
 
 160 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FEO^T DOORS. 
 
 mother, at whom so many even of her own sex were ready to 
 cast stones. Sewing, and hammering, and pegging, he 
 dreamed a thousand dreams of improbable ways in which he 
 might serve her, and as he took his walk to his evening meals 
 he now and then went round by the lonesome house, and the 
 oftener he took that road the shorter it appeared, until it 
 seemed to him at last, as he climbed the weedy hill and 
 crossed the bare common, only to pass that house and hobble 
 down the hill again that he was taking the shortest way 
 home. 
 
 So far from losing anything in the estimation of the young 
 fellows who frequented the " office," by the spirit he mani- 
 fested in defence of the poor girl and her mistress, he was 
 thereby promoted to a considerably higher degree of import- 
 ance, and it soon became a matter of no unfrequent occurrence 
 for them to address directly to him such narratives as involved 
 the exhibition of what they esteemed the most admirable 
 manly courage. But these polite attentions gained imper- 
 ceptibly, if they gained at all, upon his kindly feeling, and a 
 brief word, or a careless nod, w r as usually the only acknowledg- 
 ment he made. 
 
 The squire's boots were a complete success, and served to 
 give him at Once the reputation of a "-tip-top" shoemaker; 
 but this was not enough to lift him out of the socket of 
 obscurity in which he was sunken, and give him anything like 
 a desirable social position. But w r hat was termed genteel 
 patronage began to be extended to him and by degrees he 
 became known as little, Gilbraith, and to be called Shoe Pete 
 only behind his back. 
 
 One evening, when an importunate creditor presented him-
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOOES. 161 
 
 self to the squire, he suddenly turned round with the inquiry, 
 " Mr. Gilbraith, could you make it convenient to lend me five 
 dollars for a day or two ?" 
 
 " Certainly, sir, with the greatest pleasure," replied the 
 shoemaker, with a heartiness that he had never before been 
 known to use, and opening a well-filled purse he presented the 
 note. 
 
 As the squire went forward to receive it, the mosquito-net 
 curtain intercepted his way and with one dash of his great 
 hand he swept it to the ground, with the outraged exclama- 
 tion : " What dingnation fool ever put this thing up here any- 
 how !" 
 
 As may be supposed, it was never hung up again, and thus 
 the line of "demarcation between the " office " and the "shop," 
 became somewhat wavering. 
 
 The yellow leaves were coming down in the fall rain, when 
 the shoemaker invested his first earnings in the lot adjoining 
 the market-house, in consequence of which the squire acknow- 
 ledged his humanity, and when the Christmas snow hung its 
 white garlands on the box along the clergyman's grounds, 
 heaped higher the mounds in the graveyard, and lay all unbro- 
 ken before the house with the two front doors, a bright tin 
 sign bearing the name of Peter Gilbraitb, between two gilt 
 boots, was nailed on the office door in close proximity to the 
 squire's letter-box, and an apprentice had been taken into the 
 shop, and with this assistance the young shoemaker found it 
 difficult to fill his orders. 
 
 " I think I will not go to supper to-night," he said to his 
 apprentice one evening, as the last sunlight glittered on the 
 snow that hung over the eaves of the house with two doors.
 
 162 ' THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRO>T DOORS. 
 
 There was a great deal of work to be finished that night, and 
 he had just lifted his hand to draw the curtain across the little 
 window, preparatory to lighting the candle when a new and 
 joyous light came suddenly into his eyes, and leaving the cur- 
 tain undrawn, he leaned his face against the window for some 
 minutes, and said, at length, with a changed tone and manner : 
 " I believe I will go, after all." 
 
 The next minute the apprentice looked out, and was sur- 
 prised to see him going up the hill through the unbroken snow, 
 directly away from the house of the old woman with whom he 
 took his meals. He did not see the house with the two front 
 doors much less the young woman at the window, holding a 
 little child in her arms, and trying to make it see the moon 
 come up, and if he had he would have been just as much at a 
 loss to know why Peter walked that way, and indeed that 
 young man might have found it difficult to explain the puzzle 
 himself. 
 
 " I never saw his lameness interfere so little with his 
 walking, as it seems to now, in spite of the snow," mused 
 the apprentice, and he drew the curtain, and lighted the can- 
 dle. 
 
 The snow hung in a great roll over the top of the stone chim- 
 ney, unstained and unmelted. " There is no fire below," thought . 
 Peter, and he sighed. 
 
 "Perhaps it is the woman's black hair that makes her face 
 look so pale," he thought, as walking slowly he gazed upon her ; 
 but suggestions of scanty fare would not be silenced, and he 
 sighed again and walked more slowly than before. Just then 
 the little child thrust its naked arms from out the ragged blan- 
 ket in which it was wrapt, and began to cry bitterly.
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FEOXT DOOES. 103 
 
 Peter stopped and stood still. In spite of the tender coax- 
 ings and cooiugs of the woman, which Peter could hear from 
 where be stood, the child cried more and more bitterly. Moved 
 by a sudden impulse he walked directly to the door nearest to 
 which the woman stood. She saw him and opened it at once, 
 with an air of such modest sweetness, as caused him to take 
 off his hat a civility he had never shown to anybody since 
 coming to the village until then. 
 
 There was no fire, sure enough, and the other evidences of 
 comfort were all as meagre as imagination could have pic- 
 tured them. He hesitated for a moment when the young 
 woman paused as if expecting him to make known his errand, 
 but charity is never long in suiting means to ends, and he 
 replied to her silence that he was in need of a person to bind 
 shoes, and not knowing where to seek with the hope of success, 
 had ventured to inquire of whomever he chanced to see. 
 
 Before he had spoken half-a-dozen words the baby lifted its 
 head from its mother's shoulder, and with tears in its bright 
 wondering eyes remained looking at him, perfectly quiet one 
 dimpled shoulder peeping from the ragged blanket above and 
 two little bare feet, blue with cold, dangling below. 
 
 Is it any wonder if Peter took both those little feet in his 
 hand, and tried to warm them under the pretence of seeing 
 whether he had ever made so small a shoe ? 
 
 When he returned to his shop that night, he found two 
 young women, one of them the squire's daughter, waiting to 
 have measures for shoes taken. 
 
 They whispered and laughed with one another, not a little 
 rudely the shoemaker thought, as he was getting ready his mea- 
 sure, and their orders were given in a manner that certainly
 
 1G4 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FROXT DOOES. 
 
 bordered upon insolence the squire's daughter was especially 
 presumptuous and troublesome. 
 
 She doubted very much whether he would be able to suit 
 her at all, she said, as she tossed her golden curls from her fire- 
 red cheeks ; but she should not hesitate to send him back 
 twenty pairs of shoes, if he failed so many times to please her 
 it was so hard to make such people understand what one 
 wanted and with this little indication of her superiority and 
 willfulness, and with an indignant fling of her flounced skirt, she 
 withdrew without so much as the slightest bend of her pretty 
 neck. 
 
 But Mr. Gilbraith gave little attention to her saucy airs 
 his thoughts were too busy with the pale-faced mother, and 
 her shivering baby. 
 
 When spring came, two more lots were added to the first 
 one, and the prosperous shoemaker built himself a fine new 
 shop with a great square show window, and a sign almost as 
 big as the squire's front door. And as a finishing stroke of 
 finery, there was an imported carpet on the floor, and 
 three yellow Windsor chairs for the accommodation of the 
 ladies. 
 
 He was called Mr. Gilbraith almost altogether, and his store 
 was the fashionable one of the place ; and when a brick pave- 
 ment was laid down in front of the door and an awning 
 stretched above it, that direction became the exclusive prome- 
 nade ; and every day, after sunset, some twenty or thirty young 
 women were to be seen tripping over the pavement, and turn- 
 ing their faces away from the window, of course. And last, 
 and first, and oftenest, the squire's daughter was sure to go by, 
 and more than any one else she stopped to examine the slip-
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOORS. 165 
 
 pers in the window, at which times she took occasiou to toss 
 her curls coquettishly, and smile in a most bewitching fashion. 
 But the shoemaker worked on at these times just as if her 
 pretty face was not at the window, and stimulated by his indif- 
 ference she stepped into the shop one evening and inquired the 
 price of a pair of slippers which she said had taken her fancy. 
 He replied without so much as glancing towards her. " I should 
 like to have them fitted," she said, with a little more deference 
 in her tone than she had hitherto used, and sitting down in the 
 yellow Windsor chair she extended her little foot. The young 
 man motioned his apprentice to wait upon the lady, but she 
 would not be thus defeated. " They don't please altogether," 
 she said, " perhaps it is the fault of the fitting will you be 
 kind enough to give me your opinion, Mr. Gilbraith." It was 
 the tone rather than the words that elicited the young man's 
 attention. He laid aside his work, and shaking back his curls 
 with a grace of artlessness surpassing art, came forward, the 
 faint color of his face heightened for the moment to a flush of 
 confusion that made him positively handsome. The young lady 
 thought so, and apologized for the trouble she was making. 
 He was not used to such deference, and as he fitted the slipper, 
 held the little foot in his hand longer than need were. 
 " There ! that is perfect," exclaimed the beauty, referring to 
 the slipper. 
 
 "It is the foot that makes the shoe look so well," he replied ; 
 " shall I send them home for you ?" 
 
 Oh no ! the beauty would not give him so much trouble, she 
 was already greatly obliged and with a bright smile and a 
 low courtesy that seemed to say she was receiving a favor, took 
 the parcel in her white hand and was just stepping from the
 
 106 THE HOUSE WITH TYTO FRONT DOORS. 
 
 door as a pale young woman, with a bundle of shoes in one 
 arm and a child hanging over her shoulder, came in. 
 
 All women love babies the squire's daughter was no excep- 
 tion : and with an ingenuous exclamation of delight she 
 stopped, took the rosy face of the little one between her hands, 
 and kissed eyes and mouth and cheeks, prattling the while, in 
 such a pretty way as went straight to the heart of the mother, 
 and made a softer impression on the shoemaker than all her 
 coquettish arts could ever have done, for some strange affinity 
 had drawn him towards that little helpless creature from the 
 dawn of its unfortunate existence. It often happened there- 
 after that when the village beauty passed the shoemaker's 
 shop, he was at the door or window, and gradually the 
 exchange of the evening salutation began to be looked to by 
 both as the event of the day. 
 
 All the summer long the pale face was seen at the window 
 of the house with the two front doors, and late into the night 
 the candle would shine on the tired fingers that were always 
 busy binding shoes. The path up the hill from the shoe-shop 
 to the door was worn quite distinctly along the sod, and the 
 shoemaker was observed to walk along it very frequently 
 more frequently, the neighbors thought, than business 
 required. 
 
 Meantime the baby grew more and more in the affection of 
 the young shoemaker, and he would often take with him when 
 he went to the house, a flower or an apple or some other trifle 
 to please her baby eyes, and she would reach her hands up to 
 be taken on his knee, and he would bend his head and allow 
 her to make playthings of his curls, at- will. Xo wonder she 
 grew fond of him and learned to clap her hands and crow
 
 THE HOUSE AVITH TWO FKOXT DOOES. 107 
 
 wlien she saw him, for is it not true that Providence " creates 
 the love to reward the love ?" And when this little child had 
 found access to his heart it became gradually more accessible 
 to others, for the humanizing influence of love, even for a flower 
 or a dumb animal, is beyond calculation. Like the dew and 
 the rain that help to mould the dust into the rose, it falls 
 into the desert of life, and straightway a garden is pro- 
 duced. 
 
 Everybody said, " What a change has come over Gilbraith 
 he is not the Shoe Pete he used to be at all ;" but no one 
 dreamed what had wrought the change. 
 
 And the summer went by and the bright leaves fell on the 
 brighter head of the little girl as the shoemaker tugged her 
 about among the hollyhocks and poppies of the door-yard. 
 
 The house with the two front doors had a smoke in its chim- 
 ney all that winter, and the gossips said the mistress of it was 
 binding the shoemaker's heart as well as his shoes, but the 
 wisest gossips are at fault, sometimes. 
 
 It was the week before Christmas and the pale-faced shoe- 
 binder was at her work, paler and perhaps more melancholy 
 than usual, for it was hard to get along at the best, and it was 
 now mid-winter, and her health, less robust than it used to be, 
 was scarcely equal to the demands upon it. 
 
 Little Orphic, for so the fatherless child had been named, 
 had learnt to lisp, " mother," but she called that name less 
 often than Gabriel as she persisted in designating Mr. Gil- 
 braith. She had fallen asleep in his arms, and her upturned 
 face seemed asking to be kissed as her bright little head rested 
 against his bosom. He pulled down her coarse scanty dress, 
 for her bare legs dangled out of it, and said speaking partly
 
 168 THE HOUSE WITH T\VO FROINT DOORS. 
 
 to himself avid partly to the child, " Next birthday little 
 Orphic shall have a new dress, bright as the poppies she likes 
 so much." 
 
 Perhaps it was the allusion to her birthday that awoke in 
 the mind of the mother unwelcome memories, for throwing 
 down her work with angry haste, she laid the child in the cra- 
 dle, and with a scornful flush on her cheek removed it from the 
 warmth of the firelight into the darkest corner of the room. 
 
 " What did you do that for ?" asked the shoemaker with 
 both authority and displeasure in his tone. 
 
 " What right have you to dictate in reference to my child ?" 
 she replied, and resumed her work with an averted face. 
 
 " The right which my love for her gives me," he said, in a 
 tone very gentle and winning. 
 
 The mother's heart was touched, and hiding her face in her 
 hands she burst into tears poverty, shame, pride, and sorrow, 
 had produced a momentary feeling of harshness even for her 
 child, but the next instant she was humbly and heartily repen- 
 tant. 
 
 " I wish^ I was dead," she sobbed, at length, " or that I 
 never had been born that would be better ; nobody cares for 
 me in the world, and even you are stealing from me the heart 
 of my child !" 
 
 The young man was making some tender apology, to the 
 effect that it was through the child's heart that he had hoped 
 ultimately to reach the mother's, when a loud knock on the 
 door arrested the attention of both parties, and caused the 
 baby to sit suddenly upright, and stare wonderingly about. 
 
 " You may bring hor cradle back where it was," said the 
 mother sofih", and hastily brushing the tears away, she opened
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FKOXT DOORS. 169 
 
 the door with a smile that changed to an expression of pleased 
 surprise when she saw that the visitor was Squire Bigsham. 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself about the cradle," she said, 
 almost coldly, and aside, as it were, to the shoemaker, and 
 from that moment, gave her undivided attention to the more 
 distinguished guest. 
 
 When Mr. Gilbraith returned home he found a dainty little 
 note awaiting him Miss Bigsham presented her compliments 
 and begged the honor of Mr. Gilbraith's company on Christ- 
 mas Eve. 
 
 "By George ! but she's the prettiest girl what's in this 
 town ?" exclaimed the apprentice, as he presented the note, and 
 he added, as he saw the smile on his employer's face, " I cot 
 the best piece of ribbon in the store to make rosyetts to put 
 onto her shoes !" 
 
 " Quite right," replied Mr. Gilbraith, and refolding the note, 
 he placed it carefully in his vest pocket. 
 
 The following evening the mistress of the house with the 
 two front doors failed to return her work, as usual the 
 next day the apprentice was sent for at, and received the 
 answer that it was not' yet completed. Among the rest were 
 a pair of slippers for Miss Bigsham. They must be sent home 
 before the Christmas Eve, and having waited as long as he 
 could, Mr. Gilbraith went himself, and iu a mood less amiable 
 than common. Not a stitch had been set in' the slippers, 
 and the fingers that should have done that work were busy 
 making a shirt for Squire Bigsham. 
 
 The shoemaker was angry, but his first expression of dis- 
 pleasure was arrested by little Orphic, who clung to his knees, 
 saying, " Gabriel, Gabriel," in her almost wild delight. He 
 8
 
 170 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT DOORS. 
 
 stooped and kissed her, and without another word left the 
 house. 
 
 Christmas Eve saw him at Squire Bigsham's, and no one of 
 all the gay assembly so much honored by the squire's beauti- 
 ful daughter as he. She was noted for her graceful dancing, 
 but that night she preferred, strangely enough, her friends 
 thought, more quiet amusements. Mr. Gilbraith, however, was 
 not ignorant of the fact that his inability to dance influenced 
 her preference, nor could he remain quite insensible to that 
 preference, for Miss Bigsham was the admiration of the vil- 
 lage, and he to whom she extended her lightest favor was 
 deemed fortunate indeed. Pride has more authority in matters 
 of love than we are apt to believe, and the shoemaker's heart 
 had its share of vanity and weakness. 
 
 Many a night after that, when he had been passing the 
 evening with the squire's daughter, be would go home by the 
 way of the house with the two front doors, and sometimes lin- 
 ger a long time watching the lights as they moved about, sigh- 
 ing regretfully ; for the breach created between him and the 
 pale-faced young woman on the occasion of the squire's first 
 visit to her was destined never to close up, and be as it was 
 before. Little Orphie r however, did not share in the aliena- 
 tion, and when her birthday came round, true to bis promise, 
 he gave her the new dress, red as it could be, and exceedingly 
 beautiful in her eyes. 
 
 " You had better give it to the great beauty who has made you 
 so blind to everybody else," said Qrphie's mother ungraciously. 
 
 " Why do you decline to-say Miss Bigsham ? answered the 
 shoemaker, " for doubtless it is she to whom you allude surely 
 that name is not so obnoxious to you."
 
 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FROXT DOORS. 171 
 
 A conversation beginning thus was not likely to end in a 
 more agreeable state of feeling than had previously existed, 
 and from that day the old breach was visibly widened, and the 
 intercourse between the lovers, for such they had really been, 
 was restricted entirely to the shoe-binding. 
 
 Once, indeed, afterwards, he knocked on oue of the two doors 
 with the express design of fumbling all his pride, and express- 
 ing fully the sentiment which needed not the warranty of 
 expression, but when the door was opened by the hand of 
 Squire Bigsham, his tenderness and courage received together 
 a stroke from which they never recovered. 
 
 The springtime just beginning to bud in his nature was 
 blighted he withdrew into himself, and suffered the old hard- 
 ness and indifference to divide him from men and women again. 
 
 The squire's daughter lost her brief power, and though she 
 tried to cover her discomfiture with gaiety and flirtation, she 
 steadily refused all offers of marriage, and the roses died out 
 of her cheeks, one by one. 
 
 When five years were gone her curls were put plainly away, 
 and she was grown as quiet and reserved almost as the shoe- 
 maker himself, with whom meantime the world had continued 
 to prosper, and he was become one of the richest and most 
 influential of the citizens among whom he lived, for the little 
 town where he settled had grown to a city. 
 
 Little Orphie was big enough now to bring and carry work 
 to and from her mother's house ; every day she was seen trip- 
 ping down the hill with a bundle in her arms, and every day the 
 shoemaker kissed her and called her his little sunbeam, and so 
 she was in fact, for she lighted his lonesome life more than any- 
 thing else.
 
 172 THE HOUSE WITH TWO FRONT BOOKS. 
 
 The squire's daughter and he had been almost estranged for 
 the last year. One day, to his surprise, she came to see him, 
 her face pale and her eyes swollen from weeping ; her father 
 was about to be married, she said, to the woman who lived in 
 the house with the two front doors she could never be recon- 
 ciled to such a marriage, and was about to leave her native 
 home to make room for the intruder, and could not go away 
 ' without seeing Mr. Gilbraith once more, and feeling that they 
 parted good friends. Her trembling voice and wet cheeks 
 told how bitter, at best, that parting must be ; suffice it that it 
 neyer came about, and that instead, she became in due course 
 of time, the mistress of a fine house of her own, and the wife 
 of Mr. Gilbraith. Everybody envied the couple and thought 
 them very happy, and so perhaps they were ; nevertheless thu 
 husband had his fits of melancholy, and had, it was reported, 
 a room set apart in his fine house where he was accustomed to 
 retire for hours together, during which times even his beautiful 
 wife was excluded from his sympathy. 
 
 The house with the two front doors was deserted, and when 
 Squire Bigsham's wife sat in the front pew of the church, or 
 invited her friends to dine, it was no longer remembered that 
 she had ever lived there in neglect and poverty. 
 
 When little Orphic was sick, Mrs. Gilbraith went home, and 
 when she died Mrs. Bigsham shook hands with Mr. Gilbraith 
 and in the child's grave all unfriendly feeling was buried. 
 
 When Peter Gilbraith, junior, was christened, there was a 
 great merry-making at Squire Bigsham's, and. when he was six 
 years old there was no boy to be found who had so fine a 
 beauty and so manly a courage as he. It was the autumn of 
 that year, a rainy night, and the yellow leaves were coming
 
 THE HOUSE WITII TWO FRONT DOORS. 173 
 
 down with every gust. Mr. and Mrs. Gilbraith sat chatting 
 before a little fire, very happily, and making plans for the cele- 
 bration of their wedding day. Little Peter was playing in the 
 room specially dedicated to his father he was fond of being 
 there because it was a liberty not often granted him. Sud- 
 denly he came staggering towards his parents his eyes staring 
 wide, and his face white as it could be. As soon as he could 
 speak he said that while he was at play, a little girl wearing a 
 red dress came to him and kissed him, and that when he spoke 
 to her she turned into a shadow. The anniversary celebration 
 was talked of no more that night.
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S STORY. 
 
 " HALLOO the house !" 
 
 " Halloo 1 Who is there ?" 
 
 It was about eight o'clock of a March evening, a good many 
 years ago, that I sat in the chimney corner at my grandfather's 
 house, watching the smoldering logs, and listening to the rain, 
 which had been pouring and pouring for three long days. The 
 meadows were soaked, the creeks swollen, and pools of water 
 standing everywhere. 
 
 I was lonesome and homesick, for I was away from home 
 for the first time in my life ; and though it was at my grand- 
 father's house, I received none of those privileges and petting 
 attentions that children are now a-days accustomed to expect 
 from grandparents. 
 
 The ancient homestead was one of the most retired and 
 altogether unattractive that ever resisted the peltings of a 
 March storm. Indeed, it would be difficult to imagine a less 
 enjoyable situation for a young woman of twelve years old, or 
 thereabouts, to be placed in. Too young to appreciate the 
 sage and solemn doctrine that made up the discourse of the old 
 people, and too thoughtless to press reason into my service, 
 there was little for me to do, but suffer and be still. 
 
 1T4
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S STORY. 175 
 
 
 
 If I looked through the small window-panes, down which the 
 rain was pouring in streams, I could see nothing but a circle 
 of woods, if my eyes wandered beyond the patch of cleared 
 land that held the house and barn and mill, the main road 
 being quite out of view. If I had been a few years older, I 
 might have found the sunshiny face of Cyrus Hall, who was my 
 grandfather's hired man, genial as the sunshine itself ; but as it 
 was, though I received alleviation, even comfort from his kind- 
 nesses, I was far from that state of beatitude which bringeth 
 utter forgetfulness of clouds. He had told me over and over 
 that it would stop raining in a day or two, and that the wet 
 cornstalks which lay between the wood and the mill would in a 
 single day get dry enough to burn ; and then he would gather 
 them up in heaps and burn them after nightfall, and have oh, 
 such fun ! But he found it hard to make me believe, in my then 
 state of mind, that the sun would ever shine again, or that the 
 cornstalks would ever be dry enough to burn, and if they should 
 be, grandfather would not allow us to burn them, I argued, for 
 my mood of mind inclined me to augment my sorrows. 
 
 To the best of my knowledge and belief, my ancient grand' 
 mother would continue to knit at the stocking she was busy 
 with till the day of doom, and that my grandfather would ever 
 close the big Bible from which he was reading, and speak or 
 smile again, I had not the remotest idea. The very cat 
 stretched across the hearth, seemed to me indicative of final 
 repose. No wonder the tears would start now and then. 
 
 There was one candle burning, and besides a little glow from 
 the fire there was no other light, except what Cyrus's eyes 
 made, and they were as bright as they could be with hope and 
 good humor. lie was about twenty years old, red-cheeked,
 
 176 TJXCLK JOHN'S STOET. 
 
 . % 
 
 and beautiful as a young rose, and in exuberance of spirits 
 contrasted strikingly with the severe gravity of my white- 
 headed grandfather. 
 
 Now and then, the cattle in the sheds lowed uneasily, for 
 they, too, were tired of the rain ; or one of the work-horses 
 put his head out of the window of his stable and neighed, and 
 except these, there was no sound but that of the rain on the 
 roof, and the ticking of the clock ; for Cyrus talked in whispers 
 as a single word spoken above the breath, while my grand- 
 father was reading, would have been an awful breach of family 
 discipline. He had exhibited whatever he possessed that 
 could amuse me from the picture-book presented by his school- 
 master, with " Eeward of merit " written on the fly-leaf in 
 flourishing characters, to a late purchase of a silk pocket-hand- 
 kerchief and razor ; and at the time our story opens, was tell- 
 ing me the history of his life partly, perhaps, for the want of 
 a better listener. His father was a wood-chopper, who rented 
 a cabin, and moved from one place to another, as opportuni- 
 ties of work offered inducements ; at nine years old, he himself 
 had been compelled to earn his own living, and in his tossing 
 about the pendant world, had gained all the knowledge he was 
 
 There fell a shadow across his face towards the close of his 
 story, such as I had never seen it wear before, and when I 
 asked him what the matter was, he answered " nothing," and 
 then said he was thinking of something I could not understand. 
 I said I would try, and then he told me that he knew a young 
 woman- once, not much bigger than I, whom he liked better 
 than he ever liked any one else, but that she was rich and 
 himself poor, so he had come away from the neighbor-
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S STOKY. 177 
 
 hood where she lived, and never expected to see her any 
 more. 
 
 Suddenly he ceased his narrative my grandmother let fall 
 her knitting work, and my grandfather, closing the old Bible, 
 walked straight out into the rain, and responded 
 
 " Halloo ! Who is there ?" to the " Halloo the house I" 
 recorded in the opening of this chapter. The wonder who 
 could be coming at that time of night, and in so terrible a 
 storm, held us all breathless. 
 
 " Cyrus, bring out the lantern quick 1" called my grand- 
 father, and in a moment, without hat or coat, Cyrus was in 
 the yard, the lantern glimmering before him. 
 
 How much I wished to ask my grandmother who she thought 
 was coming, but to ask direct questions was not among my 
 privileges, so I contented my curiosity as well as I could by 
 listening towards the open door through which the rain was 
 driving freely. The door-yard gate creaked on its hinges, and 
 then came a noise like a team drawing a wagon that cut its 
 slow way heavily through the soaked earth. 
 
 " Whoa 1" was heard next, and the team stood still right 
 against the blue stones at the door. 
 
 " Take my hand, Uncle John, and step here 1" I heard a 
 voice that was all music and melody say, and presently a 
 young woman, muffled in a shawl and hood, came into the 
 house, leading by the hand a grey-haired man with a very pale 
 face. 
 
 " Bring your lantern this way, Cyrus," called my grand- 
 father, as he saw them feeling their way through the dark, but 
 no Cyrus appeared, and presently, his white hair clinging to his 
 head, and accompanied by a boy of some fourteen years, he
 
 178 TJXCLE JOHX'S STOKT. 
 
 entered and, closing the door, presented the strangers by 
 saying, "Here are some travellers come to stay all night with 
 us the bridge is swept from Bear Creek, and they can get no 
 farther at present." 
 
 " We are very sorry it happened so," said the pale man, 
 " but you mast not allow us to make you more trouble than is 
 necessary myself and Thomas can lie on the floor before the 
 fire, but Nanny here is sickly, poor child, and if you could give 
 her a bed, why, we will do as much for somebody some time, if 
 not for you." 
 
 He put his arm around the waist of the girl, as he spoke 
 and I saw that she was trembling almost crying. 
 
 " You are wet, poor Nanny," he said, untying her hood, and 
 passing his hand tenderly along her hair. 
 
 She evidently made a strong effort to recover herself, and 
 answered in a tone of assumed cheerfulness 
 
 " I shall do well enough, Uncle John, but you will be sick 
 I am afraid ;" and she placed a chair for him, saying apologet- 
 ically as he felt about awkwardly to find it " My uncle is 
 blind, and I bespeak the spare bed for him." 
 
 " I guess," said my grandmother, " we can give you all beds 
 and something a little comforting besides." And relieving 
 Nanny of her wet shawl and hood, she hastened to put on the 
 tea-kettle. 
 
 My grandfather, meantime, was brightening up the fire, and 
 entertaining Thomas with an account of the damage done in 
 the neighborhood by the rain. 
 
 Nanny was pretty, but her blue eyes had, I thought, a 
 bewildered and frightened look, and she almost clung to the 
 hand of Uncle John as it lay in her lap.
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S STORY. 179 
 
 " There was another one who came out and assisted us in," 
 said the blind man, directly, as he listened to the different 
 voices " where is he, Nanny ?" 
 
 The girl's face flushed red as fire, and she answered nothing. 
 
 " That was Cyrus, my hired man," replied my grandfather, 
 speaking very loud, as if a blind man was necessarily deaf too, 
 " and he is feeding your horses." 
 
 " I wonder he don't come in," he added, speaking to himself. 
 Nanny's face had grown white now, and she leaned against 
 Uncle John's shoulder, saying, in answer to his inquiries, that 
 the fire made her feel faint, she believed. My grandmother 
 proposed all the cordials at her command, but Nanny steadily 
 refused, saying she would be better directly. She gave no 
 .signs of being better, however, and when it was proposed that 
 she should lie down till supper was ready, she acceded with 
 an eager thankfulness, and was led away to the tiny bedroom 
 where my grandmother kept her silver spoons, and extra china, 
 in a corner cupboard. 
 
 My services were brought into requisition in the arrangement 
 of the supper-table, and on going to the corner cupboard for 
 the spoons, I perceived that Nanny had turned her face from 
 the light and was evidently crying. 
 
 I forgot my own homesickness in my anxiety to do or say 
 something that might comfort her, but I was bashful, and only 
 dared to shade the light and walk on tiptoe by way of mani- 
 festing my interest. At last we had the supper prepared, 
 toast and tea and honey, and I know not what all besides, and 
 my grandmother set the tea to draw in the best china teapot, 
 and the puffing tea-kettle close by it, and we ranged ourselves 
 round the fire to wait for Cyrus to come in.
 
 180 UNCLE JOHX'S STORY. 
 
 All eyes turned to the blind man my grandmother sighed 
 heavily, and there fell a sympathetic silence over the gronp. 
 
 " I see how it is," said Uncle John, smiling, " but there is 
 no need that you should pity me ; and if you have any pity to 
 spare I entreat that you will give it to my little niece, Xauny, 
 for whose sake, in fact, we are on our travels, more than for 
 anything eke. We hoped it would divert her mind from an 
 uuhappy memory, but it seemed to-night as if the old feeling 
 mastered her again I knew it by her trembling voice and 
 hand." 
 
 " Poor dear child !" said my grandmother, with a woman's 
 quick sympathy " I'll go straight and carry her a cup of tea 
 I hope she did not catch cold ;" and she had Nanny's little 
 feet in her hands, almost while she spoke. She presently 
 returned, saying with a cheerful manner, and addressing herself 
 particularly to Thomas, that his sister seemed to be sleeping 
 very swQetly. 
 
 I have suspected since that the sweet sleep was all an affec- 
 tation. 
 
 " How did it happen that you lost your eyes ?" asked my 
 grandfather, perhaps more to arouse the blind man from the 
 revery into which he had fallen, than from curiosity. 
 
 " Tell them all about it, Uncle John," said Thomas, speak- 
 ing for the first time, and blushing with embarrassment, " it's 
 good as a sermon." 
 
 " Oh, it's no story at all," replied Uncle John ; but we all 
 said, " tell us about it, at any rate ;" and having listened for a 
 moment at the door to see whether Nanny were still asleep, he 
 began : 
 
 " I may begin by saying, so as to prevent further waste of
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S STOEY. 181 
 
 sympathy, I am voluntarily blind. My earliest memory is con- 
 nected with lamentations about my blindness. My parents 
 were wealthy, and I, a fondly-expected son, so you can perhaps 
 imagine the suffering occasioned by what they termed my mis- 
 fortune ; it was the first great sorrow of their lives, and my 
 own happiness was constantly diminished by the knowledge 
 that I was a heavy burden to their hands. Sometimes hearing 
 the merriment in the parlor, I would feel my way along the 
 walls and by the furniture till I would touch my mother's 
 knees ; but it seemed as if a great melancholy shadow fell over 
 them all at my entrance, and the voices were subdued, and the 
 laughter hushed ; so I learned by degrees to live much alone, 
 and it is astonishing within how small a compass we can find 
 enjoyment enough. I was naturally of a happy and contented 
 disposition, and in sitting in the sunshine often experienced 
 more delight than my playmates seemed to find in their greater 
 privileges. 
 
 " I learned to read, and what with my books and my play 
 made myself so happy that my parents felt their burden lighter, 
 and finally, as they became used to my condition, I believe I 
 really afforded them a good deal of comfort. I was always, 
 however, called poor unfortunate little John, and to the end of 
 their days they held frequent consultations concerning opera- 
 tions, which my mother could never quite consent to, and of 
 famous opticians who had made the blind to see. 
 
 "I did not feel the loss they lamented so much, and could run 
 up and down the stairs, from room to room, and about the door- 
 yard as readily as any one. I could distinguish everybody I 
 knew by their step all the colors I had fixed in my mind, 
 which was stored, too, with pictures of all my friends. My
 
 182 UNCLE JOHN'S STORY. 
 
 parents died, thank God, without my having ever se'en either 
 of them. Not for the world would I have had the sweet 
 impression I still retain of their faces, unsettled. 
 
 " I was forty years old when I went to live with my brother 
 Moses, and then came a new torture in the shape of new sym- 
 pathy. It was all 'poor Uncle John,' now, as it had been 
 ' poor little John ' when I was a boy. Only Nanny, dear little 
 girl, never mourned over me I wish I never had over her ; she 
 used to climb on my knees and read stories by the hour, and 
 sing songs for me, and tell me how everything looked that I 
 could not see, and laugh and clap her hands at the odd fancies 
 I had formed. She was full of frolic and fun, and made the 
 house gay with her chattering from morning till night poor 
 Nanny 1 
 
 " When they told me she was fifteen years old, I could not 
 believe it, for to me she was a pet and plaything, and try as I 
 would I could not make her a woman. About this time my 
 brother Moses, who was beginning to grow feeble, hired a vouog 
 man to assist in the farm-work, Thomas being then at school. 
 He often talked of his poverty, and told us stories of the hard 
 times he had seen ; but he was hopeful and genial, almost mak- 
 ing a jest of his misfortunes then, too, he was so industrious 
 and obliging that we all learned to love him. As for myself I 
 liked him none the less on account of his poverty I could not 
 feel any difference, and as I could not see any, why it made no 
 difference to me whether he were poor or rich. 
 
 " One frosty evening Nanny was sitting on my knee, singing 
 one of my favorite songs, when ' Cy,' as we always called him, 
 came in from the field and sat down by the fire. 
 
 " ' Dear me, Uncle John !' exclaimed Nanny, breaking off her
 
 UNCLE JOHX'S STORY. 183 
 
 song, ' Cyrus has no stockings on ! mustn't he be cold ?' 
 ' Cold ! No,' replied Cyrus, ' I have seen the time I had no 
 shoes did I never tell you about my first pair ? I was ten 
 years old when I got them, and earned the money to buy them 
 myself.' ' Pray tell me all about it,' said Nanny, and she 
 was off my knee and sitting beside the young farmer, in a 
 twinkling. I don't remember what the particulars were, and 
 no matter enough that Nanny found them interesting ; and 
 not long after this when I missed a ring I had put on her 
 finger, and inquired what she had done with it, she replied 
 artlessly that she had given it to Cyrus ! 
 
 " So it came about that I liked the young man less and less, 
 and Nanny liked him more and more indeed she was never 
 weary of praising him. 
 
 " My brother, who was growing feebler all the time, seeing 
 that his end approached, became doubly anxious that my eyes 
 should be operated upon. If he could leave me guardian of his 
 children he would die happy, he said. How little we under 
 stand what we ask for. 
 
 " As if in answer to his wishes, there came into the neighbor- 
 hood a great oculist, and partly to soothe my dying brother, 
 and partly to realize the heaven I had been taught to believe I 
 should find if I but had my sight, I submitted my blind organs 
 to his operative skill, and to the astonishment and joy of every 
 one, I was made to see ! 
 
 " Bequeathing me the care of his children, Moses died happy, 
 and more than happy. 
 
 " But whatever pleasure my new sense gave to others, it was 
 only a source of discomfort to me. It was quite superfluous, 
 and I could do nothing with it. It clashed with all my previous
 
 184 UNCLE JOHN'S STOKT. 
 
 ideas of things, and I could not reconcile anything. Colors I 
 could not distinguish, except by the old method of passing my 
 hand over them ; of distances I could form no idea, and I fell 
 down continually if I undertook to walk, so when I desired to 
 go from one place to another I was obliged to close my eyes 
 and feel my way as I used to. In fact, I had no pleasure, so 
 continually was I running into the fire or the water, or against 
 the wall, except in bandaging my eyes and making believe I 
 was blind again. 
 
 " My friends I did not know, and strange to say, did not like 
 as my new sense revealed them. I became dissatisfied with 
 myself, and with everything ; irritable, and ultimately, I think, 
 not far from insane. Is it any wonder if Nanny became more 
 and more alienated from me, and more and more attached to 
 Cyrus ? 
 
 " Glad of any pretext, I argued if his motives were honor- 
 able it was necessary he should he more explicit, for with all his 
 demonstrations, he had never said he loved Nanny, as she 
 owned, and never asked her to marry him. Besides, I said it 
 was a scandal that she, who was an heiress, should marry her 
 father's hired man ! Poor Nanny could only hide her face and 
 cry ; and the end of it was the dismissal of Cyrus upon some 
 false pretext and the breaking of Nanny's heart. 
 
 " When he had been away six months you would not have 
 known her for the same girl there was no singing, and no 
 story-telling any more, but only moping and sighing from morn- 
 ing till night. I settled all my fortune upon her, but she never 
 smiled half so brightly as I had seen her when Cyrus but gave 
 her his hand. 
 
 " I sent for the physicians whose skill recommended them,
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S STORY. 185 
 
 but spite all they could do, she grew quietly and steadily thinner 
 and paler, until she became the sickly and unstable creature 
 you saw to-night. I was glad when I found the darkness 
 spreading over my eyes again, and hiding from me her reproach- 
 ful face. 
 
 " My friends besought me to have recourse to the oculist 
 anew, but I steadily persevered in my refusal, and joyfully went 
 back into blindness, and gradually my confused brain became 
 clear and quiet again. 
 
 " We hoped the little journey we are taking might make 
 Nanny better, but unless we hear tidings from Cyrus, I think 
 we shall make her a bed by her father before long." He 
 groaned and covered his face, as he finished the story. 
 
 " I wonder where my Cyrus lived before he came to work 
 for me ?" said my grandfather, rising and stirring the fire. 
 
 " He lived with Uncle John, and loved Nanny, though he 
 never dared to tell her so," answered Cyrus, as he came for- 
 ward and grasped the blind man by the hand. 
 
 He had come in in the middle of Uncle John's story, and seat- 
 ing himself quietly in the corner, had remained there till its 
 conclusion, unobserved. 
 
 So much merry noise as there was in my grandfather's house 
 had never been heard there till that night. I thick only for a 
 moment was there silence when, having placed the teapot on 
 the table, my grandmother went to bring Nanny out to 
 supper. 
 
 And such rosy cheeks were never seen as she and Cyrus pre- 
 sented when they shook hands, just as if they had not seen and 
 recognized each other when they met in the door-yard. 
 
 What a pleasant supper we had, and what a happy time we
 
 186 UNCLE JOHN'S STORY. 
 
 had telling stories round the fire afterwards, and what laugh- 
 ing, when grandmother said she would give her spare bed to 
 Thomas and Uncle John, for she was quite sure Nanny could 
 sit up all night, well enough I 
 
 The following morning the sun was shining brightly, as 
 Cyrus had predicted the strangers remained at my grand- 
 father's all day, Thomas assisting Cyrus to rake the cornstalks 
 into heaps, and when night came, Nanny and I went out to 
 the field and helped to burn them. Why should I linger ? 
 everybody who has ever loved, guesses the end of the story, 
 and those who have not, will feel no interest in hearing.
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 FIVE o'clock in the great city a roar as of a mighty sea in 
 the streets, for the multitude is heaving hither and thither in 
 pursuit of interest or pleasure. " Dinner-time," said Mrs. 
 William Hartly, looking up from the torn lace she was trying 
 to stitch together, " and I have not seen Annie to-day what 
 can the girl be about ?" 
 
 The door opens, and a feeble little man, with no more color 
 in his face than is in his handkerchief, enters, and in querulous 
 accents inquires, " What are you doing, my dear ? and why 
 are you not dressed ?" and opening his watch, he continues 
 " five minutes past five," which in the lady's estimation seems 
 equivalent to having said, " You outrage all propriety ;" for 
 she hastily puts down the torn lace, and disappears with an 
 air not the most amiable in the world. 
 
 The white-faced feeble man walks nervously about the room 
 for some ten minutes, more or less, when the lady returns, 
 " made up " for the ceremony of dinner, which the bell has 
 rung for twice during her preparation. 
 
 " You are looking very sweetly, my dear ; and Mr. William 
 Hartly slips the ringed fingers of his stout wife through his
 
 188 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 own tiny and wiry arm, and in pompous solemnity they descend 
 together. 
 
 " Where is Pet ?" he asks, placing a chair for the stout 
 woman, and crooking his lips into what is meant to be a 
 smile. 
 
 " If you mean Annie," answers the injured wife, " I don't 
 know anything about her." 
 
 " Very strange, madam," says Mr. Hartly, unfolding his nap- 
 kin with trembling hands, " that we can't even eat and drink 
 like other folks where is Albert ?" The wife and mother 
 simply shakes her head this time, and the sensor continues : 
 " Have you resigned the government of your own household, 
 madam ?" 
 
 And he goes on with some complaint about the soup, while 
 the wife, with eyes bent intently on the name of " Hartly," 
 graven ou her silver spoon, answers, with no submission except 
 in her words, that she will have nothing to do with children or 
 servants any more, and that if her husband thinks it so easy a 
 task to put his own notions into other people's heads, he is 
 welcome to try she has tried and tried till she is tired, and 
 she can't make anything of either Albert or Annie, and she is 
 quite willing to resign the task to abler hands. 
 
 Mr. Hartly bows in acknowledgment of the compliment, and 
 says he will see what can be done, and his tone has in it some- 
 thing of the authoritative meaning of a schoolmaster ; for he was 
 bred in early life to the profession of one. His iron-grey hair 
 stands up with a more determinate expression, and his white 
 face grows whiter in the calmness of settled resolve. 
 
 A lubberly, yellow-haired boy of twelve years old kicks open 
 the door at this juncture, and with his fine and fashionably-
 
 MAKIXG THE CHILD I1EX SOMETHING. 189 
 
 made clothes soiled arid torn, dashes his cap at one of the ser- 
 vants in waiting, by way of eliciting attention to his wants, and 
 seats himself at table, without noticing father or mother. 
 " Albert, my son," says the father, " what has detained you ? 
 have you no excuse 1" 
 
 " Detained myself," replies the boy, " and that's the reason ; 
 and besides, I stole a piece of molasses cake at school, and did 
 not get so hungry for dinner as common." 
 
 Mr. Hartly frowned and Mrs. Hartly sighed, the one looking 
 the picture of indignation and the other of despair. 
 
 " Tell you what, old folks," said the boy, without noticing 
 the troubled expression of his parents, " I'll run away from 
 school if you make me go there, 'cause I hate books there 
 haiut none of them got no sense in them and I hate masters ; 
 there never was a schoolmaster that had sense : I'm a going 
 to hire out to a livery-stable, and learn to nick and dock, 
 that's what I'll do ; and when I'm sixteen I'll be sot up in the 
 trade, and I'll keep the fastest trotters in town. Old folks, do 
 you hear that ?" 
 
 Both father and mother looked as though they did hear ; Mrs. 
 Hartly dropping knife and fork, and limberly falling together 
 as if there were no more courage in her, and Mr. Hartly bracing 
 himself up as though about to be swept over the Niagara 
 Falls. 
 
 "What's matter? Anything in my composition surprise 
 you ?" 
 
 " I -think there are some things in your composition that 
 must be beaten down or wrenched out," said the father ; (f and 
 no\v, sir," he continued, " don't open your mouth again till I 
 give you liberty."
 
 190 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 "How will I eat, old man," replied the boy, "if I am to 
 keep my mouth shut ?" 
 
 Mr. Hartly here arose, and having struck the broad shoul- 
 ders of the lad with his little delicate hand, led him away by 
 one ear, assuring him that for the next forty-eight hours he 
 should have nothing but bread and water to eat. 
 
 Aunie, ignorant of how matters stood, made her appearance 
 at this moment, carrying a great platter of steaming pudding, 
 her flushed face radiant with smiles, for she had made the pud- 
 ding with her own hands, and evidently in the expectation of 
 affording her parents a happy surprise. 
 
 No smile answered hers, however, as she placed the pudding 
 dish on the table, timidly turning her eyes from father to mother. 
 
 " Doesn't it look nice ?" she ventured to say at last ; " Mr. 
 "Wentworth showed me how to make it shan't I ask him to 
 come and eat with us ?" 
 
 " I think you look nice," said the mother, eyeing the flour on 
 Annie's apron, and the rosy face indicative of the cookery she had 
 been engaged in ; " it 's no use," she continued, as Annie stood 
 still aghast, " I can't make anything of you, and I may just as 
 well let you run wild go and live with Mr. Wentworth, and 
 learn to make butter and cheese ; I expect that would suit you 
 better than going to dancing-school and practising your piano, 
 as you ought to do. Your father and' I have used every means 
 in our power to make something of you and your brother you 
 have had money enough spent on you, the dear knows, to make 
 you as accomplished as anybody in the city ; and then, to the 
 neglect of your proper duties, you go in the kitchen and talk 
 about pumpkins with Mr. Wentworth, if that is the man's 
 name, and make puddings, and appear at the dinner-table with
 
 MAKING THK CHILDKEIV SOMETHING. 191 
 
 your hair in that frightfully plain fashion it's enough to break 
 a mother's heart." 
 
 Annie answered that she did not know it was wrong to make 
 a pudding, nor to ask Mr. Wentworth to eat some of it when 
 he was so good as to show her the way to make it and it was 
 such a cheap way. 
 
 " Economy is not the chief end and aim of our lives, my 
 dear," said the father ; " there may be people to whom a pound 
 of flour, more or less, makes a difference, but I humbly trust 
 you will never be m their sphere of life ;" and for a moment 
 Mr. Hartly subsided, and seemed to be saying, " Does the forty 
 feet stone front of our house look like practising economy in 
 the making of a pudding ? Do the stone steps and the stone 
 baluster look like it ? Does the man-servant who attends the 
 door-bell look like it ? Do the lace curtains, ten in all, look 
 like it ? Do my wife's brocades look like it ? Do the enter- 
 tainments I give look like it, or anything in any way apper- 
 taining to us ? No, no ; nobody would suppose us to be people 
 to economize." And having thus mentally soliloquized, he 
 turned to Annie, who stood at the foot of the table like a cul- 
 prit. " No, my dear, no ; we are not the people to count the 
 eggs that go into a pudding ;" and having emphasized the fact 
 by tapping his silver fork lightly against his plate, he added, 
 '' Whom have you in the kitchen, and what is his occupation ?" 
 
 " Why, father, it is Mr. Wentworth you know him," said 
 Annie, looking a little encouraged. 
 
 Mr. Hartly slowly moved his head from side to side, as though 
 he said, "I wash my hands of it I know nothing of him." 
 
 " One of -these men, you know," said Mrs. Hartly, in an ex- 
 planatory way, " who make pumpkins and milk, and cultivate
 
 192 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 butter, and manufacture corn and cattle, and such things a 
 man that lives in an open place, you know, where there are 
 trees, and where there are no streets, you know ; no houses, 
 only wigwams, or bamboo huts, or something ; you know, 
 William, it's the old person that brings us our butter and 
 apples." 
 
 Mrs. Hartly said person, to indicate that she <3id not know 
 exactly whether he were black or white, man or monkey. It 
 was a sheer affectation on her part, for Mrs. Hartly was a 
 woman of naturally good plain common sense, if she could 
 have been satisfied to let plain common sense be plain common 
 sense, but she could not ; she had a large amount of that 
 " vaulting ambition wbich ( is apt to o'erleap itself and fall on 
 t'other side." She was the daughter of a retired horse-jockey, 
 and could, in her youth, drive or ride the most unmanageable 
 animal in her father's stable, and not unfrequently did ride 
 without saddle from the suburbs of the village where she lived, 
 to the city, half a dozen miles away, where she served appren- 
 ticeship as a milliner, and afterward herself kept shop. All 
 these things were doubtless forgotten, for they were long ago, 
 when stout Mrs. Hartly was gawky Debby Smith, and before 
 her nature was smothered and lost in affectations. Somewhere 
 about the same time, Mr. William Hartly, the present opulent 
 merchant, was a country schoolmaster, near the village of the 
 milliner, carrying his caudle to the log school-house for the 
 evening meeting, and paying board by working in the garden 
 of nights and mornings. In the course of time it came about 
 that Debby Smith was employed by the schoolmaster, afore- 
 said, to make shirts for plain needle-work entered into the 
 young woman's accomplishments and from these beginnings
 
 MAKIXG THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 193 
 
 had come the present wealthy merchant, the stone-fronted 
 house and all the appurtenances thereof, the pompous Mrs. 
 Hartly, the young woman Annie, and the hopeful Master 
 Albert. 
 
 There had been no sudden influx of wealth, such as often 
 turns the heads of silly people all had been the growth of 
 years of steady industry and economy, attended with constant 
 good luck. And with the wealth, affectations had grown, for 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hartly were under the impression that their pre- 
 sent position demanded it it was a duty they owed to the 
 world at large, in view of the stone front, the man-servant, the 
 rosewood furniture, and the inheritors of their great fortune, 
 Annie and Albert ; the first a most active, good-tempered 
 young woman, but plain, and " without hope of change ;" the 
 latter a coarse, vulgar lad, on whom no refinement could be in- 
 grafted, and whose natural abhorrence of books and love of 
 horses were not likely to be easily overcome. 
 
 So there they were together in their fine house, being sup- 
 posed to be dining at five o'clock, easily and elegantly, having 
 taken luncheon at twelve, and with tea and supper to be served 
 in due and proper course of time supposed to be, I say, for 
 the luncheon, and the supper, and the tea, were all myths ; the 
 luncheon, when traced to its reality, consisting chiefly of bread 
 crusts, strong butter, scraps of meat, and the like, kept in the 
 closet, and resorted to from time to tune by such members of 
 the family as were about the house, and felt the demands of 
 appetite too importunate to be refused till the regular dinner 
 hour. Mr. and Mrs. Hartly had done well for themselves, as 
 they believed all they could do ; they wore good clothes, and 
 usr-il what they thought good words ; they affected high breed- 
 9
 
 194 MAKING TUE CHILDREN SOMETUIXG. 
 
 ing, and believed in their hearts that the pretence was the pos- 
 session paste was not less genuine to them than diamonds- 
 Mr. Hartly had worn himself thin and pale ; had, in fact, 
 coined his life-blood into money and the effort to be genteel. 
 Mrs, Hartly had, as she supposed, expanded easily to a model 
 of dignity and deportment ; but she saw not herself as others 
 saw her she was, in fact, in her best phases, a big woman 
 with fine clothes on. Her misfortune was, that nothing would 
 fit her ; rings and ear-rings seemed hung on ; dresses seemed 
 pinned on and hooked on, but not to have been especially made 
 for her, or in the least becoming to her ; they might have be- 
 longed to Mrs. Lundy, or any other woman who bad money 
 enough to buy them ; she was a personage on whom all these 
 things were hung, and when she wore a velvet train, she was 
 simply a big woman with a relvet train, and she was nothing 
 more. 
 
 Whether she improved her broad flat face in any very great 
 degree by the little curls she was at infinite pains to twist 
 along either temple was questionable to everybody but herself ; 
 and whether the powder which she deposited among the pim- 
 ples of her face was not calculated to call attention to her 
 sorry complexion, was also questionable ; but these were Mrs. 
 Hartly's taste, and in some sort the necessities of her station, 
 she thought. They had taught themselves divers little forms 
 and ceremonies, in the use of which they were most punctilious, 
 zfnd a dozen times a day Mrs. Hartly sent her compliments to 
 Mr. Hartly, with some sweet and lady-like inquiry as to his 
 health, or wishes with reference to what dress she should ap- 
 pear in at dinner, and as often Mr. Hartly sent back his com- 
 pliments, from the garret where he was putting in a pane of
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 195 
 
 glass, or the cellar where he was sawing wood, as the case 
 might be, begging that Mrs. Hartly would oblige him by wear- 
 ing the blue dress, or the green one, and he often topped these 
 princely messages by a request that Mrs. Hartly, if she could 
 make it consistent with her previous engagements, would do 
 him the favor to accompany him on a visit to the house of 
 general, or governor so-and-so. The Ilartlies liked to hear 
 themselves sending these messages ; it had a lofty look in their 
 eyes to appear to know little about each other's affairs ; their 
 house was so big, and the duties of their station so multifarious ; 
 their suits of apartments so vast and separate, that they could 
 not be expected to know much of each other's movements. 
 These affectations were all that was left of .them ; as the moss 
 grows over a dead tree, so they were overgrown by them. 
 Thus they stood, ornaments of their age and generation, in 
 their own estimation shams, to other people. If by any means 
 the children could have been screwed up, or pinched down ; 
 stretched or flattened to genteel proportions, it would have 
 been done but alack ! they had been put through the artistic 
 mills in vain they would not be made anything of. 
 
 This conviction, forced home upon Mrs. Hartly to-day, re- 
 duced her to the ill-natured and somewhat natural demeanor, 
 of which she was grown mortally ashamed, and which she 
 essayed to cancel by the double distilled affectation about 
 cheese and butter. And to the close of this exquisite mani- 
 festation of ignorance we return. 
 
 " A decent sort of person, I suppose," said Mr. Hartly, in the 
 benevolent supposition that it is barely possible, and he is in- 
 clined to hope for the best. 
 
 " Oh, he seems such a good old man, and he has got on
 
 106 MAKING TUB CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 such a nice coat that he says his wife spun !" exclaimed Annie, 
 in ecstasy at the kindly disposition of her father. 
 
 "How foolish you are, Petty I" said Mrs. Hartly,iu a kind of 
 softeued and polite scorn ; and she added, in a sweet pouting 
 style, " I would not have a big ngly wheel in ray house, they 
 make a noise like one of these great winnow things that coun- 
 trymen have to put their chaff through. My grandfather 
 told me about one once. I never saw one. I would not look 
 at it." 
 
 All this time Mr. Hartly has been sitting with knitted brows, 
 and twitching almost with the culmination of some most impor- 
 tant matter. At length he says : " Annie, my daughter, I am 
 resolved to send you to the wilderness with this old man as you 
 call him, and keep you there too, till you will be glad to come 
 back to civilized life." Annie bites her red lips together, try- 
 ing to look demure ; but a smile breaks out in her face that is 
 brighter than was ever there before. 
 
 Mrs. Hartly lifts up her hands and looks heavenward, as 
 though incredulous of her mortal understanding. " I am 
 determined," continues Mr. Hartly, " that in some way I will 
 make something of my children. I have used bribes, and now 
 I shall use punishments. I have spent thousands of dollars to 
 accomplish my children, and what good has it done ?" He 
 broke off abruptly, and sent his compliments to Master Albert, 
 with a request that he would drink a glass of wine with him. 
 
 The lad sent no message in return ; but with cap pulled 
 down over his red eyes, and lips puffed out with anger, thrust 
 his sister aside, and commenced eating the pudding with a 
 table spoon. " Don't, my dear, don't," said the mamma softly ; 
 " I am afraid that odd-looking dish won't agree with you."
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMKTHIXG. 197 
 
 " If you think this kind of stuff is going to hurt you," re- 
 plied the boy, " I am glad of it cause I could eat a 
 bushel." 
 
 " Mother, shan't I give you some ?" asked Annie, looking 
 proudly at her pudding. 
 
 " Petty, you speak so loud it's vulgar," said the mamma ; 
 and she sends a servant to the other end of the table with her 
 compliments, and the reply that she will trouble her daughter 
 to be so good as to send her part of a spoonful. And having 
 received, she cuts it apart, and dips it up and down in order to 
 see whether it is made of anything of which she has any 
 knowledge, concluding, as it appears, that she has not 
 for she tastes not, and presently ceases to touch and to 
 handle. 
 
 " My son," said Mr. Hartly, lifting his glass. 
 
 " I see you," answers the hopeful ; "and when I finish this 
 pooden, I'll drink a bottle or two ; haint got my appetite 
 squinched yet, and come to my drinkotite. I was at confession, 
 you know." 
 
 For a while Mr. Hartly's head falls, as if a hammer struck 
 him ; there is no doubt but that his suffering is sincere. At 
 length he says, in subdued and sorrowful accents : " Albert, it 
 has been the aim and the hope of my life to make something 
 of you, and now the time has come that you must choose a pro? 
 fession, or rather begin one ; for I am resolved to make a pain- 
 ter of you. I shall send you to Florence at once, to study the 
 old masters." 
 
 "I've studied you, haint I ?" replies Albert;"! saw you 
 paint the kitchen floor, and I didn't learn nothing as I know 
 of."
 
 198 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 " I don't mean to paint houses, my son ; you misapprehend 
 I intend you shall make great pictures." 
 
 " Well then, say what you mean, and don't go to sticking on 
 airs, and I'll tell you what trade I want to go to. I want to 
 be sot up in a stable and you can fork out the cash as soon as 
 you like." 
 
 "Why, baby dear," says the mother, "you are just in fun 
 a real live horse would scare you to death." 
 
 " Scare your granny !" replies the baby ; "just as if I didn't 
 run away from school every day, and curry horses and such 
 things, in the stables. You don't know me, do you ?" And 
 with such a saucy, impudent look, as can't be described, he goes 
 on with the pudding. 
 
 Mrs. Hartly sends her compliments to Mr. Ilartly, with the 
 suggestion that they make a poet of the hopeful ; and Mr. 
 Hartly sends compliments in turn, though only the table 
 divides them, and begs that Mrs. Ilartly will consider the 
 matter settled the hopeful must be an artist, which is 
 responded to by a whisper of "Just as you please, my 
 dear." 
 
 This, then, being concluded, the person whom Annie had 
 so audaciously called % an old man, and who, whatever he may 
 be, is supposed to answer to the name of Wentworth, is sum- 
 moned by his great patrons, and promptly answers, the call ; 
 not humbly and deferentially, but with a firm step, and a man- 
 ner of self-respect that commands respect. 
 
 Mr. Hartly waves him to a seat in a distant part of the 
 room, and proceeds to inform him that he desires the girl who 
 has just made his acquaintance in the kitchen, to be banished 
 to his residence, wherever that may be, and kept there on
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 199 
 
 bread and water, or whatever else the person may be in the 
 habit of eating himself, till she shall be willing to return home, 
 and appreciate her advantages. Annie sits down on a stool 
 close by the old man, and rubs the flour from her apron by 
 way of keeping down her disposition to laughter ; and the per- 
 son replies that he hopes to give his visitor something better 
 than bread and water, though the accommodations of his house 
 will be far short of what she is used to. 
 
 Mr. Hartly replies that it is not as a visitor that he 
 proposes to send his child, but as a boarder, or rather a pris- 
 oner. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth smiles, and says his folks have never taken 
 boarders or prisoners, but he is sure they will not object to 
 receive his little friend, for a time. She looks as if she might 
 make bread or butter with the smartest young women he 
 knows ; and he smiles and lays his toil-hardened hand on An- 
 nie's head as the finishing of his compliment. 
 
 Mrs. Ilartly begins a little scream, which she concludes by 
 whispering in the white ear of her white-faced husband, that 
 she supposes the person don't know our child from any common 
 child and so the affair is negotiated. 
 
 While Annie is being denuded of ear-rings and breast-pins, 
 and all other ornaments, and having laces, and flounces, and 
 furbelows packed away for the uses of the genteel time that is 
 to come after her banishment and such plain ginghams, cali- 
 coes, aprons, and the like, as are thought suited to the term of 
 her imprisonment, made ready Mr. Hartly, who is unwilling 
 that even the person, old man, farmer, or whatever he may be, 
 should remain ignorant of his great consideration, asks con- 
 descendingly, whether he has ever seen so fine a house before.
 
 200 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 The old man, who seems in no way overcome with the gran- 
 deur about him, answers that it seems to be a good house ; but 
 that, for his part, he prefers his own little farm and house. It 
 may be very fine, he thinks, but he doesn't want it. 
 
 " Good heavens !" exclaims Mr. Hartly ; " you ain't in your 
 right mind, are you ? hare you seen what my house is ? have 
 you seen the stone front, the balustrade ? Why sir, the win- 
 dow-curtains cost me five hundred dollars each more than all 
 you are worth in the world, I expect." 
 
 The old man says, it may be so ; still he seems disposed to 
 regard his own possessions as preferable. 
 
 Mr. Hartly confronts him as he sits quietly contemplating 
 the carving of the marble mantel thrusts his thin white fin- 
 gers through his iron-grey hair, sets his teeth together, and 
 sucks in a long breath, and then as though the countryman 
 were an idiot that he would make see if there were any eyes in 
 him, he takes him by the hand, and leads him up the broad 
 flights of stairs, and through all the rooms with their splendid 
 appointments ; however, the old man sees nothing but things 
 that have cost money. It is all very well, he says, for people 
 that like it ; but, for his part, he would not have the trouble of 
 taking care of so many things, even if they were given to 
 him. 
 
 In the great easy-chair of the parlor Mr. Hartly sinks down 
 exhausted, and locking his little white fingers together, repeats to 
 himself: "Well, well, well 1" each time a little louder, and as 
 though nothing could be said of such stupidity. Meantime the 
 farmer makes his way out into the sunshine, seeming to find 
 that more genial than the heavy, damp air within the thick 
 walls. The stout horses, having eaten their dinner of oats, are
 
 MAKING THE CHILDBED SOMETHING. 201 
 
 ready to go home, and the coverlet is spread over the straw that 
 fills the wagon-bed, for the accommodation of Annie, who pre- 
 sently makes her appearance and tells her friend that her father 
 wishes to speak to him. 
 
 " Old person," says Mr. Hartly, as though it were not likely 
 the man had a name, " I consign my daughter to your charge 
 for a certain time, and for reasons that to me are greater than 
 you can comprehend ; and I wish you to receive an equivalent, 
 that is pay, for the trouble she may give you what sum shall 
 you accept ? Not that it makes any difference to me money 
 is to me no object." 
 
 These are not precisely his words, to be sure ; but both 
 manner and words indicate, or are meant to indicate, that he 
 has had money till he is tired of money. However, it is finally 
 arranged that Annie shall work for her board for her own pun- 
 ishment merely, and not to save a few sixpences, more or less. 
 She is also required to keep a journal of her exile life, and once 
 a week submit the same to her very loving parents, which letter- 
 writing is supposed, on their part, to pave the way to mak- 
 ing her a famous author. And she is informed, that when 
 she shall find herself willing to come home, and wear silks and 
 laces, and learn dancing and music, keep out of the kitchen, 
 and, in short, be made something of, she shall return. She is 
 furthermore bidden to take an affectionate leave of Master 
 Albert, who, she is informed, is to be sent immediately to 
 Florence to be made into a painter. Miss Annie essays an 
 embrace, but the hopeful twists out of her arms, and with a 
 rude push informs her that he means to run away and be a 
 horse-jockey, for that the old folks can't make him over into 
 anything that he aint.
 
 202 MAKING THE CIIILDKEX SOMETHING. 
 
 " That has been my notion pretty much," said the old man ; 
 '' I have always thought it was best to let natur' have its 
 way ; and Joshua, that's my eldest son, has made a preacher ; 
 and Cliff, who is sturdy and stout, and full of fan, has staid 
 on the farm with me. It seems to come natural to him to work, 
 somehow." 
 
 Mr. Hartly looks pityingly on the old person's ignorance ; and 
 abruptly turning away, offers his arm to dear Mrs. Hartly, and 
 with one or two affected little sobs, she is led off. 
 
 I will pass over all the preparation made for the departure of 
 Master Albert, nor trouble the reader with an account of Mrs 
 Hartly's protracted darnings of lace, and hemming, scalloping 
 and fringing, crimping and curling all the hanging on, and 
 the taking off of fine things all the powdering, and the comb- 
 ing of her poodle and likewise pass by all Mr. Hartly's 
 examinations into the quantities of meat cooked for dinner, all 
 his parcellings out of beans and potatoes, all his contemplative 
 pacings up and down before his own house, in happy admiration 
 of the extent thereof all compliments sent back aad forth for 
 the space of eight days, when I must beg the reader to imagine 
 him in his great chair spectacles shoved np over his hair a 
 sealed paper lying before him on the table ; and also to imagine 
 the transport with unusual form and dignity, to Master Hartly 
 of his compliments, begging that he will oblige his father by his 
 immediate presence also of a similar message to Mrs. Hartly, 
 with fear that she may be detained by the general pressure of 
 her position. 
 
 The simple fact is, a letter has been received from Annie, 
 which is about to be read. That it is a sort of humiliation and 
 prayer to be permitted to return home, is expected ; and
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 203 
 
 that the effect on the hopeful may be salutary, is believed 
 but he, failing to make his appearance, the reading goes on. 
 The letter was as follows : 
 
 " DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER : 
 
 " I have so many things to say, and am so little used to 
 writing, that I don't know how to begin ; but as I promised to 
 keep a sort of journal of every day's experience, I suppose I 
 may as well begin now, for this is the second night of my being 
 here. You can't imagine what a nice ride we had in the open 
 wagon, so much pleasanter than being shut up in a coach it 
 was such a pleasure to see the stout horses pull us along, and 
 trotting or walking just as Uncle Wentworth directed : I say 
 uncle, because I like Mr. Wentworth, and wish all the time he 
 was some true relation. The straw in the wagon smelled so 
 sweet, sweeter than flowers, it seemed to me ; and when we got 
 into the real country everything looked so beautiful, that I 
 laughed all the time, and Uncle Wentworth said folks would 
 think he had a crazy girl. I was very much ashamed of my 
 ignorance, for I thought all country people lived in holes in the 
 ground, or little huts made of sticks, and that cows and horses 
 and all lived together ; but we saw all along the road such 
 pretty cottages and gardens, and some houses indeed as fine as 
 ours. I kept asking Uncle Wentworth what sort of place we 
 were going to, for I could not help fearing it was a very bad 
 place ; but he only laughed, and told me to wait and see. A 
 good many men were at work in fields of hay some cutting 
 and some tossing it about and I kept wishing I was among 
 them, they seemed so merry, and the hay was so sweet. In 
 some places were great fields of corn, high as my head, with
 
 204 MAKIXG TUE CUILDEEX SOMETHING. 
 
 grey tassels on the tops of it. I thought men were at work 
 there too, it shook so ; but Uncle Wentworth said it was only 
 the wind. And back of the fields, and seeming like a great 
 green wall between the earth and the sky, stood the woods. I 
 mean to go into them before long, but I am a little afraid of 
 wild beasts yet ; though uncle says I will find no worse thing 
 than myself there. We met a good many carriages, full of 
 gayly dressed people coming into town ; and saw a number of 
 young ladies dressed in bright ginghams, tending the flowers in 
 front of the cottages, sometimes at work in the gardens, indeed, 
 so my dresses will be right in the fashion. In one place we 
 passed a white school-house, set right in the edge of the woods ; 
 and when we were a little by, out came near forty children, 
 some girls as big as I, and a whole trocp of little boys, all 
 laughing, and jumping, and frolicking, as I never heard children 
 laugh. I asked Uncle Wentworth if it were proper ? and he 
 said it was their nature, and he supposed our wise Father had 
 made them right. Some of the boys ran and caught hold of 
 the tail of our wagon and held there, half swinging and half 
 riding, ever so long. Pretty soon uncle stopped the horses, and 
 asked a slim, pale-faced girl, who was studying her book as she 
 walked to ride ; and thanking him as politely as anybody could 
 do, she climbed up, right behind the horses, and sat down by 
 me, and spoke the same as though she had been presented. 
 She had a sweet face under a blue bonnet, but was as white 7 
 and looked as frail, as a lily. After she was seated, she looked 
 back so earnestly, that I looked too, and saw the schoolmaster 
 come out of the house and lock the door, and cross his hands 
 behind him as he turned into a lane that ran by, which seemed 
 to go up and up, green and shady as far as I could see. I
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 205 
 
 could only see that his cheeks were red, and that he had curls 
 under his straw hat. The girl kept looking the way he went ; 
 but if it were he she thought of, he didn't turn to look at her. 
 Close by a stone-arched bridge, from under which a dozen birds 
 flew as we rattled over it, Uncle Went worth stopped the horses, 
 and the young lady got out, and went through a gate at 
 the roadside ; and I watched her walking in a narrow and deep- 
 worn path that was close by the bank of a run, till she turned 
 round a hill, and I could not see her any more ; but I saw a 
 lively blue smoke, curling up over the hill-top, and in the hollow 
 behind, Uncle Wentworth said she lived. 
 
 "We were now eight miles from the city- the sun was 
 almost down ; we saw great droves of cows coming towards the 
 milk-yards not driven as they are in the streets, but coming 
 of themselves, and flocks of geese waddling out of ponds, and 
 going towards home ; I began to feel a little tired, and sleepy, 
 with the motion of the wagon, when all at once the horses 
 began to neigh and trot fast, and Uncle Wentworth said, 
 ' Here's your prison, Annie ; how do you like the looks of it ?' 
 We were right before a white gate that was being opened by a 
 black man, who was smiling so as to show all his teeth, and 
 who bowed twice to us as we drove through and along a 
 gravelly narrow lane towards a barn as large as our house. I 
 could hardly think it the place where I was to stay, at first 
 all was so beautiful. The house itself is really as good as our 
 house, built of stone blue hard stone better than is in ours ; 
 and on every side of it is a white porch, curtained with green 
 vines, some bearing red, and others blue flowers. About the 
 house is a large yard inclosed by white pickets, against which 
 is a perfect thicket of currant-bushes, raspberries and roses. It
 
 206 MAKING THE CIIILDKEX SOMETHING. 
 
 is like an orchard, all about, with cherry, and apple, and 
 quince, and peach-trees the latter sticking full of little green 
 peaches, and some of the apples turning red and yellow. 
 There were flowers of all colors growing here and there ; and 
 while I sat in mute surprise, a huge dog lifted himself up on the 
 wheel of the wagon, and frightened me so, that I almost cried, 
 though he neither barked nor growled. Uncle Went worth 
 said he was only saying 'How do you do?' And, indeed, it 
 seemed as if that was what he meant ; for as I went towards the 
 house, he walked along by me very quietly. A middle-aged 
 woman came to the door to meet us ; she was wiping her hands 
 on a towel, and by her heightened color and the speck of flour 
 on her apron, I saw she had been at work in the kitchen. She 
 shook hands with me as though I were some friend, when 
 Uncle Wentworth said who I was, and went with me herself 
 to the tidiest little bedroom you ever saw,- telling me, just as 
 though she had been my mother, to put all my things away 
 neatly, showing me where ; and when I had done so, to come to 
 her in the kitchen. There was no carpet on the floor, which 
 was very white, and the bed-spread and the curtains were 
 white too. I had my dresses hung up and my other things in 
 the bureau very soon, and hearing some one speaking in the 
 yard, I raised the window, and saw coming down the straight 
 walk, which was carpeted with tan-bark, Uncle Wentworth, 
 and a young man with a scythe swung over his shoulder lie 
 had on a broad-brimmed straw hat, grey trowsers, and a 
 shirt of white and blue calico fastened about the waist with a 
 leather strap. I drew my head in a little when I saw him, but 
 not till Uncle Wentworth had spied me, and calling out aloud, 
 (for I was up stairs), he said, ' Annie, this is my boy, Cliff
 
 MAKIXO THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 'Jf>7 
 
 you must go out and help him mow to-morrow.' It was such 
 a funny introduction, that I felt my face all burning red as I 
 tried to answer the polite salutation of the young man, for he 
 took the straw hat quite off, and bowed so low, that his brown 
 curls fell along his forehead, and made him look just like a picture. 
 " I now began to consider my dress, for it was full of 
 wrinkles with sitting on the straw, and riding so far, and look- 
 ing in the glass that hung over the bureau, I found my face 
 was white with dust. There was no water in the room ; so I 
 went down, and finding Mrs. Wentworth, whom I call Aunt 
 Margaret now, taking biscuits out of the stove, I asked her for 
 water, and she directed me to a shed outside the door, where 
 'there was a cistern, and all conveniences for washing. I 
 was quick, you may be sure ; for I feared Cliff, whom I 
 heard talking to his dog on the other side of the house, might 
 come round and see me ; and as I went towards my room to 
 put on a smooth dress, Aunt Margaret patted my cheek and 
 told me I must be very smart, for that supper was all ready. 
 I told her not to wait that I would come presently ; and I 
 did try to, but everything went wrong the hooks were off 
 from one dress, and another fitted so ill, and then my hair 
 uever looked so badly ; it was nearly dark in my room, and I 
 had no light, so that altogether I was vexed and flurried a 
 good deal when I went down. Aunt Margaret had taken me 
 at my word, and Uncle Wentworth and Cliff were already gone 
 away from the table ; they had their evening work to do, she 
 said, and would not stand upon ceremony. She had kept some 
 tea and biscuits warm for me, and I ate heartily, for the ride 
 had made me hungry. While we were yet at the table, the 
 black man who opened the gate, and whose name is Peter, and
 
 08 MAKIXG THE CHILDBED SOMETHING. 
 
 a yellow woman, called Maria, who is bis wife, passed along 
 the porch, carrying four tin pails full of milk, and Aunt Marga- 
 ret said I might 'have a bowl of it, which I accepted, and 
 found sweeter than any milk I ever drank. I found Peter and 
 Maria very nice and kind, and while tjiey took their supper I 
 staid by and talked with them, which seemed to please them 
 very much. Peter offered to make a swing for me, to show me 
 about the barn, to teach me to milk, and many other things ; 
 and Maria said she would make me as good a cook as herself, 
 when I told her about the pudding I had made. Aunt Marga- 
 ret came into the kitchen, and as Maria washed the dishes, 
 dried them on a towel, and helped about almost everything. 
 Coffee was ground for breakfast, and short-cakes made, and 
 all the parcels which Uncle Wentworth had brought from 
 town were put each in its place, sugar and spice and dried 
 beef, and I don't kuow what all. Among the rest, or rather 
 above the rest, was one paper carefully pinned up, at which 
 Maria and Aunt Margaret wondered not a little, and opening 
 it they found it to contain the neatest little cap that ever was 
 it had no flowers on it nor ribbon, except the strings, but it 
 was real lace, and prettier, I thought, than ma's gay caps. 
 Maria lighted another ca'ndle to look at it, and doubled her- 
 self together with laughter, she was so pleased, and Aunt 
 Margaret said it was just like Uncle Wentworth, he was 
 always buying things she didn't send for, and that she would 
 rather he had bought a new hat for himself. She is a, good 
 woman, and I loved her the more when she said so. Maria 
 would make her try it on, and she and I thought it becoming ; 
 but Aunt Margaret says she thinks it a little too small though 
 she would not say so to Uncle "Wentworth for anything.
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 209 
 
 " He and Cliff had taken some chairs ont beneath a cherry 
 tree, and staid there talking together in the moonlight ; the 
 great dog, whose name is Guard, lying by them on the grass. 
 The moonlight fell about them pleasantly, and if Cliff had not 
 been there I wonld have gone out ; but I thought he would 
 think me bold, or perhaps not want me there. The big-clock 
 which stood at the foot of the stairs where I came down, struck 
 nine directly, and Aunt Margaret said I must be tired and had 
 best go to bed, for that they eat breakfast at six o'clock in the 
 morning. She gave me a candle aud told me to find my way, 
 which I did, and on opening the door I saw a whole handful 
 of flowers some lying about the floor, and others on the 
 pillow looking as if they had been thrown in at the window 
 and lodged just as they were. I don't know who could have 
 done it ; perhaps Peter but I don't care who did it, they 
 made the room very sweet, and I left them scattered just as 
 they were, on bed and floor. I was not sleepy, I suppose, 
 because of the strange place, and sitting down by the table at 
 the window, I found a book lying upon it, which proved to.be 
 a volume of bound newspapers. On the blank leaf was writ- 
 ten, ' The property of Clifton Wentworth,' in the roundest, 
 best hand I ever saw ; I could read it as well as print ; so the 
 young man knows something if he does live in the country, j 
 read a good while in the papers, selecting the pieces which 
 seemed to have been most read, for I supposed they were the 
 best ; and, indeed, I found some excellent articles, better than 
 I remember to 'have read before. I went to bed under the 
 roses, at last, and listened to the strange sounds in the air, 
 of birds and insects. Nothing else could be heard, except now 
 and then a team rattling along the turnpike road.
 
 210 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 " The sun was shining bright across my bed when I woke, 
 and afraid I had slept too long, I hastened down, and sure 
 enough, breakfast was over, and Uncle Wentworth and Cliff 
 gone out -to the fields, and milking done, and Aunt Margaret 
 making bread, for it was after eight o'clock. 
 
 " I asked why she didn't call me ; and she said she knew I 
 was tired and sleepy, and that I would soon learn their way, 
 and she complimented me by sayiug I seemed very smart and 
 clever. I tried to atone for my sloth, and be as good as she 
 had thought me ; so I told her she must not let me sleep so late 
 again that I was to work for my board, and would begin 
 then. I hope Uncle Wentworth did not know I was sleeping 
 so late he might think badly of me ; Cliff, of course, would 
 not think of me at all. I breakfasted on milk-toast, and then 
 having put my room in order, went with Maria to the garden, 
 where we picked a basin of currants, and another of green 
 beans ; and afterwards, sitting in the shade of a tree, pre- 
 pared them to cook. It is not lonesome here as I thought it 
 would be ; everything seems happy and busy ; bees, and birds, 
 and butterflies, and chickens, and men and women the busiest 
 of all. It was noon before I dreamed of it, and 'Aunt Marga- 
 ret said it was time to ' set the table,' which she showed me 
 how to do, telling me I was ' handy,' and that work seemed 
 to come natural to me. I like her more and more, she is so kind 
 to everybody, and working seems to her like play ; her bread 
 bakes just right, and everything is just where she wants it. 
 She says we must like work in the first place, and then have a 
 place for everything and everything in its place, and all will go 
 well ; and she says if I keep on for a week as well as I have 
 be?un, I will more than earn my board, and she will give me
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 211 
 
 a dollar. 1 mean to be up to-morrow morning in time to help 
 get the breakfast. We had for dinner to-day beans and pork 
 and potatoes, and baked apples, and custard pies, and milk ; I 
 blew the dinner horn myself, as well as anybody, Aunt Marga- 
 ret said. 
 
 " Cliff was gone to get his scythe mended, and he did not 
 come home to dinner, which I was sorry for, though no more 
 for him than I would have been for Uncle Wentworth. He 
 said the dinner was very nice, and he supposed it was because 
 I helped to prepare it. 
 
 " When the dishes were put away, Aunt Margaret put on a 
 clean dress and cap, and sat in the porch with some sewing, 
 and having given the required attention to my own wardrobe, 
 I sat with and assisted her for the rest of the afternoon. We 
 had a pleasant time together, and though we talked all the 
 while, I made two shirt-sleeves for Cliff, stitching the wrist- 
 bands, which was more than Aunt Margaret did. 
 
 " At sunset I assisted to set the table again this time on 
 -the porch ; and just as the light became a little dim, we sat 
 down, altogether. Aunt Margaret told Cliff I had made a 
 pair of sleeves for him, and said a good deal more about how 
 smart I was, which made me ashamed he did not share my 
 embarrassment, but laughing, said, as he shook his curls away, 
 that was very well for me, but that he knew a young lady who 
 could make an entire shirt in an afternoon. His mother said 
 that was one of his stories, and I believe it is I am sure he 
 doesn't know any such young woman. After supper I went out 
 with Peter to learn to milk, and Uncle Wentworth told Cliff 
 to go and show me ; but though he came along, he only laugh- 
 ed at my awkwardness a little while, and went away he is
 
 212 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 most provoking, but as handsome a young man as ever I saw 
 the dress he wears is so becoming. I have not yet seen him 
 wear a coat, but am sure he looks better without than he 
 would with one, and I don't believe he has studied dress as au 
 art at all. I found him examining the new sleeves when I 
 came in, and he politely offered me his chair, providing an- 
 other for himself for all were sitting together on the porch. 
 I don't know why, but I declined, and went straight to my 
 room, where I found on the table a small leaf basket full of 
 ripe blackberries. I don't know who put them there ; it could 
 not have been Cliff, for he don't think anything about me. 
 The book was open too, and a rose laid on this verse : 
 
 "' To please my pretty one, I thought ; 
 
 Alas, unhappy I, 
 
 The simple gift of flowers I brought 
 Has won me no reply.' 
 
 " I wonder if Cliff had anything to do with all this ? More 
 likely it was the work of Peter or Maria. 
 
 " THIRD EVENING. 
 
 " Two days have gone since I came here, and two days so 
 short I never saw, and yet they are not broken in upon by calls, 
 by dressing, or by going out, though Aunt Margaret says we 
 shall go visiting a little and see some visitors, she hopes, when 
 the harvest is past. I do not feel the need of any change yet ; 
 it will keep me busy for a month more to see all the things on 
 the farm, and it will require longer than that to learn to keep 
 house well, Aunt Margaret says. While it was yet dark in my 
 room I heard such a crowing of roosters as I never heard be- 
 fore it was like a band of music, almost, and especially when,
 
 MAKIXG THE CHILDREN* SOMETHING. 213 
 
 as it grew lighter, a thousand birds in the trees arid bushes 
 about the yard began to shake their wings and sing as if it did 
 their hearts good. I cannot make you understand how sweet 
 it was I could not bear to lie in bed, and as soon as I could 
 see to dress, arose, and throwing the window open wide, look- 
 ed out : there was no dew on the grass, though yesterday 
 morning it was all wet, and streaked with green paths where 
 footsteps had been. One great white star stood away in the 
 south, as it were right in the tree-tops ; and where the sun was 
 coming up lay a long bank of clouds, red as fire. No wind 
 stirred the leaves, or the curtain of my window, and I could 
 not smell the hayfields as I did yesterday. I heard dogs bark- 
 ing across the hills, and boys calling the cows, but mostly it 
 was very still. While I staid at the window I saw a young 
 man walk along the turnpike road, with a brisk lively step, 
 and an energetic swing of the arms, as though he had some- 
 thing important to do, and was thus early astir to do it ; as he 
 passed by I knew it was the schoolmaster, and on telling Aunt 
 Margaret about it, she said he walked so every morning 
 sometimes two or three miles for his health's sake, and that 
 he is thought a young man of great promise, and is educating 
 himself to go as a missionary to some distant country. I 
 thought about the young schoolgirl, and wondered if she 
 would go with him. 
 
 " I put my room in nice order before I left it to-day, which 
 Aunt Margaret said was greatly better than coming down an 
 hour after breakfast. I thought to be the first one up ; but 
 Maria and Peter were already gone to milk, the tea-kettle was 
 steaming, and Aunt Margaret was spreading the table. 
 
 " Seeing nothing I could do, Aunt Margaret told me I
 
 214 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 might go out and feed the chickens, and she showed rne how 
 to make food for them by mixing corn-meal and water together. 
 I had two quarts or more of it, which I scattered about the 
 ground, calling the chickens to come ; and I do believe two 
 hundred of them came running from every direction : roosters, 
 red and black and speckled, with tails shining like a pea- 
 cock's ; and hens of all colors some old and having feathers 
 hanging loose ; others with cunning brown eyes, and combs as 
 red as roses, and looking plump and sleek, and well to do 
 these I take to be the young lady hens ; and then there were 
 faded prim-looking ones that kept apart and made no noise, 
 and these I supposed to be the old maids : the lean ruffled 
 ones, seeming cross and picking at other hens, I thought were the 
 worn mothers of hungry broods, themselves giving all to their 
 little ones. - But the dear little chickens were prettiest of all 
 some yellow as gold, and some black as a crow, and others 
 speckled I could not tell which was the most cunning-, all 
 were so pretty. I caught one or two of them in my hands ; 
 but the mother hens, seeing me, flew right at my face, and I 
 was glad to let them go. While I was feeding, Uncle Weut- 
 worth came along from his morning work at the barn, and 1 
 said to him I wished Albert was there to see the chickens and 
 ride the horses, but that I supposed he was gone to Florence 
 before that time to learn to paint. He asked me if Albert had 
 any genius for painting ; I told him I did not know, but that I 
 was sure he liked horses better than pictures ; and he then said 
 money would not put genius into anybody it must be born in 
 them, and that a great thing couldn't be got out of a man 
 unless it was first in him. The minds of people, he said, 
 were just as various as their bodies, and we could not greatly
 
 MAKIXG THE CHILDBEX SOMETHING. 215 
 
 change the form of the face, nor could we any more the*mind. 
 It seemed to me worth thinking about, but perhaps you will 
 not agree with me. 
 
 " While we were talking, Cliff joined us, having in his hand 
 a small basket full of eggs all fresh and white : he said he 
 would show me where the nests are, that I may gather them 
 to-morrow myself. He is very handsome, but I don't believe 
 he gave me the berries. I went this afternoon to the meadow 
 where he was at work to see if I could find any I thought, 
 perhaps, he would think I came to see him, and so I kept on 
 the other side of the field. Uncle Wentworth came and showed 
 me where there were plenty of berries, and I soon filled the 
 little basin I had quite full. I then thought I would sit a little 
 while in the shade of a walnut tree that grew in the meadow, 
 and see them make hay, for there were a dozen men in the 
 field, some mowing, some pitching, some raking, and others 
 loading and hauling it into the barn. All worked as fast as 
 they could, for uncle said it would rain black clouds were 
 flying about the sky, and now and then a gust of wind swept 
 through the corn-field, making a solemn sort of noise, and 
 away in the orchard I could hear the apples falling from the 
 early trees, as they call the harvest-apple trees. The horses 
 were almost covered up with the great load of hay, as they 
 drew it towards the barn two or three men followed, the others 
 remaining to work in the field, for the clouds grew blacker and 
 bogan to close together. I was not near the house, yet I 
 thought I could run home when the sprinkling began, and sat 
 still. I could see the schoolhouse across the field, and see the 
 children when they came out to play up and down the woods 
 they ran, talking and laughing so loud that I could sometimes
 
 216 MAKING THE CHILDKEX SOMETHING. 
 
 hear what they said. I noticed the young girl that rode with 
 us: I knew her by the blue bonnet, and the quiet, melancholy 
 way she had ; for she did not join in the playing nor the talk- 
 ing, but went apart, picking flowers. I left my berries, crossed 
 the meadow, and joined her in the woods, intending to ask her 
 to come and see me at Uncle Weutworth's ; but we were 
 scarcely seated on a mossy log together when the rain came 
 dashing down in a perfect torrent, so that I was forced to go 
 with her into the schoolhouse for shelter. The master made 
 me welcome very politely, saying many pleasant things which I 
 do not remember. The name of the young girl is Mary Bell, 
 and the master's name is Hillburn. I noticed that Mary kept 
 the flowers she had gathered in her hand, and I could not help 
 thinking she would gladly have given them to the master, but 
 she did not, and presently seeing that she was picking them to 
 pieces I took them out of her hands, and the master coming 
 that way shortly after admired one of them very much, and on 
 iny giving it to him he set it in his button-hole and wore it 
 while I staid, which was not long, for the storm was soon 
 past, the heavy wind seeming to drive away the clouds. The 
 trees swung their tops together, and we heard the fall of some 
 dead limbs in the woods, which made me a little afraid. The 
 master told me there was no danger that the trees near the 
 schoolhouse were too sound to break, and that the wind was 
 not strong enough to uproot them. Mary, who sat by me, was 
 trembling with fright, and her pale cheek was paler than ever, 
 but be spoke never a word to her about her fear or anything 
 else. She is a sweet, modest girl, and I could not help putting 
 my arm around her and kissing her when I came away. The 
 schoolmaster is handsome, having black curls alone: his smooth
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 217 
 
 forehead and large black eyes. His smile is sweet, and bis 
 manner for the most part that of one whose thoughts are upon 
 himself. He is quiet, but I should think not easily . turned 
 aside from a purpose when once fixed. As I said, he spoke 
 most politely to me ; nevertheless I could not feel as though he 
 thought of me even while he was speaking I wish I had not 
 seen him I can't get the picture of his sad sweet face out of 
 my mind if he is happy it is happiness so subdued that I can- 
 not understand it. 
 
 " Whether my going into the schoolhouse was a fortunate 
 thing for the master or not, it certainly was to the children, 
 for I was never so much looked at in my life not one of them 
 could see a book while I staid ; some of them, indeed, held 
 their books before their faces, but their eyes were fixed on me 
 and so many bright eyes I never saw I think they would 
 light the house at night without any candle. The little school- 
 house stands on the edge of a green maple woods, and as I 
 walked through them on my return home, I could not help 
 building a little cottage there in my mind, and of putting Mary 
 and the schoolmaster in it. Why I should have joined them 
 together from the first I don't know ; but I did. 
 
 " Half an hour after the rain began the clouds broke apart 
 and the sun shone again, hot as ever. Crossing on the green 
 swaths of hay to the tree where I had left my berries, I found 
 the basin heaped full with finer ones than I had gathered. I 
 asked Uncle Wentworth if he did it, but he said no, and told 
 me to inquire if Cliff knew anything about it. Just then I 
 saw him drop his scythe and lift up one hand, from which the 
 blood was streaming ; and putting down my berries, I ran to 
 him aud found that he had cut two of his fingers badly ; he 
 10
 
 218 MAKIXG THE CHILDREN' SOMETHING. 
 
 said it was nothing, and would have gone to work again, but 1 
 bound up the hand with my handkerchief (it was not a lace 
 one), and ran and told Uncle Wentworth how bud it was ; he 
 laughed, and said it was a trick of Cliff's, done for the sake of 
 being allowed to go to the house to stay with me ; Cliff grew 
 angry at this and threw himself down in the shade of the tree 
 where my berries were. He had been out in all the rain, and 
 his clothes were wringing wet ; I thought he might get his 
 death-cold so I coaxed him to go to the house with me, for I 
 would not have left anybody lying alone on the wet grass if I 
 could have helped it. The mowers laughed when they saw us, 
 and one of them said he thought Cliff more of a man. I told 
 Cliff I did not hear what he said, and I did not care either, 
 and that I supposed if one of his hands was cut off he would 
 be glad to leave working. Cliff turned his head away, and I 
 am sure there were tears in his eyes ; poor Cliff ! it was 
 heathenish in the mowers to laugh ; I hope Uncle Wentworth 
 did not give them one drop of whisky the whole afternoon. I 
 think it strange if one person cuts off a hand, and another 
 person ties it up, that other persons must laugh. Aunt Mar- 
 garet said Cliff must not go to the field any more that day 
 and she called him an unfortunate boy ; but he is not a boy 
 he is, he will be twenty-one years old next year, and I am sure 
 that is old enough. She gave him the new shirt that I helped 
 to make ; I dressed the hand myself ; I knew just how it was, 
 and could do it best ; Maria, who stood by, had to say that 
 Master Cliff's hand didn't look much like Miss Annie's ; I told 
 her I wished she would go back to her work, and mind her 
 work ; but she did not, and Cliff said, ' No, Maria, my hands 
 look more like yours ;' and he put his head down on his arm
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 21 9 
 
 and kept it there a good while. If he thought I hated him 
 because the -sun had made his hands a little brown, he thought 
 what was not the truth, and I wanted to tell him so, but I 
 could not say it and so I turned back my sleeves and began 
 to scour knives to show him that I was not afraid of my hands, 
 and tried to make him forget the mowers and Maria too, by 
 telling him about my visit to the schoolhouse. He smiled 
 directly, and asked me if I thought Mr. Hillburn was hand- 
 some ? I said yes ; upon which he told me that he and Mary 
 Bell were thought to like each other very much. I told him 
 the master had worn my flower, at any rate ; but still he 
 would not give up that he liked Mary better than any one 
 else. 
 
 " When I came back, after a short absence from the room, I 
 found Cliff looking at the stitching in the wristbands of his 
 new shirt. I asked him if he liked it, for the sake of saying 
 something, and he replied that he liked anything I did he is so 
 kind you would like him, I know. I read for him some amusing 
 stories I found in the paper ; but the night seemed to come 
 in a minute ; so I left the reading to assist about the supper, 
 for I don't want Cliff, nor any of them, to think me lazy. 
 Maria could not get water enough to fill the tea-kettle out 
 of the well to-night, and Peter took a bucket, and I went 
 with him to a spring at the foot of the orchard hill, which, he 
 said, was never known to be dry in his time. The water breaks 
 right out of a bank in a clear, cold stream as big as my arm, 
 and falls into a shallow well, about which is a pavement of 
 flat stones, and running over this, it flows along the hollow in a 
 stream half a foot deep in places. If the drought continues, 
 Peter said, the cattle will all have to be brought there to drink,
 
 220 MAKING TUB CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 for there is no other such spring on the farm. Flags and broad- 
 leaved grass grow along the sides of the run, and two or three 
 brown birds, having very long legs, flew up before us, and one 
 rabbit started from its hiding-place, and ran so fast I could not 
 see what it looked like. Uncle said at supper-time, the rain 
 had not done any good at all ; that the ground was not wet 
 to the depth of an inch, and that the corn-leaves are all curling 
 together for the want of it. Cliff looked pale and did not eat 
 much, nor say much. I am afr.-vid the wound is going to make 
 him sick ; even Aunt Margaret, who is so good and kind, 
 does not seera so much alarmed as I should think she would be. 
 When the meal was concluded, Uncle Wcutworth sent Cliff 
 about the farm to see if there was water enough for the cattle ; 
 I wanted to go with him I thought it would be a good oppor- 
 tunity for me to see all the farm ; but no one asked me to go, 
 so I left Maria to do her own work, and came to my room to 
 write to my dear parents. The sun is gone down behind the 
 trees, and all the western sky is golden and orange, shaded 
 with black one star stands out, clear and beautiful, but I can 
 see to write by the daylight yet. Aunt Margaret says I must 
 be up at four o'clock in the morning and help to churn, and if 
 the day bids fair she will have something to tell me. I wonder 
 what it can be. There is Cliff, standing under my window, with his 
 hands full of scarlet and blue flowers he says I may have them, 
 but he can't throw them up to the window, so I must go down. 
 
 "FIFTH EVENING. 
 
 " When I dropped ray pen the third evening, it was with 
 
 the intention of taking it up in a few minutes ; but Cliff 
 
 secerned so lonesome, I thought it my duty to stay with him.
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN" SOMETHING. 221 
 
 I told him I would walk with him another time, upon which he 
 said it was not then too late ; so we strolled together iuto the 
 high road, and turned down the way I had come from the city. 
 "We could hear voices across the hills at the houses of the 
 neighbors ; some, indeed, were just calling the cows home 
 could hear the tinkling of bells, and sometimes the chirp of 
 a bird, and that was all. Cliff told me about his college days, 
 and how much he had tried to like study as well as did his 
 older brother, but that he would always rather plough an acre 
 than commit a Latin lesson, and that after he had obtained a 
 certain arnouut of knowledge, it seemed to him that he was 
 losing time, and that for the future he could better learn by 
 experience as he went along than by books alone. His idea of 
 happiness, he says, is fifty acres of ground, containing woods, 
 and orchards, and springs of water, and being nicely stocked 
 with cattle, and horses, and sheep ; having on it all the best 
 implements of husbandry, a good little house full of everything 
 to make comfort. But what that everything would be, Ciiff 
 didn't say. I cannot repeat half so well as he said it ; but if 
 you heard him, you would be convinced that a farmer's life is 
 the happiest one in the world. 
 
 " We were standing on the stone bridge and talking, when 
 we heard some one singing the sweetest and saddest song I 
 ever heard ; and looking about, we saw Mary Bell sitting 
 beneath a walnut tree, a little distance down the hollow. She 
 did not see us and with one hand pushed partly under her 
 hair, and her blue bonnet on her knees, was singing to herself, 
 The water from the spring at Uncle Wentworth's made a plea- 
 sant sound, as it ran a little way from her, and blue and white 
 violets were thick all along the bank ; but she had not gath-
 
 222 MAKIXG THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 ered any of them, and did not seem to see them. A strip of 
 bark was peeled from the top to the very bottom of the tree 
 against which she leaned, and the wood was cracked apart, in 
 some places wide enough for me to have slipped my hand in 
 the body of the tree. It is very tall, and has been struck with 
 lightning, Cliff says, two or three times. We called Mary and 
 tying on her hood, she presently joined us ; and turning into 
 the long green shady lane, which I noticed when I first passed 
 by, we walked up and up ; Cliff quite forgetting his hand, and 
 talking and laughing gaily all the time. But no matter what 
 Cliff does, it seems the properest and most becoming thing in 
 the world, and I wish he would keep on ; but when he turns to 
 something else, it seems better still. I never saw anybody like 
 him he could not do anything that he would not make grace- 
 ful. 
 
 " Mary smiled now and then, for no one could help sharing 
 somewhat in the merriment of Cliff; but she did not once 
 laugh outright, and often seemed not to hear what we said. 
 We had gone a mile, perhaps, without passing a house, or see- 
 ing anybody ; now and then we met some cows feeding along 
 the roadside ; but it was quite dark, the working was done, and 
 only we seemed out for pleasure, when we came in view of a 
 large red house standing near the roadside. All was still about 
 it, for the country people go to bed very early ; but in one of 
 the chambers next the road a light was burning, and seated by 
 the open window, with his book before him, was the school- 
 master. Cliff called him to come out ; and putting down his 
 book as quietly as though our visit were just what he expected, 
 he came out ; but when we asked him to walk with us, excused, 
 himself by saying his studies would not permit. Cliff would
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 223 
 
 not bear of it, and told him, laughingly, that he might never 
 have another opportunity of walking with us all ; and after 
 some further pleasant urging, he finally came along ; and, don't 
 you think, most provokingly offered his arm to me. I was so 
 vexed I didn't hear what he said ; but try all I could, I could 
 not invent any way by which I could amend matters. Coming 
 to a mossy log, Cliff said we would sit down, and came to me 
 to get the bandage tightened on his hand, and when that was 
 done he sat by me ; and when we went forward again, he 
 slipped my arm through his, leaving Mr. Hillburn to walk with 
 Mary. I heard him tell her that he had fixed the day of his 
 departure from the neighborhood, and that that walk would 
 probably be the last they should ever take together. I did 
 not hear what Mary said, her tones were so low ; and pres- 
 ently we fell further apart, and soon lost sight of them alto- 
 gether. 
 
 " When we gained the stone bridge again we met the school- 
 master, returning home with a brisk step. He had taken Mary 
 home, and was thus soon returning, so it cannot be he loves 
 her. The moon was coming up when we reached the house, 
 and so bright and beautiful it looked, that we sat on the porch 
 a little while to watch it ; but Aunt Margaret came to the 
 door pretty soon, and told me it was ten o'clock, and she feared 
 I would not be up in time for the churning in the morning. 
 
 " I was not sleepy, nevertheless I went to bed, though for 
 hours I lay wide awake, thinking of a great many things that 
 would not interest you, if I should write them. The clock 
 struck twelve, and I was listening to hear it strike one, the last 
 I remember. 
 
 " It was not quite light when I awoke. I heard Maria sing-
 
 224 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING 
 
 ing a hymn at the kitchen door, and hastened to dress and join 
 her. The cream was in the churn, and with right good will I 
 set to work ; and when Aunt Margaret came, I had taken up 
 six pounds of hard yellow butter. After breakfast, which 
 Maria had ready in a twinkling, Aunt Margaret asked me if I 
 could ride on horseback, and said inasmuch as Cliff could not 
 work that day, she had fixed in her mind a little visit for us to 
 her brother's house, six miles away. I was pleased with the 
 thought of riding, and Cliff said he knew I could manage a 
 horse without trouble ; so it was soon arranged that we should 
 go. Aunt Margaret's side-saddle was brought from the garret, 
 looking as bright and nice as new ; and a beautiful little black 
 mare, that uncle said was gentle as a lamb, was bridled and 
 saddled ; and a dark grey, with fine limbs and little sharp ears, 
 was placed beside her for Cliff. 
 
 " ' Oh, what shall I wear ?' I said, when I thought of it, for I 
 had no riding-dress nor hat. But Aunt Margaret, who has al- 
 ways some provision, found for me an old black skirt of hers, 
 and Uncle Wentworth said I might have his hat, if I wanted 
 it. I said I would take CiifiTs cap at which they all laughed 
 very much ; but when I had tied my green veil on it, they 
 agreed that it became me charmingly ; and having taken 
 charge of many messages, we mounted and rode away. I felt 
 strange, a little afraid at first, but we went slow till I got 
 more courage. I managed my mare admirably, Cliff said, and 
 he ought to be a judge, having been used to horses all his 
 life. 
 
 " We soon left the turnpike-road, and turned aside into a road 
 much less travelled, narrow and crooked, and running for the 
 most part through the woods. The day was hot, not a leaf
 
 MAKIXG THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 225 
 
 stirring nor a bird singing in the trees we could see no clouds, 
 and the parched and dusty grass made us look for them often. 
 We rode slowly, partly for the sake of talking, and partly be- 
 cause I was not used to riding ; so it was not far from noon 
 when we turned the heads of our horses into a Jane almost 
 overgrown with grass, and having thistles and briers along the 
 fences. It seemed a lonesome place, and I should have felt 
 homesick but for Cliff, who had never been more merry. I 
 asked whether the aunt we were g9ing to visit was like his 
 mother ; and then it was that I first learned, the aunt, whose 
 house we were going to, had been dead many years, and that 
 his uncle was a man over fifty years old, with whom two 
 grandchildren lived, and that the%ornan who kept house for 
 him was a widow, named Mickmick ; ' and I think,' said Cliff, 
 'she would not be averse to becoming my aunt.' As we talked, 
 we came io the barn, which stood on the side of the lane oppo- 
 site the house, and a? hundred yards from it perhaps. The 
 doors were open wide, and looking in, we saw two young girls 
 there spinning wool they stopped their wheels when they saw 
 us, and stood still bashfully, for it is not often, I suspect, they 
 see visitors. We dismounted by a great block near the gate, 
 and took our way down a narrow path towards the house. 
 Stepping-stones were laid along, but the path was not regular- 
 ly paved. The dwelling stood on a little eminence slopoing 
 either way, and on one side was the garden where we saw 
 bean-vines in abundance, with hollyhocks and sunflowers grow- 
 ing among them. Quite a hedge of herbs grew along the pal- 
 ing fence, and underneath them a great many hens and chick- 
 ens were wallowing in the dust. I think they knew we were 
 strangers, for they cackled and ran fluttering away like wild- 
 10*
 
 226 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMJ-TTUIXG. 
 
 fire. The house is built partly of brick and partly of bewu 
 logs, and is quite overgrown with moss and creepers. 
 
 " In the hollow opposite the garden, and beyond the house, 
 stands an old mill, moss-grown too, and the day of our visit 
 it was making a lively click. We rapped again and again, but 
 our summons was not answered : so we went in ; the door 
 stood open, and Cliff said I might sit down, and he would see 
 if he could not find Uncle John that he was somewhere about, 
 he knew, inasmuch as the mill was going. Mrs. Mickmick was 
 seated on the porch next the mill, and hearing our voices, came 
 in with no very amiable manner. Thieves might break in and 
 steal the silver spoons, she said, for anything she knew not a 
 man about the house to tend to things she didn't know as she 
 need to care if everything was burnt up ; and yet she was 
 such a fool, she could not help but care. She told Cliff he 
 could put his horses in the stable, if he had not got too big to 
 wait on himself in consequence of keeping tip-top company, 
 and she glanced at me as though she could not determine what 
 I was. Finally, she said she would ask me to take off my bon- 
 net, if I had one on ; but as I had not, I might do as I pleased. 
 
 " Having inquired of Cliff if his mother was well, she said 
 she should think she had enough to do without waiting on 
 townfolks ; and on being told that I was come to learn to 
 work, she replied that the room of some folks was as good as 
 their company. I did not like Mrs. Mickmick ; she is tall and 
 dark, and I should think had not smiled for many years. Her 
 frock and cap were in the fashion of half a century ago, and 
 she seemed vexed that I was not so too. She wore no stock- 
 ings, her shoes were very coarse, and her bony hands were the 
 color of Maria's, from having been dyeing wool.
 
 MAKING THE CIIILDKEX SOMETHING. 227 
 
 "'Where is Uncle John?' asked Cliff. 'How should 1 
 know she replied ; ' but if be is not deaf and dumb, I'll 
 make him hear ;' and taking down a tin horn that hung be- 
 side the door, she puffed her withered cheeks quite round in 
 blowing on it. ' There !' she said, after tooting for five 
 minutes ; ' if John Gilbraeth don't hear that, it's because of 
 the gabble of old widow Wakely.' 
 
 " Uncle John did hear it, however, and stepping out to the 
 door of the mill, asked what was wanting ; but Mrs. Mickmick 
 told him sourly to come and see ; upon which he came slowly 
 forward, looking both ashamed and afraid, I thought, and more 
 like a boy about to be whipped, than a man in the midst of his 
 own possessions. ' There's your nephew in the house/ she 
 said, when he came near, ' and a girl from town it's them 
 that want to see you, and not me, I'm sure little do I care 
 how long you stay in the mill talking to old widow Wakely.' 
 Uncle John shied as though fearful she would scratch his eyes 
 out, and coming in, shook hands with us very cordially, and 
 sitting down, asked Mrs. Mickmick why she had not called the 
 girls. ' Because,' she said, ' the girls had no time to enter- 
 tain visitors if we had come to see the girls we could go 
 where the girls were as long as she had any authority about 
 that house she was not going to have the spinning stop for every 
 town flirt that didn't know how to wash her own hands.' 
 
 " Cliff said, very provokingly, that he would go to the mill 
 and find Mrs. Wakely that she was a good-natured and lov- 
 able woman ; and without more ado he left us and went to the 
 mill, sure enough. Uncle John and I now went to the barn 
 together,where the young ladies were still at their spinning. 
 Sweet, modest girls they are, and as pretty as I have seen in a
 
 228 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING 
 
 long time. Uncle told them to put by their wheels, and em- 
 ploy the day as they chose, and with radiant faces they hasten- 
 ed to obey, and having reeled up their yarn, we all went to the 
 house together. The grand-daughters were soon clad in holi- 
 day, dresses, and with slippers which they had probably not 
 worn till then, except to church. Mrs. Mickmick lifted up her 
 hands in horror, and ordered the girls to go straight to the 
 chamber and strip off their Sunday frocks, and go back to 
 their spinning again. At this instant Mrs. "\Vakely, a tidy, 
 nice-looking little woman, who it seemed had ridden to the mill 
 to buy a sack of flour that morning, appeared at the door, 
 having come as she said to see me ; and Mrs. Mickmick, think- 
 ing it a good time, doubtless, to show her authority, repeated 
 her order, and said, ' if John Gilbraeth didn't see fit to make 
 them girls mind her, he might find another housekeeper as 
 soon as he chose, that was all.' The youngest grandchild, 
 whose name is Dolly, with the tears in her blue eyes, went 
 close to Mrs. Wakely, and putting one arm around her neck, 
 said, ' Won't you come and be housekeeper ?' 
 
 " ' Well,' said Mrs. Wakely, looking at Uncle John, ' that 
 depends on what your grandfather says.' 
 
 " ' Well, then,' says he, shying away from Mrs. Mickmick, 
 ' I say, Come.' 
 
 " Cliff threw up his hands and shouted. I felt delighted ; 
 the girls laughed and cried together ; and Mrs. Mickmick, 
 slinging a sun-bonnet on her head, flew across the fields like a 
 mad woman, to tell the scandal to the nearest gossip she 
 could find. 
 
 " Just then Squire Wedmarri rode past the house towards the 
 mill ; Cliff called him in, and by virtue of his authority, Uncle
 
 MAKING TUB CHILDREN SOMETHING. 229 
 
 John and the widow Wakely were made one and inseparable. 
 I rejoiced that so speedy a termination was made, for I knew 
 if Mrs. Mickmick once got her bony hands on Uncle John; he 
 would never be free again. 
 
 " A happy day we had, though the beginning was inauspi- 
 cious enough. The widow said she was not dressed just as 
 she would like to have been, but it did not make much differ- 
 ence, and turning back her sleeves, she fell to work as readily 
 as though it had always been her own house. We girls and 
 Cliff went to the woods, and brought home green boughs and 
 flowering twigs, with which we filled the fireplace and orna- 
 mented the wall ; and when the table was spread with the ex- 
 tra china and plate, the girls said they had never seen the 
 house half so cheerful and pretty in their lives. Mrs. Wakely 
 seems a famous cook, and as fond of her children, as she calls 
 them, as if they were her own. She cut the pattern of my 
 sleeve, and says she will go to town and buy them dresses like 
 mine with her own money, and that they shall not be tied to 
 the spinning-wheel in the barn all the time it must not be all 
 work nor all play, she said, but a wholesome mixture of the 
 two. 
 
 " The ride home seemed very short, so engaged were we in 
 talking of the new turn affairs had taken. The widow Mick- 
 mick, Cliff told me, had been his Uncle John's housekeeper for 
 seven years, and that she had appeared to him to be mad all 
 the time because his uncle did not marry her ' and I believe in 
 my heart,' he said, 'uncle would have done so some time or 
 other, but for the accidental combination of circumstances to- 
 day.' Uncle John had seemed to me to grow taller and larger, 
 and more of a man, the moment Mrs. Mickmick was out of the
 
 230 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 house ; and Mrs. Wakely was so sweet and motherly to the 
 girls, that I loved her from the first : it is a happy change for 
 them, I am sure ; two or three visits were planned, and one day 
 was set apart to go to towu, before we came away ; so they will 
 not be left to spin barefoot in the barn, all the time, I am sure. 
 They walked to the end of the lane with us to drive the cows 
 home from the meadow ; as we rode away, and after we were 
 out of sight of them, we could hear them laughing. They are 
 to visit us in a week or two, and their new grandma with 
 them. 
 
 . " It was after sunset, but not yet dark, when we got home- 
 Aunt Margaret sat on the porch looking for us, and beside her 
 a grave, handsome young man, whom she introduced as her son 
 Joshua. He has the manner and look of a city-bred man, is 
 taller than Cliff whom he does not much resemble in any way 
 I suppose most folks would think him finer-looking, but I don't. 
 Cliff seemed to lose all his merriment when he sa,w his handsome 
 and finely-dressed brother, and said to me, aside, that if Joshua 
 had anything to do in town, he might as well stay there and 
 do it. 
 
 "Aunt Margaret told us that we were all invited to drink tea 
 at Mrs. Bell's the next afternoon. 
 
 " While we were talking, Cliff complained of his hand, which 
 he said had not been so painful all the day past, and asked if 
 he dare trouble me to make another application of the balsam 
 with which it had been dressed. 
 
 " I told him it was not any trouble, and I am sure it was not. 
 I would be very hard-hearted if I could refuse to do so small a 
 favor as that. I found it so neatly bandaged that I thought it 
 were best not disturbed till morning ; but when I said so Cliff
 
 MAKING THE CIIILDKEX SOMETHING. 21U 
 
 replied pettishly, that he would do it himself, and not any 
 longer keep me away from the very profitable conversation of 
 the great Joshua. I can't think what makes him so pouty. I 
 never s.aw him so before. 
 
 " I was tired and went early to my room, with the intention 
 of writing on my journal, but I kept thinking of Cliff, and of 
 what he said to me, and could not write at all. 
 
 " This morning I was up and milked a cow before breakfast ; 
 to be sure Maria milked three while I was milking one, but I shall 
 keep trying till I learn to work as well as she. Cliff says the 
 most useful and active life is the happiest, and I think so too. 
 Good words, he says, are good as far as they go, but they are 
 less than good works. He could not go to the field to work, 
 and so he and I weeded the garden beds. Joshua came into 
 the garden, and picked and ate some currants, but he did not offer 
 to help us work. Cliff told him the sun was burning his face as 
 red as fire, which seemed to alarm him, for he presently 
 returned to the shade of the porch, at which Cliff made himself 
 merry. Aunt Margaret called me directly, upon which Cliff 
 said he expected she wanted me to listen to the edifying conver- 
 sation of his wonderful brother, and that he could not pretend 
 to outweigh such an attraction ; but when I told him I would 
 rather weed the garden all day with him to help me, than do 
 nothing with Joshua to help me, he gathered and gave me a 
 cluster of ripe red currants, and said he was not worth my 
 thinking of, and that his brother Joshua was a great deal wiser 
 and better than he was. Poor dear Cliff 1 I don't believe any. 
 body is better than he is. Aunt Margaret wanted me to find 
 her some fresh eggs, so I must needs ask Cliff to show me the 
 nests ; it seem? to happen so that we are together a great deal.
 
 232 MAKING TILE CHILDREN' SOMETHING. 
 
 We had no sooner opened the barn door, than away ran a hen 
 from a pile of fresh straw, cackling so load that she got one or 
 t\vo roosters to cackling with her, and peeping into the straw- 
 heap, there was a nest full of white, warm eggs ; we took out 
 nine, leaving one, which Cliff called the nest egg, and returned, 
 to the surprise of Aunt Margaret, who had not expected us so 
 soon. She gave me a bowl and told me to break six of the 
 eggs and beat them well ; and when I seated myself on the 
 porch with the bowl in my lap, Joshua brought his chair near 
 me and began to talk ; and seeing him, Cliff said, a little spite- 
 fully, I thought, that he would go to the field, and rake hay 
 he guessed he could do a little good with one hand. 
 
 " I had the eggs soon ready, and Aunt Margaret, measuring 
 some sugar and flour, baked the nicest pound-cake you ever 
 saw it was not like those we buy at home at all. We had 
 spring chickens and an apple-pudding for dinner, the latter 
 eaten with a sauce of cream. I wish you were both here for a 
 week I think you would feel like new-made butterflies I do ; 
 I have thrown away my corsets, and for two days have not 
 tried to make my hair curl. Uncle Wentworth says, if it is not 
 the nature of it, it will only make it dry and harsh to twist it 
 into curl. At three o'clock Aunt Margaret and I were ready 
 that is the fashionable hour of visiting in the country and 
 Aunt Margaret wrapped the cake in a napkin and carried it 
 with her : not but that Mrs. Bell would have enough and to spare, 
 she said ; but that her pound-cakes were a little better than 
 most folks made, if she did say it herself. I forgot to tell you in 
 its proper place, that I carried home from Uncle John's a half 
 peck of apples, tied in a handkerchief, and hung on the horn 
 of my saddle, and that Cliff carried as many potatoes enough
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 233 
 
 for us to taste, Uncle John said. Aunt Margaret wore her new 
 cap and a nicely washed and ironed dress of small brown and 
 white checks, a white silk shawl 011 her neck, and a close fitting 
 grey bonnet. I wore the pink gingham with the plain skirt ; 
 I did not like to wear ruffles, because I knew Mary Bell would 
 not have them. I was careful to be tidy ; but with a rose in 
 my plain hair I looked quite stylish enough, Aunt Margaret 
 said. 
 
 " We went through the gate by the stone bridge, and along 
 the path by the run, round the base of the hill, and were there. 
 Mrs. Bell and Mary were at the door looking for us. The house 
 where they live is very small, having only two rooms, made of 
 logs but whitewashed within and without, and looking very 
 comfortable. Green boughs ornamented the wall and filled the 
 fire-place ; some pots of pretty flowers were in the windows, and 
 on the bed was a red and white patch-work quilt. Over the 
 door was a porch roofed with green boughs, and a dozen yards 
 or more from the house was a baking oven, over which a shed 
 was built, and against which a fire was burning for it is here 
 that Mrs. Bell does her cooking in the summer. 
 
 " We took sewing-work with us, and all sat on the shady 
 porch together, and worked till sunset, when our hostess set 
 about preparing the tea-table. Mary was joyous and full of life 
 during the afternoon, but her spirits flagged when it was time 
 for the schoolmaster, who did not come. I too was disappointed, 
 seeing that Joshua came alone. 
 
 "The table was kept waiting till nearly dark, and Mary and I 
 walked out to the bridge, and looked down the lane in vain 
 we saw no Mr. Hillburn. We saw Clifi 7 bringing the cattle to 
 the spring ; he waved his straw hat to us, but shook his head
 
 231 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 to indicate that he was not coming : so we went sorrowfully 
 back. I had little appetite for all the excellences spread before 
 us ; and Mary could not eat at all, even of Aunt Margaret's 
 cake. Joshua tried to entertain us, but we could not make 
 right answers to what he said. 
 
 " Mary walked with us to the gate on our return home ; and 
 when she turned back alone, I could not keep the tears from 
 my eyes. She is melancholy, and most of the time muses 
 silently, and I think it is the master she is thinking about. 
 Everywhere the talk is that he is to go away shortly, and 
 whenever Mary hears it I can see that it gives her pain. The 
 grass is withered and the cornblades have lost much of the 
 brightness which they had a few days ago ; the blue bells of 
 the morning glories scarcely come out at all ; everything is suf- 
 fering for the want of rain. It is so close in my room I can 
 scarcely breathe. The dust is settled all over the rose-bushes, 
 and uncle is afraid his good spring will dry pretty soon. I did 
 not see Cliff when we came home. I can't think where he is. 
 It grows late, and I will stop writing for this time. The light- 
 ning runs along the sky all the time, yet there are no clouds. 
 
 "SEVENTH EVENING. 
 
 " When I laid down my pen the fifth evening, I expected to 
 resume it on the sixth ; but how short-sighted we are at the 
 best. The day following our visit to Mrs. Bell's was still and 
 sultry ; one black cloud lay low in the west, and that was all 
 we sat on the porch with fans nearly all the day, wishing 
 and wishing for rain. I have no recollection of the day except 
 a sense of suffering and a looking for clouds. We could see
 
 MAKING THE CHILDKEX SOMETHING. 2o5 
 
 the men in the field wiping their faces often and looking at the 
 sky, and great clouds of dnst going after the teams, as one 
 after another went along. About four o'clock a sudden breeze 
 sprung up, turning the leaves of all the trees wrongside up, 
 and filling all the air with dust ; then came a distant growl of 
 thunder, then another louder and rattling up the sky, with 
 clouds, black as midnight, behind it. The shutters blew round, 
 striking violently together, troops of swallows came hurrying 
 home to the barn, and shortly after, the cattle, running one 
 after another, some of them bellowing, others pawing the dust, 
 or turning their foreheads up to the fast-blackening sky. I was 
 afraid, as the wind tore down the vines from the porch, and a 
 flash of lightning, that almost struck us blind, was followed by 
 such a clap of thunder as I never heard. The rain now came 
 plashing down, sending the smoking dust up at first, and in a 
 moment driving furiously against us, and forcing us into the 
 house. We heard the limbs of the trees cracking and falling, 
 and then the men from the field came running in. I hurried to 
 Cliff, and held fast his hand, and would not let him go away, I 
 was so much afraid he would be killed. He told me not to 
 fear that the greatest danger was passed but that he be- 
 lieved the lightning had struck somewhere near by. He had 
 no more than said this, when Mr. Peters, the neighbor who 
 lives nearest to Uncle Went worth, came to the door, the water 
 dripping from his hair, his clothes completely drenched, and his 
 lip trembling : ' Mrs. Wentwortb,' he said, ' I want you to get 
 ready as quick as you can and go with me to Mrs. Bell's poor 
 Mary has been killed with lightning ;' and when he had said so. 
 he hid his face in his good honest hands for a minute before he 
 could say any more. Presently he told us that as he was cross-
 
 236 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 iug the stone bridge, on his way home from town, he heard his 
 dog, that always went with him, howl, and turning his head' 
 saw him with his fore paws lifted on the gate, and saw at the 
 same time a woman lying beneath the tall walnut tree. He 
 hurried to her, and found it to be Mary. ' I carried her in my 
 arms,' he said, ' to her mother's house, and she lies there on 
 the bed poor Mary !' And through the driving rain Aunt 
 Margaret and Joshua went together to the house of death. 
 We were stunned speechless, almost ; and sat all together 
 Maria and Peter and all till late at night. Cliff held close 
 my trembling hand, and I am sure we felt the worthlessness of 
 everything in comparison with love. 
 
 " To-day was the funeral. Joshua, who had known Mary 
 from a baby, spoke an hour in such a sweet, comforting way, 
 that even Mary's mother was still to hear him. I felt, as 1 
 heard him, that he was a good man, and that his hopes were, 
 indeed, anchored beyond this life. I determined then more 
 than I ever had to live a good life, and to grow in grace as 
 much as I can. Mr. Hillburn sat close by the coffin with Mrs. 
 Bell, and his suffering seemed greater than he could bear. 
 Over Mary's bosom lay beautiful flowers, and when he had 
 looked at her and kissed her, he took up one of them and 
 kissed that too ; he would not have done it if she had been alive. 
 All the school-children walked behind their mate, holding each 
 other's hands tightly, and seeming to be afraid. 
 
 " When the grave-mound was heaped smooth, Mr. Hillburn, 
 who had all the time been with Mary's mother, walked with 
 her to her lonesome home. An hour ago Joshua was sent for,, 
 and he has not yet come home. I cannot make it seem that 
 sweet Mary Bell is dead ! Where is her home, and what arc
 
 MAKING THE CHILDEZX SOMETHING. 237 
 
 her thoughts now ? Surely she needed but little change to be- 
 come an angel. Life is a great, a solemn thing. 
 
 " Cliff has just come to my door, and asked me to come 
 down stairs he is so lonesome, he says. So for to-night, 
 good bye. 
 
 " EIGHTH EVENING. 
 
 " I asked Cliff what he would do when I was gone, and he 
 replied I must never go away the house was big enough for 
 us all, and I would never find any one to love me better than 
 he did. 
 
 " The sun is not yet set ; I came early to write you, that I 
 might have the twilight to walk in the yard with Cliff, who is 
 impatient at a minute's absence he is the best young man in 
 the world. 
 
 " Aunt Margaret told me to-day that Mr. Hillburn told 
 Joshua last night the story of his life, and that it is indeed 
 true he loved Mary Bell, but that he was pre-dctermined to be- 
 come a missionary, and to leave behind him all he loved. It 
 appears, she says, he designed it as some atonement for what 
 he considers a sin of early life. He loved books, and was of a 
 serious and thoughtful turn of mind always ; but his father, 
 contrary to his wishes, apprenticed him to a blacksmith, from 
 whom he ran away, and by dint of industry and perseverance, 
 succeeded in finally educating himself. But when he thought 
 to return home in triumph, he found his bright anticipations 
 turned into the bitterest sorrow his parents had died in 
 extreme poverty, crushed to the earth by what they esteemed 
 the ingratitude and worthlessness of their son. Penitent, and 
 broken-hearted almost, he resolved to consecrate his life to
 
 238 MAKIXG THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 
 
 some good work ; and with the view of enabling himself to 
 prosecute his studies for the ministry, undertook the school in 
 the neighborhood of Uncle Weutworth's, where the sweetness 
 and gentleness of Mary Bell quite won his heart ; but he 
 guarded his foregone resolve, and never spoke that sentiment 
 which she, nevertheless, silently received and responded to. 
 Aunt Margaret thinks it likely he will remain with Mary's 
 mother, and continue the school for a year at least ; but he 
 scarcely seems to have plans or purposes left. She says I am 
 sure he meant for the best, and how sadly has it all ended ! 
 
 " When Uncle Wentworth came home from the near village 
 to-day, he brought me a letter from the post-office there, and 
 on opening it I found it was from Albert, telling me that he 
 had run away from home, and engaged to ride the horses of a 
 canal-boat. I therefore hasten to let you know, that you may 
 not be so much alarmed about him. 
 
 " MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " Here I am in my pretty, quiet room again. The moon is 
 smiling out of the sky as gently and lovingly as though she 
 looked not on fallen harvests and broken boughs, where the 
 storm went yesterday. The stars are as thick as the dew in the 
 grass almost, and I never saw them so bright. I have been 
 sitting at the open window, and as I looked out upon the beau- 
 tiful world, I felt more humbly grateful, more truly and rev- 
 erently prayerful, than I ever felt till to-night. Heaven has 
 been very good to me always : but especially so, I think, in 
 bringing me to this pleasant home, and making me loved and 
 useful here. 
 
 " As I promised, I joined Cliff at twilight, and we walked
 
 MAKING THE CHILDREN SOMETHING. 239 
 
 among the flowers, cutting off the broken limbs and picking 
 off the blossoms which the storm had broken to pieces. It 
 was a sweet silent evening, and we were very happy, and yet 
 sad too, thinking and talking of Mary and Mr. Hillburn. 
 
 " We sat together on the stone door-step, and made pictures 
 of the happy home they might have had a cottage in the 
 woods, where Mary might have milked the cow and tended the 
 flowers, while the schoolmaster might have continued to be a 
 schoolmaster year after year, teaching the children, and then 
 the children's children, and so going on happily and usefully to 
 the end. 
 
 " ' But,' said Cliff, looking very close in my face, ' if the 
 master had left teaching, which is wearisome, and had become a 
 farmer, having some land of his own, and fine cattle ; and if 
 Mary had been a little more like Annie ; what a heaven they 
 might have made ?' And when I said, ' Yes,' he asked me 
 why we could not make just so sweet a home as we had 
 pictured ? For the life of me, I could see nothing in the way ; 
 so do not be troubled any more about making something of me ; 
 for before you hear from me again, 1 shall have made a farmer's 
 wife of myself."
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 
 
 they need our pity who are so intent on ambitions 
 projects on what are falsely termed the great aims of life 
 that they cannot stop to plant by the way some little flowers 
 of affection. 
 
 For myself, though I had power to make the wisdom of the 
 past and the unrevealed truths of God my own, I should feel 
 life to be an incompleteness, a failure, if there were no eyes to 
 gather new light " when I looked down upon them, and when 
 they looked up to me." 
 
 Whether blind contact and the strong necessity of loving 
 something are usually chiefly instrumental in drawing heart to 
 heart, I know not, but in the little story I have to tell they 
 may take some credit, I think. 
 
 Years ago, no matter how many, there came to live in our 
 neighborhood a widow lady of the name of Goodhue. Her 
 husband, shortly after purchasing the farm to which she and her 
 daughter, Louisa, came to live, was attacked with cholera, and 
 died ; so the two ladies, and the three servants whom they 
 brought with them, made up the family. I well remember the 
 much notice they excited at church the first Sunday their 
 heavy and elaborate mourning filled one of the homely slips.
 
 TIIK ArPI.K CL'TTING. 241 
 
 Even the young clergyman, it was thought by one or two of 
 our gossips (and what village has not its gossips ?) directed 
 his consolatory remarks almost entirely towards the new 
 comers, only once or twice remembering the three poor orphans 
 who sat in the rear of the church, thinking of the lonesome 
 grave of tbeir poor drunken father, whom nobody had wept 
 for but them. " We suppose," said the aforesaid gossips, "he 
 couldn't see through the thick black veils of the great Mrs. 
 Goodhue and daughter, to the scantily trimmed straw hat of 
 Sally Armstrong." Others there were, however, who said that 
 brother Long had preached a good feeling sermon for the 
 drunkard, and that he had told the children the sins of tbeir 
 father would be visited upon them to the third and fourth gene- 
 rations, and they were sure the children and everybody else 
 ought to be satisfied. 
 
 They looked almost like sisters, mother aud daughter, peo- 
 ple said, aud indeed it was hard to believe there were twenty 
 years difference in their ages, for the elder lady was the 
 younger in behavior, and altogether the most stylish in ap- 
 pearance. Her manner was set down against her for pride ; 
 but I suspect she had not more than most other persons, though 
 its manifestations were more showy. 
 
 " I wonder which one the preacher is trying to comfort," 
 said the neighbors, " Louisa or her mother ;" for whether or 
 not their veils had blinded him on the occasion of their first 
 appearing at church, it was certain that he availed himself of 
 the earliest opportunity of making their personal acquaintance, 
 and Aunt Caty Martin, who nursed all the sick, helped to make 
 all the shrouds, and cook all the wedding dinners in our neigh- 
 borhodd, remarked laughingly one day, as she was visiting at 
 11
 
 242 THE APPLE CUTTING. 
 
 our bouse, the while she hemmed a checked apron, that she 
 expected to need it, before long, in the preparation of the 
 biggest dinner she had ever cooked. It was not worth while 
 to call names, she said, but it was generally thought that a 
 certain young preacher and a certain young lady, whose name 
 began with L., would make a match before long. 
 
 Wiser folks than Aunt Caty have been mistaken but let me 
 not anticipate. 
 
 It was March when the Goodhues came to our neighborhood, 
 and as rough and unpromising a March as I remember ever to 
 have seen. The old house to which they came looked especially 
 desolate, for it had been vacant for a year, and the long un- 
 pruned cherry trees and late-budding elms creaked against 
 the broken windows, and dragged along the mossy roof, dis- 
 mally enough. The wind had not whistled up a violet, and no 
 w r ood-flower, between the layers of frosty leaves, had pushed 
 its way into the light. Mr. Goodlme had proposed to build a 
 fine new house directly in front of the old one. The digging 
 of the cellar had been accomplished, but the work was inter- 
 rupted by his death, and the great clay pit stood there, partly 
 filled with water, ont of which the black snakes lifted their 
 ugly heads, and into which the frogs dashed themselves when a 
 step drew near. 
 
 It looked unpromising when they came, as I said, and during 
 the summer the appearance of things was but little bettered. 
 
 The widow and her daughter had never lived in the country, 
 and knew nothing, of course, about managing a farm, but like 
 many city bred people supposed rural life to be a holiday. 
 They began energetically, to be sure ; in addition to the three 
 servants they brought, they hired workmen enough to cultivate
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 243 
 
 the grounds, and put the fences, barns, and orchards, all in 
 complete order ; but there was no directing hand among them, 
 and the consequence was, nothing was done properly, nor in 
 season, and after a large expenditure, with small gain, the lady 
 dismissed her workmen and offered the farm for sale. 
 
 She had come to the conclusion that her good husband had 
 for once erred in judgment, and bought the poorest land that 
 .'could have been found in the whole county. 
 
 In the time of garden-making, a garden was made ; but the 
 weeds grew faster than the vegetables, and the inexperienced 
 servants pulled them up together ; so the ground was ploughed 
 and sowed anew, but the second gardening was worse than the 
 first the dry season came on, and the work was all lost. 
 
 " Really, Louisa," said the widow, one morning, as she held 
 up her mourning dress, heavy at the bottom with dew and 
 dust, " I wish I could get rid of the old place, on any terms. 
 I would willingly sacrifice two or three thousand to be rid 
 of it." 
 
 " mother, I do wish you could sell or give it away," re- 
 plied Louisa " it is the dreariest place I was ever in in my 
 life. If it wasn't for Parson Long I don't know what we 
 should do, for I believe he is about the only civilized man in 
 the neighborhood. And, by the way," she continued, " he 
 has asked me to ride to the city with him to-morrow, and come 
 home by moonlight. Won't it be sentimental ?" And the 
 voung girl laughed heartily at the idea of a sentimental ride by 
 moonlight with the parson, who was really a person of fine 
 education and cultivated tastes. In all our neighborhood there 
 was no other gentleman with whom she for a moment thought 
 of associating on terms of equality, and as for marrying one of
 
 244 THE APPLE CUTTING. 
 
 the " rustic bumpkins," as she called the young men, why, she 
 scorned the suggestion. 
 
 The summer was gone at the time of this little conversation 
 between Louisa and her mother, and the warm September sun 
 pierced not between the thick bonghs of the cherry trees which 
 still remained unpruned, for though Parson Long, in kid gloves, 
 had been seen cutting the dead limbs from among the roses 
 and lilacs, he had not ventured to touch the trees ; and in 
 shady and damp isolation the old house stood, and there, in 
 discontented and thriftless seclusion, the two ladies lived. 
 
 They were in the midst of rather an uncharitable conversa- 
 tion about the neighborhood, which they termed " horrid" the 
 simple-hearted people were " good enough in their way," as 
 they said, but persons in whom they could by no possibility 
 have any interest when they were interrupted by a loud 
 and confident rap on the front door an unusual thing for 
 most of the country people, who ventured there at all, made 
 their entrance at the side door, as the family were not supposed 
 to be in the parlor of week days or, at least, other families 
 were not. 
 
 The servant who opened the door came presently and, with 
 a smile of peculiar significance, announced Mr. Warren Arm- 
 strong. 
 
 " And pray, Louisa, who is he ?" asked the mother, her face 
 reddening as she went on to say, " not the son of the Widow 
 Armstrong, who lives in the cabin across the field ?" 
 
 " Even so, mother," answered the proud girl, arranging her 
 curls and straightening her lace kerchief in mockery, and as if 
 she feared to enter the presence of so distinguished a person- 
 age ; " you see our kind neighbors are determined to overcome
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 245 
 
 our timidity. Well, I am sorry they give themselves such 
 useless trouble''' and turning to the servant she said, " Did 
 his honor ask for mother, or me, or you ?" 
 
 " You, miss," replied the maid, her smile, this time widening 
 into a grin. 
 
 " Perhaps he wants me to help his sister Sally spin," contin- 
 ued Louisa, talking partly to herself and partly to her mother ; 
 " I heard the thunder of her wheel, the other day, when Par- 
 son Long and I were walking in the woods." 
 
 " And what did he say of them ?" inquired Mrs. Goodhue, 
 looking up from her embroidery. 
 
 " Oh," he said " they were goodish people poor, but respec- 
 table, in short, and that, since the old man went the way of 
 all the living which he did last spring, having been a drunk- 
 ard for twenty years they seem to be increasing in worldly 
 goods." 
 
 " Well, dear, don't detain the young man any longer," said 
 Mrs. Goodhue. 
 
 " You are considerate, but no doubt his time is precious. I 
 should have remembered that is it the time of sheep-shearing, 
 or potato planting, or what season is it with farmers ? and she 
 ran laughingly towards the parlor, waiting only to say, " I 
 wish you could see mother Armstrong her face is browner 
 than our cook's, and she dresses so queer." 
 
 Her face, as pretty and genial a one as you would wish to 
 see, in its usual expression, grew severe and haughty as she 
 opened the door and appeared before Mr. Armstrong with her 
 stateliest step. 
 
 'He was leaning carelessly over the rosewood table, and 
 looking into a volume which adorned it. One hand pushing
 
 246 THE APPLE CUTTING. 
 
 back the brown curls from his brown eyes, and the other rest- 
 ing on the brim of his straw hat which hung over his knee, as 
 indolently graceful as though he had been used to fine books 
 and fine furniture- all his life. 
 
 " Did you inquire for me, sir ?" asked the lady, in a business- 
 like way, but as though she could hardly think it possible that 
 he. had inquired for her. " Pardon me," said the young man, 
 as he bowed with natural gracefulness, " though we have had 
 no formal introduction, I could not fail of knowing Miss Good- 
 hue. My name is Armstrong Warren Armstrong." 
 
 Miss Goodhue said she was happy, and sinking to a sofa, 
 motioned him to be seated again. He declined, however, and 
 did his errand so simply and politely that she found herself say- 
 ing, "Pray, accept a seat, Mr. Armstrong," before he had 
 
 concluded. 
 
 In a minute, and without having made any remarks about 
 
 the weather, or asked her how many cows they milked, he was 
 gone ; and slily pulling the curtain back, Miss Louisa Good- 
 hue was watching him down the path. 
 
 " Well, daughter, what did the clodhopper want ?" asked the 
 mother directly. 
 
 " It seems to me yon might call him by his name." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 Louisa laughed gaily, partly to cover her confusion and part- 
 ly at the unintentional earnestness with which she had spoken ; 
 and saying he seemed a civil young person, explained that he 
 had called to ask her to come to an " apple cutting," at his 
 mother's house, on the evening of the day after the next. 
 
 " And are you going, my dear ?" asked the mother deferen- 
 tially.
 
 THE APPLE CUTTIXG. 247 
 
 " Pshaw ! What do you suppose I want to mix with such 
 a set of people for ?" And going to the window, Louisa watch- 
 ed the clouds with great interest, apparently. 
 
 There was a brief silence, broken by the mother's asking 
 if Mr. Armstrong wore cowhide boots and homespun, or in 
 what sort of costume he appeared. 
 
 " Really, mother, I don't know what he wore, replied the 
 girl, ingenuously I saw nothing but his smile and his eyes." 
 
 Mrs. Goodhue laughed, and said she would buy a spinning- 
 wheel for her child. 
 
 " Why, mother, you grow facetious," and tying on her sun- 
 bonnet, Louisa took up a volume and set off towards the woods, 
 either by choice or accident turning towards the one which lay 
 nearest Mrs. Armstrong's. 
 
 The following morning the sun came up large and red, disap- 
 pearing shortly behind a great bank of black clouds ; the 
 leaves dropped off silently, the air was close and oppressive, 
 and the water dried fast in the big clay pit. 
 
 Louisa asked everybody if they thought it would rain, and 
 everybody said they thought it would. Still she could not see 
 any signs of rain herself, she said ; if Parson Long called for 
 her, she believed she would go to town ; and by way of test- 
 ing her mother's views, she added that she wanted to buy a yard 
 of gingham to make an apron to wear to the " apple-cutting." 
 
 " Do, dear, go if you want to," replied the mother ; " it will 
 be a harmless pastime enough, and no doubt gratifying to our 
 simple neighbors." 
 
 Louisa said she was only jesting about the apron but that, 
 in truth, Warren Armstrong had quite a little manner of his 
 own, and the prettiest brown curls and eyes !
 
 248 THE APPLE CUTTING. 
 
 In doe season the clergyman called, mingling, a little more 
 than was his wont, a worldly interest with his soberly-gracious 
 manner. 
 
 His well-fed black horse pricked np his ears and stamped 
 impatiently, but he was not in gayer mood than Louisa. She 
 didn't know why, she said, but her spirits had not been so 
 buoyant since they came to the old farm. 
 
 The lane leading down past Mrs. Armstrong's house looked 
 quiet and cool between its border of oaks and elms, and she 
 wondered she had never gone in that direction for a walk 
 she would the very first time she went out again. 
 
 This purpose she expressed to Mr. Long, by way of assuring 
 herself that she could walk by the house of Warren Armstrong, 
 or talk of it as freely as of anything else, if she chose. 
 
 " You seem intent on the landscape, Miss Goodhue," he 
 remarked, in a tone of dissatisfaction, for she had kept her face 
 turned away longer than was flattering to his vanity. 
 
 " What did you say ?" she replied, abstractedly, after a min- 
 ute or two, during which she had been interesting herself in 
 the five cows that stood about the spring under the oak before 
 Mrs. Armstrong's house and perhaps, too, in the light cart 
 that, with its white linen cover and smart grey horse, was 
 standing by the door, and about which Sally and her mother, 
 and a little boy, were busy handing in pails and' baskets, etc., 
 etc. Warren was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 " What were you saying ?" she asked, having completed her 
 survey. 
 
 " Nothing at least, nothing that could interest you." and 
 the clergyman suddenly discovered that the management of his 
 horse required both hands, though one had previously rested
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 249 
 
 on that part of the carriage seat against which Miss Good- 
 hue leaned. 
 
 But little cared the lady whether he drove with one hand or 
 two, and, with the exception of one or two common-place 
 remarks, five or six miles were driven over in silence. 
 
 At length Mr. Long fell back upon his clerical prerogative, 
 and asked Louisa, in a fatherly sort of way, if she didn't think 
 the flowers in her bonnet unbecoming especially with mourn- 
 ing habiliments. 
 
 "No," she replied, tossing her willful head ; " I think they 
 are pretty." 
 
 " Vanity and vexation of spirit," he answered. 
 
 He next inquired if she found prayer the greatest consola- 
 tion for earthly afflictions, saying that was the true test of 
 a Christian spirit. 
 
 " Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't," replied the saucy 
 girl, " I make no pretensions to perfection." And abruptly 
 changing the subject, she said she fancied she could drive as 
 well as he, and playfully taking the reins from his hand, the 
 gay black horse passed over the remaining distance so fast as 
 to preclude conversation. 
 
 " Call as early as six o'clock, if possible ; I am fearful of the 
 night air," was the request of Louisa, as Mr. Long set her 
 down at the door of her friend, Mrs. Jackson. 
 
 The clergyman replied civilly, and yet in a way that indi- 
 cated he had some interests of his own which might conflict 
 with hers, and which he should be at no pains to set 
 aside. 
 
 Truth is, Louisa was in no haste to be at home, neither was 
 she afraid of the night air nor had the young man interests 
 11*
 
 250 TIIE APPLE CUTTIXG. 
 
 which he preferred to hers. Both were pettish, and willing to 
 tyrannize in a small way. 
 
 So they parted the one saying, " Pray don't give yourself 
 trouble," and the other replying, " to serve you at any sacrifice 
 would be a pleasure." 
 
 Mrs. Jackson was one of those sweet, loving women who find 
 sermons in stones and good in everything. Instinctively a lady 
 as well as by birth and education, she recognized the natural 
 excellence and refinement in others, nor did she ever fear of 
 compromising herself by associating with persons whose hands 
 were less white, or whose purses were less heavy than her 
 own. 
 
 " Let me see," she said, pausing with puzzled expression, as 
 if she were settling some matter of great moment in her mind, 
 after asking all about the neighborhood. " My paragon, Mr. 
 Armstrong must live somewhere near you. Do you know a 
 family of that name ?" 
 
 A family of that name lived very near them, Louisa said 
 poor, but good people, she believed. 
 
 " You may well say good people," replied Mrs. Jackson, 
 " there is no family of my acquaintance I like better. Warren 
 and Sally, and the old lady, and timid little Moses I like them 
 all." 
 
 Here she proceeded to relate how she had first found them 
 out by the excellence of the butter they brought to market ; 
 how she had engaged a regular supply, and so had made friends 
 of the entire family. 
 
 " Almost every week they send me," she said, " some fresh 
 eggs, or vegetables, or some other nice things they have, and I 
 acknowledge the favor by filling the basket with something
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 251 
 
 which they have not. When they come to town, they eat 
 dinner with me, and I am going to the country to stay a week, 
 and eat bread and milk, and apples fresh from the trees. Oh, 
 they are dear, delightful people how much you have lost in 
 not knowing them." 
 
 Mrs. Jacksou's great wealth and high social position embold. 
 ened Louisa to say she had actually seen Warren Armstrong', 
 and spoken with him ; that, in fact, he had asked her to a little 
 party, at his mother's house. She did not say " apple cutting," 
 lest Mrs. Jackson might be shocked ; but that lady knew all 
 about it, and, opening the cupboard, showed her a huge fresh 
 pound-cake which she designed sending for the occasion, by 
 Warren, whom she was every moment expecting to bring her 
 the week's butter. 
 
 " Go to-morrow night, by all means," she continued ; " they 
 have shown a disposition to give you pleasure, and you would 
 not pain them, I am sure, even though it afford you no special 
 gratification to go ;" and putting her arms about the plump 
 shoulders of Louisa, she repeated, " you will go, I am sure." 
 
 "Would you, now, really?" said the girl, looking up; "it 
 will be so queer, and with such a set of people." 
 
 " Why, the Armstrongs are not queer, but here comes War- 
 ren" and Mrs. Jackson lefc her guest to meet and welcome 
 him. Louisa could hear their voices distinctly, and much jest- 
 ing and good-natured talk about trifles there seemed between 
 them, as baskets were unpacked, jars were untied, and jugs of 
 milk were emptied. She would gladly have joined them, but 
 timidity, for almost the first time in her life, kept her in her 
 seat ; and, before she could overcome it, she heard the firm step 
 sound along the paved walk, as the young man went away.
 
 252 THE APPLK CUTTING. 
 
 When Mrs. Jackson returned, she wore a disappointed ex- 
 pression. Warren Armstrong could not dine with her, he 
 would only call for a minute in the evening, for the cake and 
 the bottle of yeast which she would have ready for him. 
 
 Louisa wondered what time he would return, though she 
 didn't know as she cared about seeing him ; but she had told 
 Mr. Long to call at six o'clock. Possibly she might go to the 
 " apple-cutting." She didn't think she should ; nevertheless, 
 amongst her purchases that day was a yard of black and white 
 gingham, suitable for an apron. 
 
 The clouds, which had been slowly sailing about all day, 
 intermingled at sunset, and the sky was presently a dull 
 leaden mass. Louisa looked out. anxiously six o'clock went 
 by ; seven came, and with it a slow, drizzling rain, which 
 promised to continue through the night. 
 
 " If Mr. Long had come at six, as I requested," she said, 
 " we might have been at home. He wants to take his own 
 time, that is all," and she pressed her flushed face to the pane, 
 tapping violently with her little foot on the carpet. 
 
 Suddenly the flush deepened, as a hearty, good-humored 
 voice, not altogether unfamiliar, gave the salutation of the 
 evening. 
 
 Louisa said she was not expecting him (for it was Warren) ; 
 she was watching for Mr. Long, who had brought her to town, 
 and whom she had expected an hour ago. 
 
 Mr. Armstrong manifested no confusion ; but, taking off his 
 hat, turned his face skyward, and, shaking the rain-drops from 
 his curls, with a pretty carelessness, said he was sorry for her 
 disappointment ; that her friend would certainly not detain her 
 much longer and that his carriage was doubtless a sure protec-
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 253 
 
 tion from the storm, which he trusted would not be very vio- 
 lent ; and with a bow which seemed to indicate a leave-taking 
 of her, he passed to the rear portion of the house, where Mrs. 
 Jackson's kindly preparations awaited him. 
 
 " I wish he had only asked me to ride home with him," 
 thought Louisa. " I am under no obligations to Mr. Long, 
 that I should wait here all night ;" and, moving restlessly to 
 and fro, she saw the young man passing from the kitchen to the 
 street, and placing in the wagon, jugs, baskets, and boxes 
 again, as regardless of her as of the Newfoundland that lay at 
 the doorway. 
 
 " I could go with him just as well as not," she thought ; 
 " his wagon-cover would protect me from the rain, and if it 
 didn't, why, a little rain wouldn't hurt me and then I should 
 be revenged upon Mr. Long." 
 
 But while she thus thought, the preparations were completed ; 
 and, with the rain-drops standing bright in his hair, and his 
 ungloved hands wet and red, Mr. Armstrong was climbing into 
 the wagon. 
 
 "Would it inconvenience you much to take me ?" called an 
 unsteady voice, and throwing up the sash, Louisa leaned anxi- 
 ously from the window. The youth, for he was scarcely more 
 something past twenty-one, perhaps was on the ground in a 
 moment. His poor accommodation was quite at her service ; 
 he only regretted it was not better. The storm looked threat- 
 ening ; had she not better consider ? . 
 
 " I will pay you whatever you ask," said Louisa, coldly, 
 piqued at the young man's indifference, for he stood with one 
 hand resting on his stout grey and the other held discouraging 
 out into the rain.
 
 254 THE APPLE CUTTIXG. 
 
 " I think \ve shall be able to settle terms, Miss Goodhue," 
 he said, laughingly, " if not, we will ' leave it to rneu,' as 
 farmers do sometimes, when they make a trade." 
 
 Louisa joined in the laugh, for his good humor quite dis- 
 armed her, and, wrapped in Mrs. Jackson's great blanket 
 shawl, she was presently assisted into the wagon. 
 
 Before they reached the suburbs it was quite dark, and the 
 rain, which had been only a drizzle, fell in larger and colder 
 drops. The road was muddy and broken, and a slow drive 
 unavoidable. 
 
 But, strange to say, Miss Goodhue was not afraid of the 
 night, nor the rain, nor the rough roads. Was it because she 
 had retaliated upon Mr. Long ? or because she felt a greater 
 assurance of safety and protection than she had ever felt 
 before ? 
 
 I know of nothing more favorable to familiar intercourse 
 than a rainy night and a lonesome old house, or a lonesome 
 road. Almost any two young persons, who find each other 
 likeable, will, travelling slowly through the storm, or sitting by 
 the ember fire, open their hearts as they would not in the 
 inquisitive noonday, But whether or not this be generally 
 true, it was in this particular instance. 
 
 A mile was not gone over when the rain plashed through the 
 cover of the wagon. Mr. Armstrong feared for the lady, and 
 she in turn feared for him he would really be quite drenched ; 
 her shawl was ample enough for both. Of course, the young 
 man's fears were all for her, not for himself ; he had been used 
 to hardship and exposure, and she was so delicate, so frail. 
 
 I can't tell all they said, for I don't know. I wish I did, 
 believing it would interest us, as it always does, to read the
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 255 
 
 human heart ; but I do know the drive seemed very short to 
 both, notwithstanding the ugly night ; and that Louisa declared, 
 when Mr. Armstrong set her down at home, that she was just 
 as dry as if she had been all the time by the heartbside. She 
 would not suffer, she knew ; and Mr. Armstrong would find her 
 the gayest of all on the following evening. 
 
 " I hope so," he replied ; " I had feared you would not honor 
 our little merry-making, but our humble life and homely plea- 
 sures might at least amuse you." 
 
 " True honest manhood and womanhood," replied Louisa, 
 with dignity, " are the best and noblest attainments ; and I hope 
 I have at least enough of the one to recognize the other, though 
 it be beneath a roof a little lower than mine." 
 
 For the first time in his life the young man had spoken 
 depreciatingly of his station and its pleasures ; and for almost 
 the first time in her life Louisa had uttered a sentiment worthy 
 of her real nature. 
 
 The morning looked unpromising, but about noon the clouds 
 broke up, and at one o'clock the sun shone bright and clear. 
 
 Mrs. Goodhue made herself merry, when she saw her daugh- 
 ter sewing the gingham apron ; but her estimate of the Arm- 
 strongs was modified somewhat when she learned that Mrs. 
 Jackson had spoken well of them ; and at last she concluded 
 that girls would be girls, and if Louisa had a fancy for going 
 to the " apple cutting," why, she would allow her to go. 
 
 Active preparations had been going forward, at Mrs. Arm- 
 strong's, all day. Moses, who was a pale, thoughtful boy, had 
 been unusually lively. Sally had sung, " When I can read my 
 title clear," in a key louder than common, and the mother had 
 seemed quite rejuvenated, as she beat eggs, and rolled sugar,
 
 256 THE APPLE CUTTIXG. 
 
 aiid assorted spices and plums. Only Warren had been silent, 
 seeming scarcely soberly glad. Sally, who was not much given 
 to sighing, rallied him repeatedly ; but though he said nothing 
 was the matter, and he was sure he didn't see what they found 
 about him to laugh at, it was evident his thoughts were not on 
 his work, as he brought in basket after basket of fine apples, 
 and arranged the boards on which they were to dry. 
 
 Shortly after sunset all was in readiness. Moses, in his rlew 
 boots, and wearing a broad linen shirt collar the first one he 
 ever had stood at the little white-curtained window, watching 
 down the lane for the first arrivals. Sally, wearing a pink 
 dress and white apron, was trying the eflfect^of some red brier 
 buds in her hair ; and the mother in her plain black gown, sat 
 in the big rocking-chair, with a fan of turkey feathers in her 
 lap, placidly contemplating the appearance and prospects of 
 things in general. As for Warren, he was yet lingering about 
 the fields, half wishing the " apple cutting" had never been 
 thought of. 
 
 " Oh, Sally ! there is a lady, somebody I don't know," called 
 out Moses from his station at the window. 
 
 " Well, well, child, come and sit down," said the mother ; 
 but Sally ran to see, and in a moment reported in a whisper 
 that she believed in her heart it was Miss Goodhue, for she 
 wore a white dress, and a black apron. 
 
 A minute more, the old gate creaked, a light step sounded on 
 the blue stones at the door, and Miss Goodhue was come. 
 
 She advanced at once to Mrs. Armstrong, and extending her 
 little white hand, said she had taken the liberty of coming 
 early, that she might learn to feel at home by the time the 
 others should arrive.
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 257 
 
 Truth is, she bad come thus early in order to make excuses 
 and return home before dark, if on taking an observation, she 
 should feel so inclined. 
 
 " How kind of you, darling," said Mrs. Armstrong, in her 
 sweet motherly way ; and, seating her in the rocking-chair, she 
 untied her veil, offered her big fan, and, in various ways strove 
 so cordially to entertain her, that she quite forgot her intention 
 of making excuses and returning home. Moses brought her a 
 bright red apple, and Sally showed her the garden, though 
 there was nothing in it to see, she said and, sure enough 
 there were but a few faded hollyhocks and marigolds ; but the 
 kindly spirit was the same as if there had been ever so many 
 flowers ; and, recognizing this, Louisa's heart softened more 
 and more, till before an hour had gone, she laid aside all 
 restraint and affectation, and even outvied Sally in merry 
 laughter and talk. Everything was so new and strange, and 
 made so welcome and so at home, she ran about the house like 
 a pleased child. A humble dwelling it was, consisting of but 
 three rooms all perfectly neat and clean, and even displaying 
 some little attempts at taste and ornament. The low ceilings 
 and rough walls were white-washed- ; the window curtains were 
 snowy white, and a plaided home-made carpet covered the 
 floor of the best room ; and maple boughs, now bright crimson 
 and yellow, filled the fire-place. But that which made the 
 room chiefly attractive, on the night I speak of, was the table. 
 How pretty the pink china (which Mrs. Armstrong had had 
 ever since she was married) showed in the candle-light ! 
 
 There were cups of flowers, and there was Mrs. Jackson's 
 beautiful cake, with many excellent confections of Mrs. Arm- 
 strong's own making. In the kitchen, the tea-kettle was
 
 258 THE APPLE CUTTIXG. 
 
 already steaming, the chickens were roasting, and the cream 
 biscuit were moulded and ready to bake. 
 
 At eight o'clock, the guests were assembled eight or ten iu 
 all young men and women, neighbors and friends. 
 
 With right good will they set to work, and very fast, despite 
 the mirth and jesting, the streaked, and red, and golden apples, 
 were peeled and sliced ready for the drying. 
 
 It happened to Louisa and Warren to sit together, and it 
 also happened the rest of the company were not much edified 
 by what they said. 
 
 At half-past nine, came Parson Long. The work was so 
 nearly done, it was not thought worth while for him to join in 
 it ; and so, seated in the best chair, and slowly waving a tur- 
 key-feather fan before his face, he looked graciously on the 
 volatile people before him. At supper, it chanced that he and 
 Sally were seated together, and whether it was the red buds in 
 her hair, and the pink dress, or whether it was that he learned 
 the cream biscuit, and the crisp pickles, and the plum pre- 
 serves, were all of her making, I know not, but certainly he 
 manifested a new and surprising interest in her ; and Louisa, 
 so far from feeling any pique, appeared delighted with his pre- 
 ference that is, whenever she sufficiently disengaged her atten- 
 tion from Warren Armstrong to notice him at all. 
 
 But I cannot linger over that supper, which Louisa said was 
 the best ever prepared ; nor over the merry-making afterward, 
 which lasted till twelve o'clock ; nor can I describe the pleasant 
 walks homeward, which, in separate pairs, the young people 
 enjoyed Warren and Louisa most of all. 
 
 In. a day or two, that young lady tied on her black apron 
 again, and went over to Mrs. Armstrong's to learn how to make
 
 THE APPLE CUTTING. 259 
 
 the cream biscuit ; and at twilight, Warren walked with her 
 down the lane to her own home and that was the beginning 
 of many such visits aud walks. 
 
 Before the apples were half dry, Parson Long paid a pas- 
 torly visit to Mrs. Armstrong's. He had been intending to do 
 so for a long time, he said, but there were always many things 
 to come between him and his wishes ; and shortly after this, 
 Sally stopped at Mrs. Goodhue's gate, one Sunday morning, to 
 speak to Louisa. She was" going to teach in the Sunday school, 
 she thought she ought to do some good as she went along. 
 But Miss Goodhue did not join her ; she went to church in the 
 morning, and in the afternoon she liked to walk in the fields 
 and woods, and worship through nature. Need I say Mr. Arm- 
 strong accompanied her in these walks ? 
 
 I do believe the course of true love* sometimes does run 
 smooth, the poet's declaration to the contrary, notwithstanding. 
 I do believe there are kindred spirits, and happy homes, few 
 and far between though they be. 
 
 Stop, wayfarer, when you see eyes smiling back to eyes 
 that smile, for you are very near to heaven. 
 
 Months the apples had been dried and hung in a bag, in the 
 cabin kitchen ; the lane leading from Mrs. Armstrong's to the 
 main road was white with the level snow ; the wind whistled up 
 and down the hills, and night hung dreary over the world. 
 But within doors, it was cheerful and warm. True, the genial 
 face of Warren was wanting but then, there was an honored 
 guest seated by the hickory fire talking mostly to Sally (who 
 wore a lace collar which Mrs. Goodhue gave her) but sometimes 
 to cjdiet Moses, and sometimes to Mrs. Armstrong, whom he 
 calls mother. Is it Mr. Long ?
 
 260 THE APPLE CUTTING. 
 
 Across the fields, and almost meeting their own, fall the win- 
 dow lights of Mrs. Goodhue, who has become reconciled to the 
 country, and thinks it less dreary in the winter than it was in 
 the summer. The fire is no less bright than Mrs. Armstrong's, 
 and beside it sit Warren and Louisa lovers, now. 
 
 "By the way," said the young man, with an arch expression, 
 and passing his arm around the waist of the girl, " there is one 
 little matter which has not been adjusted you have never paid 
 me, as you proposed, for that first bringing you from the city. 
 You know, at the time, I suggested leaving the settlement to a 
 third party ; I have selected Parson Long, and if you don't 
 object to him, pray fix the time as early as possible " The 
 reply she made was smothered by the sweetest of all impedi- 
 ments ; but it is certain she did not object to the parson, as 
 arbiter, and that the time was fixed, for she has been, for many 
 a day, one of the most painstaking and exemplary wives in all 
 our neighborhood scarcely rivalled, indeed, by Mrs. Sally Long.
 
 ELIZA ANDERSON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE firelight was beginning to shine brightly through the 
 one small window that looked towards the street the one 
 small window of a barely comfortable house that once stood in 
 the suburb of a busy little town busy in a little way. The 
 one blacksmith was exceedingly busy : the clinking of his ham- 
 mer was heard far into the night often, and on the beaten and 
 baked ground before his door horses were waiting for new 
 shoes from year's end to year's end. The storekeeper was 
 busy too, for he was showman and salesman, and clerk and all ; 
 the schoolmaster was busy with his many children in the 
 day, and his debating schools and spelling schools at night ; 
 the tailor was busy of course and one man among them, who 
 might be seen talking with the blacksmith or the storekeeper, 
 or lounging on the bench in front of the tavern some time dur- 
 ing every clay, was busiest of all ; this man lived in the house 
 where the light was shining at the window, and his name was 
 George Anderson. He was always better dressed, and could 
 talk more smartly than most of his neighbors it was his boast 
 that he could do anything as well as anybody else, and a little
 
 2G2 ELIZA AXDEESOX. 
 
 better, and be sometimes exemplified to his audience that his 
 boast was not without truth he could take the blacksmith's 
 hammer and nail on a horseshoe as readily as the smith him- 
 self, and, moreover, he could make the nails and beat out the 
 shoe, if he chose, but it was not often he chose so hard a task 
 he could wrestle with the bar-keeper and get the better of 
 him, drink whisky with him, and in that too get the better, 
 for George Anderson was never seen to walk crooked or catch 
 at posts, as he went along. Now he would step behind the 
 counter, and relieve the storekeeper for an hour, and whatever 
 trades he assumed were sure to be to the satisfaction of every- 
 body he was good-natured and welcome everywhere, for he 
 always brought good news. It was quite an event at the 
 school-house to have him come and give out the spelling lesson, 
 or hear the big girls parse some intricate sentence from Para- 
 dise Lost. 
 
 The scholars were not afraid of him, and knew they could 
 catch flies and talk as much as they pleased if he were their 
 teacher, and then they felt sure he knew more than the school- 
 master himself. 
 
 The firelight was beginning to shine so bright that you 
 might have seen through the naked window all that was in the 
 room a bare floor, a bed, some chairs and a table were there 
 a pot and a kettle steaming over the fire a little girl sitting 
 in a little chair, before- it, and a woman leaning on the foot of 
 the bed. The table-cloth was laid, but nothing to eat was on 
 the table. 
 
 Presently the schoolmaster was seen going that way, walk- 
 ing leisurely, and with a book beneath his arm he boards 
 with Mrs. Anderson, and is going home. He entered the
 
 house, and in less than a minute was seen to come out without 
 the book, looking hurried and flurried, and to walk towards the 
 more crowded part of the town very fast, stopping once at the 
 door of a small house much resembling Mrs. Anderson's own. 
 
 He finds the redoubtable George telling a story in the bar- 
 room to a group of admiring listeners, and touching his arm, 
 whispers something, but the story-telling goes on all the same. 
 The schoolmaster repeats the touch, and whispers more em- 
 phatically. " Yes, directly," says George. " Now, this mo- 
 ment !" says the schoolmaster, aloud, and he tries to pull the 
 talker away, but not till the story is finished does he start to- 
 ward home, and then leisurely and smoking a cigar as he goes . 
 The schoolmaster does not return home, but solemnly makes his 
 way to a common not far from it, and crossing his hands be- 
 hind him, appears lost in contemplating a flock of geese swim- 
 ming in a shallow pond and squalling when he comes near. 
 Meantime the mistress of the little house, at the door of which 
 he stopped for a moment, has thrown a shawl about her shoul- 
 ders and runs without bonnet to Mrs. Anderson's house. An- 
 other woman, spectacles in hand, and cap border flying, fol- 
 lows directly, and then another, summoned by some secret and 
 mysterious agent, it would seem, for no messenger has been 
 visible. 
 
 The window that looks into the street is temporarily curtain- 
 ed now with a woman's shawl sparks are seen to fly out of 
 the chimney rapidly, and there is much going out and in and 
 whispering of neighbors about their doors and over their gar- 
 den fences and it is not long till one of the women comes 
 away from Mrs. Anderson's, leading the little girl who sat by 
 the fire an hour ago. Her black eyes are wide open as if she
 
 264 ELIZA ASDERS02T. 
 
 were afraid, or in doubt what would become of her, and she 
 looks back towards her home wistfully and often, though the 
 woman seems to talk cheerfully as they go, and lifts her with a 
 playful jump over. the rough places. Suddenly they turn aside 
 from the path they are in they notice the schoolmaster pacing 
 up and down beside the pond, and join him, and after some em- 
 barrassed blushes and foolish laughter ou his part, they go 
 away together. He leads the little girl by the hand, and her 
 thin, white face looks up to him more confidently than to the 
 strange woman. They turn into a little yard, cross a dark 
 porch and opeii a side door a glimpse is revealed of a room 
 full of light and children, and all is dark again. 
 
 A very good supper the strange woman prepared, of which 
 the little girl and the schoolmaster partook, and afterward he 
 lifts her on his knee, and with the other children gathered 
 about him, tells stories of bears and pirates and Indians till 
 she at last falls asleep, and then the strange woman opens a 
 little bed and softly covers her, and the schoolmaster is shown 
 to a bed in another part of the house. The morning comes, 
 and she goes to school with the master without having gone 
 home, and the day goes by as other days have gone at school 
 lessons are badly recited and spelling badly spelled ; and 
 the schoolmaster takes her hand and helps her down stairs, and 
 walks on the rough ground, leaving the smooth path for her, 
 and they pass the pond where the geese are swimming, and the 
 strange woman's house, and go in at home, the child still hold- 
 ing the master's hand. 
 
 " Well, Lidy," says the woman, who is there preparing the 
 supper, " what do you think happened when you were asleep 
 last night ?" Lidy can't guess, and the master says he can't
 
 ELIZA ANDEKSOX. 265 
 
 guess, though older eyes than Lidy's would have seen that he 
 suspected shrewdly. " Why," says the strange woman, " the 
 prettiest little brother you ever saw in your life was brought 
 here, for you I" Lidy's black eyes open wide .with wonder, and 
 she holds fast the master's hand, and looks at him inquiringly 
 as if she wished he would tell her whether to be glad or sorry. 
 He puts his arm around her and draws her close to his side, 
 and says something about how happy she will be, but he says 
 it in a misgiving tone, and smooths her hair as if it were a 
 piteous case. The strange woman leaves her bustling for a 
 moment, and whispers at the bedside there is no tea. A pale 
 hand puts by the curtain, and a low voice says something 
 about having told George, three hours past, to go to the tailor 
 who owes her for sewing, get the money and bring home tea 
 and sugar, and some other things, and she wonders he does not 
 come. The strange woman says she wonders too, but she 
 whispers to the schoolmaster that it is enough like somebody to 
 stay away at such a time, and she lifts the tea-kettle from the 
 coals, and lights the candle. 
 
 Lidy is told to sit down in her little chair, and make a good, 
 nice lap, which she does as well as she knows how and the 
 dear little brother, about whom she is still half incredulous, is 
 brought, and in long flannel wrappings laid across her knees. 
 " Xow ain't he a pretty baby though !" exclaims the strange 
 woman, " with his itty bitty boo eyes, and his hair des as nice 
 as any of 'ein and ebrysing." The latter part of the speech 
 was made to the wonderful baby, whom Lidy was told she 
 must kiss, and which she did kiss as in duty bound. The wonder- 
 ful baby scowled his forehead, clenched his fists and began to 
 cry. " Jolt your chair a little, sissy," says the strange woman,
 
 266 ELIZA AXDEJESON. 
 
 and then to the wonderful brother, " Do they booze itty boy ! 
 Well, 'em sant do no such a sing ! no, 'en sant !" Then to the 
 schoolmaster, who is bending over his Latin grammar, she ex- 
 hibits one of the feet of the remarkable boy, and says she 
 believes in her heart, he conld hardly wear the moccasin of her 
 little Mary who is nine months old then she falls to kissing 
 one of the hands of the wonderful baby, and calls him in her 
 loving fondness, "a great big, good-for-nossen sugar-plum." 
 Then she exhibits one of the wonderful hands, that clenches and 
 claws most unamiably as she does so, and informs the school- 
 master that she believes in her heart, the hands of the wonder- 
 ful boy are as large, that very minute, as her Tommy's, and he 
 will be two years old the seventeenth day of next month 
 then she addresses herself to the baby again, and calls his 
 feet " ittle footens," and makes a feint of eating both at once. 
 
 And all this while the remarkable boy has been fretting and 
 frowning on the lap of his little sister, who is told she is very 
 much blest in having a little brother, and who supposes she is 
 blest, and trots him, and kisses him, and holds him up and lays 
 him down again, but in spite of all her little efforts he frowns 
 and fidgets as if she did not, and could not do half enough for 
 him. 
 
 By and by a slow footstep is heard, and a whistle, and di- 
 rectly afterward Mr. Anderson comes in and gives the strange 
 woman a - little parcel briskly she measures the tea, and 
 briskly she fills up the teapot and rattles the cups into the 
 saucers ; the baby is smothered in his long flannels and tucked 
 under the coverlet. 
 
 " Come, Casper," says Mr. Anderson, " if you had been at 
 work as hard as I have, you would not want to be called twice."
 
 ELIZA AKDEKSOX. 267 
 
 The schoolmaster lays down his grammar and asks Mr. 
 Anderson what he has been doing the pale hand puts by the 
 curtain again, and a pale face turns eagerly to hear. 
 
 " Why, I could not begin to tell," he says, helping himself 
 freely to everything that is on the table, and he proceeds to 
 mention some of the work. He has broken a colt, he says, 
 which nobody else could manage, and made him kindly, both 
 under the saddle and in harness he has drawn a tooth which 
 the dentist could not draw, he has turned off two flour barrels 
 for the cooper, and driven the stage-coach seven miles and 
 back, besides a dozen other things, none of which was the least 
 profit to his family. The light goes out of the pale face that 
 turned so eagerly towards him, and a low voice says, " Did you 
 see the tailor, George ?" 
 
 " Why, to be sure," he answers, " I sewed a seam for him as 
 long as from here to the gate and back again." He has not 
 answered her question as she expected, the hand that holds the 
 curtain shakes nervously, and the low voice says, 
 
 " Did he did did you get the tea, George ?" 
 
 " Why, to be sure, and most excellent tea it is," and as the 
 strange woman drains the last drop into his sixth cup, he adds, 
 " won't you have a cup, mother ?" 
 
 He turns partly towards her as he confers upon her the honor 
 of this inquiry, and the low voice trembles as it says, " No," 
 and the pale hand lets the curtain drop. Poor woman ! per- 
 haps she saw the bright new waistcoat that George wore, with 
 its double rows of shining buttons, perhaps she saw this and 
 knew the way her hard earnings had gone. The schoolmaster 
 thinks he hears a stifled groan behind the curtain, sets his cup 
 of tea aside, and will not eat any more, and directly returns to
 
 268 ELIZA ANDEKSOX. 
 
 his. grammar. Mr. Anderson sits in the corner and smokes for 
 half an hour, and then recollecting that some business requires 
 his attention up town, pulls on his gloves, and goes out. The 
 schoolmaster follows shortly, and in a few minutes returns, and 
 gives the strange woman two small parcels, one containing 
 crackers and the other raisins poor Mrs. Anderson thinks it 
 was George brought them, reproaches herself for having 
 'wronged him, smiles and is blest again. 
 
 The remarkable baby cries and cries, and while the strange 
 woman washes the dishes and makes the house tidy, little Lidy 
 carries him up and down the room, and across and across the 
 room till her arms ache, and she sits down 
 
 "Bless me 1 you are not tired of your dear little brother 
 already ?" exclaims the strange woman, and Lidy says she is 
 not tired she is very glad to carry him only her arms won't 
 hold him any longer. 
 
 When the house was set in order, the strange woman took 
 the remarkable boy, and with some talk to his " ittle boo, seepy 
 eyes," managed to quiet him, and tucking him away as before, 
 she went home to attend her own house and little ones. 
 
 At ten o'clock Lidy had crossed the floor with her blessed 
 brother in her arms hundreds of times, and in a temporary lull 
 was fallen asleep in her chair. A rough pull at her hair caused 
 her to open her eyes suddenly the baby was crying again, and 
 her father was come and scolding her angrily. " She had not 
 a bit of feeling," he said, " and did not deserve to have such a 
 beautiful brother somebody would come and take him away 
 if she did not take better care of him." Directly Lidy was 
 pacing the floor again, and the baby crying with all his might. 
 " Seems to me you don't try to keep your poor little brother
 
 ELIZA AXDERSOX. 269 
 
 still," says the father, for a moment tr.king the cigar from his 
 mouth, and then puffing away again. He never thought of 
 relieving the little girl, or even of speaking any words of pity 
 and comfort to her she was not born to pity or comfort from 
 her father she had committed the offence of inheriting the 
 light of life some years prior to her brother, and from the 
 moment of his birth she had no consideration except with 
 reference to him. Even her mother, though she loved her, 
 gave the baby the preference Lidy's petticoats were appro- 
 priated for his use, and Lidy could not go to school because 
 her shawl must be turned into a baby blanket. Everybody 
 came to see the baby, and everybody said how much prettier 
 than his sister he was, but that she seemed to be a good little 
 girl, and of course she was very much delighted with her new 
 brother he would be big enough one of these days to play 
 with her, and then she would have fine times. 
 
 Mr. Anderson was congratulated, and proud to be congratu- 
 lated he could afford to do almost anything since a fine sou 
 was born to him, and in higher good-humor than usual he made 
 barrels for the cooper and nails for the blacksmith treated all 
 the town to brandy instead of whisky, and to the storekeeper 
 traded a very good new hat for a very bad old one ! 
 
 And patiently Lidy gave up her petticoats, and patiently she 
 stayed away from school and worked all the day and while her 
 mother sat up in bed to sew for the tailor again, she climbed 
 into her little chair and washed the dishes it was all for her 
 pretty little brother, her mother said, and by and by he would 
 be big enough to work for them, and then he would buy a new 
 cap for mother, and new slippers for Lidy, and oh, ever so 
 many things.
 
 270 ELIZA AXDERSOX. 
 
 Lidy quite forgot the sweeping and the dish washing, in the 
 pictures of the new things her little brother was going to buy 
 for her some time. 
 
 Xow and then of evenings, when the baby was asleep, the 
 schoolmaster would take Lidy on his knee and teach her to 
 read, and she scarcely fell behind the children that were in 
 school every day, he said. Once when he was praising her, 
 her father said her little brother George would soon get before 
 her when he was big enough to go to school. " George will 
 never have her eyes, though," said the schoolmaster, proudly 
 looking into their black, lustrous depths. 
 
 Mr. Anderson said the girl's eyes were well enough, he sup- 
 posed, for a girl's eyes, but George would never suffer in com- 
 parison with her, and from that time the schoolmaster, whose 
 name was Casper Eodwick, was designated as " Old Casper," 
 by the father of the remarkable boy. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Years went away, and one frosty moonlight night, the same 
 neighbor who led little Lidy away and kept her before, was 
 seen hurrying across the common, again, and the schoolmaster 
 to come forth and go searching about the town the store- 
 keeper laid down his measure, saying, " Is there any bad news, 
 Mr. Rodwick ?" for he knew by the manner of his inquiry for 
 George, that poor Mrs. Anderson was dead. 
 
 The husband wore a new bat deeply shrouded with crape at 
 her funeral, and new gloves, and George, who was grown to be 
 a big, saucy boy, wore gloves too, while Eliza wore an ill-fitting 
 bonnet that was not her own, and no gloves at all.
 
 ELIZA AXDERSON. 271 
 
 From that time Mr. Anderson did not look, nor seem like 
 himself, people said, and it was believed he was grieving him- 
 self to death. They did not know, and he did not know, that 
 he had drawn all his life from his wife she had bought his 
 food and his clothes, she had held him up and kept him up, and 
 when the crape he wore at her funeral grew dusty and fell to 
 pieces, he fell to pieces with it. He called Lidy to his bedside, 
 one day, and told her that her brother would soon have a fine 
 education she must be content to suffer some privations till 
 that was accomplished, and then he would repay her hand- 
 somely he was a noble-hearted lad, and wonderfully gifted. 
 Lidy must look to him for advice now, and in all things sub- 
 serve his wishes. 
 
 " Dear, dear father," cried Lidy, " you must not die I can 
 not live without you," and with all the power that was in her, 
 she strove to make pleasant the sick-room. She placed her 
 geranium pots and myrtles where he could see them, and let 
 the sunshine in at the windows that he might feel how bright 
 the world was without but his eyes could not see the bright- 
 ness anywhere, and at length one night Casper was called to 
 write his will he had nothing to bequeath, and his will was a 
 record of his wishes only. Little more was written than he 
 had spokeu to Lidy, and all was to the effect that George was 
 her natural and proper guardian, that he was superior to her 
 in wisdom, and should be so in authority, and that if ever 
 his daughter forgot it, he wished her to read this testimonial 
 of her father's will. 
 
 So they were left alone in the world, the two orphans, with 
 no friend but the schoolmaster. Eliza Anderson had all her 
 mother's energy and aptitude. She could not only sew for the
 
 272 ELIZA AXDEESON. 
 
 tailor, bat she could make caps and collars for the ladies of the 
 town, and dresses too, and as she was not ashamed to work she 
 got along with her poverty very well. George inherited all 
 his fathers smartness, and more than all his irresolution, but as 
 he grew older he grew better tempered, and whatever he was 
 to others, was seldom unamiable to Lidy. How could he be, 
 indeed, unless he had been a demon ? 
 
 Often when she sat with her sewing at night, she would tell 
 the schoolmaster what great hopes she had of George, and how 
 ingeniously he could turn his hand to anything. Sometimes he 
 would smile and sometimes he would sigh, but whatever he 
 said it was evident he shared none of her enthusiasm. This 
 rather offended Lidy, for she received any slight to George as 
 a personal insult, and she would sit all the evening after some 
 hopeful allusion to him, silent, often sullen, saying to all the 
 master's little efforts to please her, that she had not a friend in 
 the world, and it was no use ever to hope for sympathy. It 
 was true that from the first the master had not loved George 
 much first he had taken the petticoats from his little favorite, 
 then her playthings, and then she began to be big enough to 
 work for him, and from that time it was nothing else but work 
 for him, and for the master's part he could see no prospect of 
 anything else. 
 
 One night she appeared unusually happy, and to find her own 
 heart company enough. Once or twice she seemed on the 
 point of telling something to the master, but she checked her- 
 self, and if she said anything it was evidently not what she at 
 first thought. " Well, Lidy," he said, at length, " what is it ?" 
 and at last it came out about George, of course. He was 
 going to stay away from school and work in the garden the
 
 ELIZA AXDEKSOX. 273 
 
 half of every day 1 and Eliza thought it not unlikely that he 
 would learn more in half the day, after such healthful exercise, 
 than he had done in the whole day. She had spent more 
 money for the hoe, and the spade, and garden seeds, to be sure, 
 than she could well afford, but then it was all going to be such 
 an improvement to George, to say nothing of the great advan- 
 tage it would be to her ? 
 
 " Don't you think it will be a good thing for us both ?" and 
 she went on to say it was a wonderful idea, and all his own 
 she had never suggested anything like it to George. Did 
 it not look like beginning to do in earnest ? and she concluded, 
 " maybe, after all, you will find you were mistaken about 
 him !" 
 
 " And maybe not," said the schoolmaster, cooly " where is 
 the boy ?" 
 
 Eliza did not know where he was, and to be avenged upon 
 him for the humiliating confession he obliged her to make, she 
 said she did not know as it was any of his business. 
 
 " Of course it is not my business, but I can't bear to see you 
 so imposed upon," and he very gently took her hand as he 
 spoke. She withdrew it blushing ; covered her face, and burst 
 into tears. She was not a child, and he was her friend and 
 schoolmaster no more. She was become a woman, and he her 
 interested lover. 
 
 He had been gone an hour to the little chamber adjoining 
 his schoolroom, where he had slept since her mother's death, 
 when George came. 
 
 Lidy kept her face in the dark that he might not see how 
 red her eyes were, for she could not explain why she had been 
 crying. She hardly knew herself and in a tone of affected 
 12*
 
 274 ELIZA AXUEKSOX. 
 
 cheerfulness told him of the garden tools she had bought, and 
 produced her package of seeds. 
 
 " Call me early," he said, " I am going to work in earnest. 
 I am twelve years old now, and can do as much as a man !" 
 
 Lidy promised to call him, and never once thought necessity 
 ought to wake him, as it did her. 
 
 She was astir an hour earlier than common the nest day 
 and having called George, set to digging in the garden beds 
 wkh good-will. She was determined the schoolmaster should 
 nd the work begun when he came to breakfast. Two or three 
 times she left her work to call George again, and at last, 
 yawning and complaining, he came. " He thought he would 
 feel more like working after breakfast," he said, " rising so 
 early made his head dizzy," and sitting down on a bank of 
 grass, he buried his forehead in his handkerchief, and with one 
 hand pulled the rake across the loose earth which his sister had 
 been digging. Poor boy, she thought, a cup of coffee will do 
 him good, and away she flew to make it. 
 
 " Really, George," said the schoolmaster, when he sat down 
 to breakfast, "you have made a fine beginning if you keep on 
 this way we shall be proud of you." 
 
 Lidy noticed that he said, ice shall be proud of you, and in 
 her confusion she twice put sugar in his coffee, and forgot to 
 give sugar to George at all. He sulked and sat back from the 
 table, affecting to believe that his sister had deprived him of 
 sugar in his coffee for the sake of giving the master a double 
 portion. And he concluded with saying, " It's pretty treatment 
 after my getting up at daybreak to work for you." 
 
 " You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said the master, 
 provoked by his insolent words and sulky manner beyond silent
 
 ELIZA AXDEESOX. 275 
 
 endurance, " as if you ought not to work for your sister, and 
 moreover it is for yourself you are working." And he added 
 between his teeth, " if I had the management of you, I'd teach 
 you what pretty treatment was !" 
 
 " But you haven't the management of him, Mr. Eodwick," 
 said Eliza, moving her chair further from him and nearer to 
 George. 
 
 " I am aware of it, Miss Anderson," he replied, " and if you 
 will uphold him in his ugliness after this fashion, I must say I 
 should be sorry to be connected with him in any way !" 
 
 A look that was half defiance and half sneer, passed over the 
 face of Lidy, but she said nothing. At this moment the black- 
 smith stopped at the door, to offer some seeds of an excellent 
 kind of cucumbers to his neighbor, whom in common with all 
 the village he greatly esteemed. 
 
 " You look pale, ma'am," he said, as he laid the seeds on the 
 table beside her, " I'm afeard you have been working beyond 
 your strength ;" and turning to the master, he explained how 
 he had seen her digging in the garden since daybreak. Her 
 face grew crimson, for she had not only suffered the master to 
 attribute the work to George, but had herself helped to deceive 
 him. 
 
 One glance he gave her, which to her appeared made up of 
 pity and contempt, and without one word went away from the 
 house. If her little deception had not been discovered, she 
 could have borne herself very proudly towards the master, but 
 now she was humiliated, not only in his estimation, but her 
 own. She was angry with him, with the blacksmith, with 
 George, and with herself. Yet for a good while she would not 
 give up even to herself, but sat sipping coffee and eating dry
 
 276 ELIZA AKDEKSOX. 
 
 bread, as if nothing disturbed her in the least, but all the while 
 the bitter tears kept rising and filling her eyes, for she would 
 not wipe them away. One moment she thought she did not 
 care for what had happened, and that she had a right to work 
 in the garden, and was not obliged to tell the master of it 
 either, as she knew of, and that if he had ever given George 
 credit for anything, she would not have tried to deceive him, 
 and at any rate, what she did was nothing to him ; he had no 
 authority over either of them, she was glad of that. But under 
 all this bolstering, which she heaped up under her failing heart, 
 she felt sorry and ashamed, and knew that the master was in the 
 right, that he was a strict disciplinarian, and that in some sort he 
 was entitled to some authority over George, at least. He had 
 lived in the house with them always, had been their teacher, and 
 since their father's death their friend and guardian. George was 
 a bad, idle boy, she knew, and ran away from school when he 
 chose, and she knew too that he required a severe master, and 
 if Mr. Rodwick had softened matters a little she would not have 
 cared ; but he was not the man to disguise plain truth as fur 
 as he saw he saw clearly, and made others see clearly too. 
 
 But when it was all turned over and over, Eliza was angry 
 with him more than with George, angry, because he knew the 
 truth, and angry because the truth was the truth in some way, 
 his knowledge of facts made the facts, she thought. 
 
 And all the while she was turning things about, and yet not 
 reconciled to herself, nor to the master, nor to George, he sat 
 sullenly away from the table biting his finger-nails, and waiting 
 to be coaxed to eat. 
 
 For once there was no coaxing for him, and the breakfast 
 was removed without his having tasted it. Pulling his hat
 
 ELIZA ANDEESOX. 2/7 
 
 over las eyes, he was about leaving the house, when Eliza drew 
 him back and demanded authoritatively where he was going. 
 " To the tavern, to buy my breakfast." 
 
 " Xo, you shall not," she said, and forcing him to sit down 
 she sat by him and repeated to him the sacrifices she had all 
 her life made for him, " and what, after all, is the result?" she 
 said, " why, the more I do the more I may, and the less you 
 care for me ?" and seeing that he was grinning in his hat, she 
 told him that she knew somebody who could make him mind, 
 thus owning to his face, like a weak, foolish, loving woman, that 
 she had no power over him. 
 
 " Well, Madam Rodwick," he said, coolly, when she had 
 exhausted all epithets of threat and entreaty, and tenderness 
 and reproach, " if you have concluded your sermon I'll go and 
 get my breakfast." 
 
 " You will go to work in the garden !" said the sister, " that 
 is what you will do !" and straight way she fell dowu to 
 entreaty, and with tears counted the money she had paid for 
 spade and hoe and seeds, and how illy she could afford it, and 
 how she had hoped, and how she still hoped that he was going 
 to be a good boy, a help and comfort to her. 
 
 '' Well, I shan't mind old Casper, anyhow," said the boy, at 
 length ; and it was finally settled that he would go to work in 
 the garden, and that she would prepare him a nice, warm 
 breakfast. A few shovels of earth he moved from one place to 
 another, but there was really no work done, and Eliza saw 
 there was none done when she called him to the second break- 
 fast. She was completely discouraged and broken down now, 
 and told George so, and seeing that he heeded nothing, she 
 buried her face in her hands and fell to crying. She did not
 
 278 KL1ZA ANDEKSON. 
 
 know as she would ever do anything again, she said, and indeed 
 she felt little courage to go to work. George would not help 
 her, and she was tired of working alone. 
 
 " It was too hot now, to work in the garden," he replied, 
 "and too late to go to school," and so he sauntered away, his 
 sister saying, as he went, " She did not know as she cared 
 where he went, nor what became of him." 
 
 It was noon before she knew it, and the master came home, 
 and there was no dinner prepared ; and the tailor called for 
 some promised work, and Eliza had been crying all day, and it 
 was not ready. He was disappointed, vexed, and said if she 
 could not keep her engagements he would find somebody that 
 would. 
 
 The master saw how it all was that George was the begin- 
 ning of trouble, and that Eliza herself was not a little to blame, 
 and if he had said anything, he would have said what he thought, 
 but she asked for neither advice nor sympathy ; and having told 
 her she need prepare no dinner for him, he returned to the school- 
 house and its duties, and as usual maintained a calm and quiet 
 demeanor, however much he might have been troubled at 
 heart. 
 
 When the school was done with, he did not return home at 
 once as was his custom, but opening his grammar, remained at 
 the window as long as he could see, and till after that. 
 
 All day George had not been seen nor heard of and all day 
 Eliza had done nothing but cry and fret ; but when night 
 came, and a messenger with it to say he was lying on the 
 ground, a little way out of town, drunken as he could be, she 
 began to see how much less to blame the schoolmoster had been 
 than she had tried to believe.
 
 ELIZA AXDEUSOX. 2 TO 
 
 From her heart she wished he would come, but though suffer- 
 ing most intensely she would not seek him, nor would she allow ' 
 him to know her wretchedness when he should come, so she 
 resolved. But all her proud resolves would not do. He came 
 at last in the same calm, confident way he always came, and 
 with some common words, meant to show that all was right, 
 and that he felt as usual, opened his book to await his supper, 
 which he saw no indication of. 
 
 " Mr. Rodwick," she said, directly, in a voice that trembled in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 " Yes, what is it ?" he answered, without looking from his 
 book. 
 
 It was very hard and very humiliating to tell him what it 
 was, but her love for George, and the fear that he might be 
 run over where he lay, overcame the last remnant of her pride, 
 and hiding her face, she sobbed out her sad confession and 
 appeal. 
 
 He did not say, " I knew it would be so," nor " You are to 
 blame :" he only said, " Don't cry, Lidy don't cry," and putting 
 down his book, hurried away. In half an hour he came back, 
 and George with him, staggering and swearing, his clothes 
 soiled and his face dirty bleeding at one side where he had 
 fallen against the rough ground. He would not be persuaded 
 to have his face washed, and his clothes brushed, nor would he 
 sit down or go to bed, nor do anything else, but swear that in 
 spite of old Casper or his old sister he would go back to the 
 tavern, he had enough good friends there. 
 
 Casper had returned to his book, and not till Eliza begged 
 him to interfere, did he speak one word, or seem to notice what 
 was passing, but he no sooner laid his hand on the boy, and
 
 280 ELIZA ANDERSON. 
 
 spoke a few words in his quiet, determined manner, than he 
 ceased to offer resistance, and was led away to bed without 
 more ado. 
 
 When the supper was eaten, Casper would have gone, but 
 Eliza said, "No, I want to talk about George." 
 
 "Very well," he said, seating himself, "what have you to 
 say ?" 
 
 Eliza knew not what to say she knew that she was troubled 
 and tormented, that George was idle enough and unpromising 
 enough, but that she loved him after all, and could not bear 
 that he should be compelled to right ways by any one but her- 
 self. This was the amount of all she could say. 
 
 A clear, practical, common sense view of things the school- 
 master took. He loved Eliza, and he said so, he admired all 
 that was good and discreet and womanly in her, and he said 
 so : he did not love George, and he disliked and disapproved of 
 her wavering and compromising course with him. He had no 
 great hopes of him at the best, nevertheless he could bring him 
 under subjection in some way, if Eliza would give him the right 
 to do so. 
 
 He told her what his fortunes and prospects were, without 
 exaggeration or depreciation ; he numbered his years, every one 
 of them up before her, and her own, which were not half so 
 many, and then he said that all he was, and all he had, and all 
 he could do, which was not much, were hers to accept if she 
 would, but with the understanding that George should be sub- 
 ject to his authority. 
 
 Eliza reminded him of her promise to her dead father : how 
 could she break that and be at peace with herself ? and, more- 
 over, he admitted that he did not love George, and how could
 
 ELIZA AXDERSON. 281 
 
 she hope the boy would be made any better by him ? The 
 schoolmaster argued that if she were willing to trust herself 
 with him, it was natural that she should be willing to trust the 
 management of her brother : and as for the sacred promise she 
 laid so much stress on, it was a bad promise exacted by a bad 
 father, and better broken than kept. And now, he concluded, 
 with the calmness of a third party summing up evidence, " You 
 have all the facts before you look at them and decide as your 
 conscience dictates." 
 
 The facts were unpleasant ones, some of them, and Eliza did 
 not like to look them in the face she did not like to say defi- 
 nitely what she would do nor when she would do it. AVhen 
 George was older and provided for, or capable of providing 
 for himself, their lives should be joined and flow through all 
 fortune in a sentimental sunshine. All of which to the school- 
 master was nothing but moonshine. With it he was not contented 
 he wished to see the ground he stood upon, whatever it was, 
 and finally, when they separated, it had been agreed that when- 
 ever George should be provided for they should be married ; 
 and that during school hours he should be under the master's 
 control, and at other times Eliza's will should be his law. 
 
 Neither was satisfied with this arrangement, for both foresaw 
 it would result badly, in the beginning. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The breakfast was a pleasant one. George had been work- 
 ing in the garden for two hours, he said, and should have half 
 the seeds in the ground before dinner. 
 
 Eliza was greatly elated, and saw the fulfillment of her best 
 hopes speedily coming. She could not praise him enough, and
 
 282 ELIZA AXDEESON. 
 
 she could not help thinking the schoolmaster a little ungener- 
 ous in accepting what seemed to her a wonderful performance, 
 as a matter of course. 
 
 " Don't you think, Casper," she said, at last, determined to 
 force some praise from him, " that George is a pretty good boy, 
 after all ?" 
 
 She had better not have asked it. He had simply done his 
 duty, Casper said, but the motive seemed to him questionable. 
 It was partly the result of shame, and partly an effort to buy 
 off punishment. As soon as George betrayed indications of any 
 thorough reformation, he should be glad to acknowledge it. 
 
 Pretty industriously for half a day George kept at work, and 
 with the assistance of Eliza, part of the seeds were got into the 
 ground, and when at noon he related his achievement to Casper, 
 she made no mention of the hand she had lent. 
 
 " Now you are to go to school," she said, when the dinner 
 was past ; but George replied that he was too tired, and could 
 not learn if he did. With much coaxing and many promises, he 
 was induced to set out at last : but one excuse for loitering 
 offered itself after another, and finally at the pond he stopped, 
 and having pelted the geese for an hour, he stretched himself in 
 the shavings before the cooper's shop, and slept away another 
 hour ; another was passed in shaving hoop-poles and piling 
 staves, and then the school was dismissed, and joining the other 
 boys the truant went home. 
 
 With a good deal of coaxing, and hiring, and scolding, and 
 some wholesome fear of the master, the garden was at last 
 planted ; but Eliza, though she tried to conceal it, had done 
 most of the work, and all the while George had only gone to 
 school when he chose.
 
 ELIZA AXDEESOX. 283 
 
 One day he told bis sister he knew a little boy who had made 
 dollars the last year by selling eggs, and if she would buy a 
 hen and a dozen chickens, oh he would be the best boy in the j 
 world, and do everything she desired. He knew where he 
 could get them if he only had two dollars. 
 
 Of course Eliza gave the money. She would work a little 
 later every night and soon earn it, and of course she told Cas- 
 per about it, and insisted that he should see in it great specu- 
 lative ability on the part of George, but he could only see that 
 she had thrown away her money, and said so, which displeased 
 her, of course, and there was an interval of estrangement. 
 
 The seeds were soon mostly picked out of the garden beds, 
 and the beds scratched level with the paths, and then the 
 mother hen came daily home from travelling through the weeds, 
 or from some neighbor's garden with a broken legged chicken, 
 or with a diminished number, till finally she drowned herself in 
 trying to rescue the last one from a pail of milk, and so ended 
 the garden and the chicken speculation. 
 
 George now professed himself inclined to return to school. 
 He believed he would be a teacher after all Eliza concluded 
 his strongest bent was towards learning, and he went to 
 school. 
 
 But his zeal soon abated he liked work better the cooper 
 would pay him four shillings per day ; and packing his books 
 he went to work with the cooper. Eliza was telling the mas- 
 ter how well he was doing, when he came in with one hand 
 bandaged and bleeding he had cut off two fingers ! 
 
 In the course of a few months the wound was healed, but he 
 should never be able to work, and one day, about the middle 
 of the afternoon, found him in school. He soon told his sister
 
 284 ELIZA AXDEESOX. 
 
 "old Casper" could not teach him anything. Perhaps it 
 would be the very making of him to send him to the academy 
 three miles away. George would walk the distance, the exer- 
 cise would be beneficial, and she must manage some way, she 
 hardly knew how, to pay for it. His old hat would not do to 
 wear to the academy, he must have a new one his old coat 
 would not do, the tailor would furnish one, and Eliza would 
 sew for it. At last arrangements were concluded, and he went 
 to the academy. He soon discovered the walk to be too long, 
 it so overcame him that he could not study. He knew of a 
 horse he could hire to ride for a trifle, and the horse was 
 hired and George rode to school, and Eliza worked later into 
 the night and earlier in the morning. She had never been so 
 hopeful he would be able to teach in the academy after 
 a while, and all her troubles past. If he had the time for 
 books, he said, that was consumed in riding to and from school, 
 and then if he could have a room and study as the other boys 
 did, of evenings, he should get on twice as well. So the horse 
 was given up. It took almost as much to pay for riding as to 
 hire board, Eliza said, and George was provided with board 
 and lodging at the academy, and patiently she toiled on. 
 
 The days were the happiest now she had ever seen, Casper 
 was all kindness when the boy was out of his sight ; they 
 would be so happy, and her toils would all be over before long 
 she was telling him so, and he listening in half credulous 
 delight, for what lover has not some faith in his mistress, when 
 George, books and bundles and all, strode into the house, and a 
 great chilly, black shadow came in with him. 
 
 He did not like the boys at the academy, nor the teachers, 
 nor anything. He could not eat at his boarding-house he was
 
 ELIZA AXDERSOX. 285 
 
 sick with all, and believed he was going to die : and Eliza 
 believed he was sick, and feared he would die ; but the master 
 neither believed the one nor feared the other, and so the old 
 estrangement came again. 
 
 When the youth professed himself well he went to work 
 with the tailor, but did not like it, and so was home for awhile ; 
 then he went with the blacksmith, but that was too hard : then 
 he was home for awhile, helping her, Eliza said ; then he went 
 into the store, grew tired and was home for awhile, helping 
 Eliza again. 
 
 She was discouraged now, and a good deal in debt. She 
 was growing old faster than years made her grow old ; the 
 rose died in her cheek, and her eyes lost their lustre even the 
 master did not praise them any more, and this made her sad- 
 der than all. 
 
 Suddenly George formed the resolution of going to school 
 again. He believed " old Casper " was a pretty good teacher, 
 after all. 
 
 Eliza began to think she would allow Casper the right to 
 control him now, by becoming his wife, but he did not urge the 
 marriage any more. She was almost resolved to approach the 
 matter herself. George should be kept at school whether he 
 would or not she would tell Casper so that night. She arose 
 with the resolution and looked towards the school-house, and 
 there came George, running crookedly home, his eyes blind 
 with tears, and holding up the crippled hand as if it had been 
 mutilated anew. 
 
 " The master had struck his poor hand with a rule," he said, 
 " and all for laughing because he saw him kiss Sophie Swain, 
 and not because he did anything wrong."
 
 286 ELIZA AXDEESOX. 
 
 There was a quick revulsion of sympathies and resolves on 
 the part of Eliza. Sophie Swain was a pretty girl of sixteen, 
 the daughter of the richest man in town. She saw plainly 
 enough now why Casper said nothing about marriage, and she 
 thought it was too bad that he should take to abusing her 
 poor brother as well as herself on account of his charmer. As 
 long as she lived, George should not be maltreated in that way, 
 that he shouldn't. 
 
 All this and more, Eliza resolved she would say, and all this 
 and more she did say in tones of no measured mildness. Of 
 course she did not care how often the master kissed Sophie 
 Swain, nor how soon he married her, if he wanted to. She was 
 sure she would not stand in his way if she could, and she knew 
 very well that she could not ; he had ceased to feel even the com- 
 monest interest in her. But one thing she would and could do 
 she would prevent him from beating poor George to death. 
 
 When she had exhausted all epithets of reproach and denun- 
 ciation, and was still from sheer prostration, the master replied 
 in his perfectly quiet and self-possessed way, which to Eliza 
 was especially provoking, that it was true as George said. He 
 had kissed Sophie Swain, that he could not be blind to her 
 beauty, and she seemed not averse to his acknowledgment of 
 it. He had made no love to her, and did not propose to if 
 Eliza would grant him the happiness of continuing his suit, or 
 rather if she would be reasonable and terminate it in marriage, 
 this he professed himself willing, nay, anxious to conclude at 
 once. Not only his heart but his judgment, he said, sanctioned 
 the proposal he had made her. 
 
 " It was true he had struck George," be said, " but not in- 
 juriously, and Eliza should have sense enough to know it.
 
 ELIZA AXDEKSOST. 287 
 
 And besides, the youth merited twice as much as he had re- 
 ceived. It was the first time he ever used the liberty herself 
 bestowed on him, and he insisted that then and there their rela- 
 tions should be definitely settled." 
 
 In all he said he neither elevated nor lowered his voice in 
 the least. If he saw Eliza's tears, he did not seem to see 
 them, nor did he once touch her hand, nor move one inch to- 
 wards her, but having concluded what he had to say awaited 
 her answer, snapping the blade of his pen-knife backward and 
 forward, and not even lifting his eyes towards her. 
 
 This conduct was certainly badly calculated to make a pas- 
 sionate woman reasonable. 
 
 Checking her tears in very anger, she told him he was a 
 strange lover. He replied that he had a strange mistress, and 
 besides she must remember he was not a passionate boy. Eliza 
 begged his pardon. She had, for the moment, forgotten that 
 only his judgment sanctioned his proposal to her, and that his 
 heart was averse to it interested, doubtless, in a much younger 
 and handsomer woman. 
 
 " If you will make gratuitous interpretations, you must 
 make them," said the master, his lip curling slightly; "but I 
 have no replies for them." 
 
 Eliza insisted that she had interpreted his words legitimately, 
 and that for her part she saw no reason why he should drag 
 his judgment in at all. To which he replied most provokingly, 
 that he feared his judgment had been dragged forward less 
 than it should have been I 
 
 There were some more words, as angry and unreasonable as 
 they could be on one side, and most severely reasonable and 
 concise on the other. When they parted, it was with the de-
 
 283 ELIZA AXDERSOX. 
 
 duration, on the part of Eliza, that Mr. Eodwick was free to 
 use his judgment as he liked, for the future, it was nothing to 
 her. And when he asked if he might not hope for leniency, 
 she said, " Xo !" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Years ago all this happened, and what either party, or both 
 have suffered, only themselves know. The same house, shabbier 
 than it used to be, with the one uncurtained window towards 
 the street, is standing yet. Sometimes in. the evening twilight 
 you will see there a plain, pale woman, with grey hair, sewing 
 by the last light. She does not smile, nor look as if she had 
 smiled for many years, or ever would again. Often three 
 bright, laughing children go in at the gate with parcels of 
 sewing, and they climb over her chair and kiss her, and wonder 
 why she is not gay and laughing like their mother ; and when 
 they go away, they are sure to leave more money than she has 
 earned, behind them ; they are Casper's children, and the 
 woman is Eliza Anderson. 
 
 Sometimes you will see there a ragged, wretched man, lame 
 in the right leg, and with one arm off at the elbow his face 
 has in it a look of habitual suffering, of baffled and purposeless 
 suffering, as if all the world was set against him, and he could 
 not help it ; and that is George. 
 
 Sometimes in the night, when all is dark and still, a white- 
 haired man leans over the broken gate, forgetting the white 
 wall of his ^own garden, and all the roses that are in it, and the 
 pretty children that are smiling in their dreaming : and even 
 the wife, gone to sleep too, in the calm, not to say indifferent
 
 ELIZA ANDERS OX. 289 
 
 confidence, that he will take care of himself, and come home 
 when he gets ready. He leans there a long while thinking, 
 not of what is, but of what might have been, and wondering 
 whether eternity will make whole the broken blessings of time. 
 That is Casper, to be sure who else should it be ? 
 
 13
 
 MRS. WALDEN'S CONFIDANT. 
 
 FOURTH OF JULY ! The beating of a drum and the scream- 
 ing of a fife were heard in the distance some few thin clouds 
 moved about the sky, as if to keep the light from dazzling 
 the air was soft and refreshing, not over warm, just sufficiently 
 in motion so stir the young thrifty corn, and bring the scent 
 from the tomato and potato vines the orchards looked well, 
 and the harvests generally had fulfilled a good promise. The 
 people all through the neighborhood were glad, and thought 
 their village was about as thriving a village as was to be found 
 in that part of the country and so they well might think ; 
 the best farms commanded fifty dollars per acre the soil was 
 productive, and there was abundance of wood, water and 
 stone ; fine clay for making bricks ; besides other advantages 
 which made the farmers about naturally a little proud and 
 this pride extended from their own possessions to the property 
 of their neighbors, and took in the fifty lots and thirty dwellings, 
 the meeting-house, two grocery stores and tavern, which were 
 the pride of the Clovernook neighborhood. There was talk of a 
 seminary, and some prospect of the erection of half a dozen new 
 dwellings, besides the certain addition of a third story to the
 
 MES. WARDEN'S COXFIDANT. 291 
 
 tavern. The execution of a new sign was already in commis- 
 sion, and it was whispered '"the device was to be an eagle soar- 
 ing towards the sun, with the motto beneath, " upward and on- 
 ward." The commission had been intrusted to the wagon- 
 maker, whose ability for the task nobody doubted. There was 
 some regret that the sign could not have been completed and 
 swinging before the " North American Hotel " on the glorious 
 Fourth, but the regret was not enough to mar the general joy- 
 ousuess, and as for the landlord, the excellent Peter Holt, he 
 had a secret project of his own that the completion of the 
 third story, and the putting forth of the new sign, should give 
 eclat to the general training in the fall. Therefore he com- 
 pressed his lips and put his face under a dubious cloud when 
 inquired of concerning the sign, saying simply, " we shall see 
 what we shall see." 
 
 The people about the neighborhood had been astir before 
 the cock on the day I write of, for a general celebration was to 
 be held in the village, and in addition to the usual ceremonies, 
 two of the oldest men in the neighborhood realEevolutionary 
 soldiers ; were to head the procession, which was to form at the 
 North American Hotel precisely at ten o'clock, who were to 
 bear between them the American flag ; and on each side of 
 them little girls were to walk with baskets of flowers, garlands 
 for the conquering heroes. 
 
 The village, which stood on a rising ground, could be seen 
 two or three miles away, from positions where no woodland 
 intervened, and now, even higher than the steeple of the church, 
 shone the bright colors at the top of the " liberty pole." 
 
 Not more than a mile away, and plainly in view, not only 
 of the steeple and the liberty pole, but also of the people gather-
 
 292 MRS. AVALDEX'S COXFIDAXT. 
 
 ing in front of the hotel, and in hearing of the music, lived the 
 family of Timothy "Walden, consisting in all of husband and 
 wife, Matilda a young woman of eighteen and two boys, of 
 fourteen and sixteen years. 
 
 They had been early astir in common with their neighbors, 
 but not joyously astir they were not people who joined in 
 celebrations why, nobody knew ; they did not know them- 
 selves but they honestly believed themselves too poor to be 
 justified in spending so much time and money. 
 
 There had been some hope on the part of the young people, 
 up to the last moment, that they might be permitted to join in 
 the festivities of the occasion. Even to drive the geese from 
 the common, and assist in the removal of hoop-poles and 
 staves preparatory to the grand march, would have been es- 
 teemed a privilege by the boys, and to be allowed the most 
 obscure position where she might see the procession and the 
 green arbor over the dinner-table, would have made holiday 
 enough to Matilda, and she would have been quite willing 
 to forego the white dress and pink ribbons which the young 
 ladies generally had. 
 
 When the breakfast was concluded, Mr. Walden went out 
 to the harvest-field as usual, and apparently did not once think 
 of a suspension of labors. Sullenly the two boys followed, 
 half wishing it might rain and spoil all the fun for other peo- 
 ple, for nothing so embitters the heart as the constant denial 
 of innocent pleasures. And here let me say that Mr. Wal- 
 den was the owner of sixty acres of as good land as was to be 
 found in the neighborhood, besides all necessary horses, carts, 
 and implements of labor generally. His fences were in repair, 
 and a thrifty orchard and commodious barn had rewarded his
 
 MKS. WALDKX'S CONFIDANT. 293 
 
 industry. A house, too, he owned, or rather the foundation of 
 a house, for it was unplastered, unpainted, and altogether un- 
 furnished except the actual necessities about the kitchen and 
 sleeping-rooms. The sun streamed across the bare floors 
 through the uncurtained windows, and great piles of bedding 
 and heaps of rags and wool filled the empty rooms there were 
 no flowers about the yard, and the garden in the rear was 
 quite overgrown with weeds. 
 
 A patient, hard-working woman was Mrs. Walden but she 
 was not hopeful any more she said she was tired of hoping. 
 She had tried long and hard to get a little beforehand in 
 the world, and what had it amounted to ? Thoughts of 
 this sort were busy in her mind on the beautiful Fourth of 
 July aforementioned. It had never been her habit to indulge 
 in hard thoughts, but some how that day she could not help it 
 the house had never looked so naked and comfortless ; she had 
 never seen so little prospect of ever having anything, and in her 
 absence of mind she let fall the coffee-pot and broke it in pieces 
 as she cleared the table ; true, it had leaked a long time, but 
 then it was better than none dear me, what would become of 
 them ! She had done her part nobody could say she had 
 not who then was to blame ? if it was not Timothy she did 
 not know who was. This suspicion once allowed to come into 
 her mind, made room for many accusations, and she put to- 
 gether all the Fourth of Julys and other holidays she had 
 spent at home working hard, and no thanks from nobody, 
 which meant from Timothy. They had never had a Christmas 
 dinner nor a New-Year's dinner so long as they had kept 
 house and who was to blame ? why somebody must be ; but 
 no matter for that, she must try to do her duty at any rate so
 
 294 MRS. WALDEX'S COXFIDAXT. 
 
 she worked on, thinking harder and harder things. Happen- 
 ing to look towards the field, she saw the two boys turning 
 somersets in the shadow of a tree, for they felt it to be their 
 right to be idle on the Fourth of July, and for the moment she 
 felt as if she was all the one that did anything to any profit, and 
 this the more, perhaps, that as she looked she saw Timothy 
 making his way to the fence, where young Dr. Meredith, who 
 was just come home from prosecuting his professional studies 
 in a distant city, was waiting to shake hands. 
 
 " Dr. Meredith, indeed !" exclaimed the unamiable woman, " a 
 great doctor I guess he is." And if her supposition that it was 
 impossible for John Meredith to be a doctor could have been 
 analyzed, it would have been found to consist chiefly of the facts 
 that she had known John Meredith when he had but two 
 shirts, she had known the colors of all his boyhood coats, and 
 how hard his mother worked and how much she denied herself 
 for the sake of educating him ; and more than this, she knew 
 his mother before him, and all her family. That she had ever 
 known John to be other than a good and obedient boy she 
 would not say but what of that ? there he was, dressed finely 
 and going to pass the day in idleness perhaps he would read 
 the " Declaration " and be called "doctor" by some silly young 
 girls at any rate. 
 
 Then her thoughts naturally reverted to her own daughter, 
 and she became aware th'at her wheel was still, which added 
 to her irritation, and in no mild terms she enjoined her to go 
 forward with her work. 
 
 Still, ever and again there was silence in the room where 
 Matty should have been spinning how could she keep her eyes 
 from the public road filled with wagons and carriages, and
 
 MKS. TVALDEN'S COXFIDANT. 295 
 
 young men and women on horseback and on foot, all with 
 happy faces and dressed gaily, going to the Fourth of July. 
 Among the rest there is one who looks earnestly towards her 
 and bows very low, and close against, the pane she presses her face 
 before she sees it is Dr. Meredith ; but her sweetest smile and 
 a double recognition are given, for though she has played 
 " hide and seek" with him many a time aye, and even beaten 
 him in the spelling class at school, she is pleased to see that 
 he has come home, and never once thinks it is not possible for 
 him to be a doctor. " Dear me !" says Mrs. Walden as the 
 wheel stops again, " well, I must work all the harder for the 
 idleness of the rest, I suppose," and with a shining tin pan in 
 her hand she makes her way to the garden. She don't know 
 what she will find, she don't suppose she will find anything, 
 and sure enough she does not ; the cucumber-vines are yellow, 
 and seem to be dying ; there is not a cucumber to be found 
 larger than her little finger, and as for the tomatoes, they might 
 just as well never have been planted ; there are a few 
 onions run up to seed among the weeds ; the cabbages are not 
 heading at all, and she can't tell where the beet bed was made. 
 So, through nettles and burs she makes her way out again, 
 stopping for a moment at the currant-bushes, as a forlorn hope 
 she finds a few poor little berries, but if sho picks them now 
 there won't be any left, so she leaves them for a greater emer- 
 gency, and with an empty basin returns to the house. The 
 flies are buzzing thick along the ceiling, and one or two old 
 hens are picking the crumbs from off the floor they ought to 
 have plenty, but they have not there are not more than half 
 a dozen chickens in all, about the farm ; the hens don't do 
 well she dou't know why ; possibly there is some fruit in the
 
 296 MES. AVALDEX'S CO>TIDA>*T. 
 
 orchard larore enough to cook, but she don't know as she will 
 traipse there after it, if there is ; there is part of an old ham 
 left, she will cook some of that for dinner, and when that is 
 gone she don't know what they will do. She is mending the 
 fire when Timothy comes to the well for water, and seeing 
 pieces of the broken coffee-pot says : 
 
 " How did this happen, Sally ?" 
 
 " I let it fall," she answers, " and I don't care if I did." 
 
 " Why, Sally, what put you in such a humor ? I am sorry 
 the coffee-pot is broken, but I did not mean to blame you ;" and 
 he adds by way of lessening the disaster, " see here, I have 
 been doing mischief, too," and he exhibits a hole in his shirt 
 sleeve which he had caught in a brier and torn. 
 
 Sally does not speak, for she secretly believes that her hus- 
 band does blame her, perhaps from the fact that she is blaming him. 
 
 " I am afraid our Fourth of July friends will get wet," says 
 Timothy, looking up at the sky, and making a last effort to 
 elicit some notice from Sally before he goes back to the field. 
 
 But for the first time in her life she refuses to speak, and with 
 tears brimming up in her eyes, goes to the closet and takes from 
 the shelf a bundle of old patched and darned shirts, and sitting 
 down, adds patches to patches, and darns to darns there are a 
 dozen good new ones on the shelf, to be sure, but if they were 
 worn out they would not be new so with the tears falling fast, 
 she works on. There is rap on the open door, and looking 
 up she sees Mrs. Eliza Bates a neighbor whom she has known 
 well ever since her marriage, and before, in fact. Indeed, they 
 were quite confidants at one time. But their intimacy has not 
 been very great for a long time Mrs. Waldeu has never felt 
 that it was right to have any confidant but her husband and
 
 MRS. "WALDEX'S CONFIDANT. 297 
 
 it is the fault of Mrs. Bates that she is given to talking over 
 much, and Mrs. Walden knows it. She has had, too, great 
 worldly prosperity, and this has cooled the friendship formerly 
 existing between them, perhaps. But sympathy is sweet, and 
 when Mrs. Bates says in tones of real kindness, " Why, my dear 
 Sally, what can be the matter with you ?" at the same time 
 putting her arm kindly about her neck, she answered, crying 
 all the time, " I am glad you have come, Eliza, for I felt lone- 
 some and bad, sitting here alone." 
 
 " I knew I should find you, at home, and so while all our folks 
 were gone to the Fourth of July, I thought I would come and 
 see you, though you don't never come to see me." 
 
 "How good you are," replies Mrs. Walden. "I suppose 
 everybody knows they can find me at home of holidays, by this 
 time," and she hides her eyes in her apron. 
 
 Mrs. Bates holds her hand saying, " really, Sally, it's too 
 bad ;" after which she makes moan without the use of words, 
 for a few minutes. 
 
 " Don't, Sally, don't cry," she says, at length, " but tell me 
 all about it ; a body must have some confidant now, I tell my 
 daughter Kate all my troubles but some mothers don't say to 
 their children all they feel." And in thus drawing out her 
 friend, Mrs. Bates was actuated by the kindest feelings. 
 
 " I suppose we all have our troubles," sobbed Sally Walden, 
 for Mrs. Bates had spoken of hers, and therefore she could 
 admit her private griefs more freely, and Mrs. Bates rejoined 
 quickly, " to be sure, Sally, I know I have mine. Now, if you 
 had seen what a fuss there was at our house this morning about 
 going to the Fourth of July, you would think you were not the 
 only person in the world that need cry ; I got so worried out 
 13*
 
 298 MBS. WALDEN'S COXFIDAXT. 
 
 that I just gave up, and said I wouldn't go at all. I tell you, 
 Sally, my life is nearly tired out of me in one way and another. 
 Now Peter Bates is just the hardest man iti the world to get 
 along with, and if I did not manage and twist and economize 
 every way, I could not get along ; but I am determined that 
 my family shan't be a whit behind anybody else." And here 
 she went on to explain how she had taken her own dresses and 
 made them over for Kate ; how she had managed to make old 
 things about the house look almost as well as new, and when at 
 length she stopped to take breath, Mrs. Walden could not help 
 giving some of her own grievances utterance ; she did not want 
 to say anything against Timothy, she did not intend it, but 
 she did. " It's too bad," said Eliza Bates, " and though 
 Timothy Walden is as good a man as ever was, and I believe 
 means to do what is right, he don't do his part by you, and I 
 don't know as it's any more harm to say it than think it, and I 
 have thought it a good while, and I am not the only one. 
 Everybody knows," she continued, "that you never spend 
 money that you are always at home and always at work, and 
 can't help saying how does it happen that the house is never 
 finished, and that Matty is not dressed as fashionably as other 
 girls ? Somebody must be at fault, and every one knows it is 
 not you." 
 
 Now Mrs. Bates had thought many a time, and said it, too, 
 that Sally Walden was more to blame than her husband that 
 she seemed to have no ambition and no pride since her marriage, 
 but suffered all things to go at loose ends. But now that she 
 sat beside her, and saw her thin cheek and old faded dress, ami 
 saw, too, the bundle of coarse patched shirts she was mending, 
 her heart was softened towards her and hardened proportionably
 
 MKS. WALDEX'S COXFIDANT. 299 
 
 against her husband, and for the sake of being agreeable, and 
 as is human nature, under the circumstances, she could not 
 forbear speaking more than she really thought, or more than at 
 another time she would have thought. She even proposed, in 
 the heat of her zeal for her friend, "to give Timothy a talking 
 to." 
 
 Many things about her own private affairs she put into the 
 keeping of her friend, Sally Walden, such as that Peter Bates 
 did not always give her money for the asking that herself did 
 a good deal of the managing that he had credit for, and that her 
 daughter Kate would not now be, as she was, one of the very 
 leaders of society, but for her special exertion. And here she 
 whispered very confidentially that Dr. Meredith had been two 
 or three times to see Kate, and that she had reason to believe 
 it would be a match. When Mrs. Walden arose to make some 
 preparation about dinner, " Don't, dear Sally," said the con- 
 fidant, " I can eat anything that you can, so don't give yourself 
 any trouble." 
 
 " I could not give you anything if I were disposed," answered 
 Mrs. Walden ; " there is nothing but ham and potatoes about 
 the house." 
 
 " No matter, I had rather talk than eat," replied the confidant; 
 and to ham and potatoes the neighbors sat down. Matty came 
 from her spinning, and the boys from the field, but Mr. Walden 
 did not come in to eat, he could not take time, as he was work- 
 ing hard to get some grain in the barn before it should rain. 
 The neighbors had not noticed till then how cloudy it was, and 
 Mrs. Bates cut her visit short as soon as the meal was con- 
 cluded, assuring Sally, by way of parting consolation, that she 
 would come again soon, and that she would not fail to give
 
 300 MES. WALUKN-'S CO-XKIDAXT. 
 
 Timothy " a piece of her mind." Tears came to the eyes of 
 Mrs. Walden, for vexation with herself was straggling with 
 gratitude to her confidant, and the annoyance was not lessened, 
 when Mrs. Bates said, pointing to the worn-out shirts, "I'll 
 declare, I would not try to mend such things, you lose more 
 time than you gain, and if Timothy Walden would not buy 
 better shirts, he might go without any for all of me." 
 
 Mrs. Walden did not say, " Timothy has a dozen better 
 shirts," but she thought it, for her heart was beginning to tuvu 
 to its true allegiance. And the two boys returned back to the 
 field, and Matty to her spinning work, aud Mrs. Walden put 
 away the dinner things with a heavy heart, and sat down alone, 
 trying in vain to reconcile herself to herself she could not do 
 that, nor see a clear way before her ; a feeling of bitterness 
 and blindness, of inability and impossibility, kept her hands 
 idle and drew her face into a frown. She did not see as she 
 could do anything, and she did not know as she would if she 
 could. 
 
 As she sat so, she failed to see or hear the Hies that camo 
 humming thick and black along the ceiling, and the shadows 
 that deepened and deepened where the sunshine had been ; she 
 did not see the leaves turning their grey linings out, nor the 
 clouds of dust that blew up along the road ; the tempest in her 
 heart did not allow her to see the one along the sky. Suddenly 
 a bright flash opened, and at the same time blinded her eyes, 
 and the crash that came after it deafened her ears, and at the 
 same moment made them sensible of voices, reproachful voices, 
 that she had never heard so distinctly before. Quick she hurried 
 to the door, and strained her eyes towards the meadow, that was 
 divided from her now by the blackness of the storm ; a strong
 
 MRS. WALDEN'S CONFIDANT. 301 
 
 wind was bending the tops of the trees she could hear 
 branches breaking, and the frightened cattle lowing as they ran 
 hither and thither ; the rain dashed heavily on roof and grass 
 and dry dust ; and the eave-ducts ran over, and the wind as it 
 came, bent in the very walls of the house. Matty left her spin- 
 ning and clung to her mother as the lightning flashed again 
 and again, and the thunder rolled as though breaking its way 
 along the heavens. Awe-struck and trembling stood the 
 mother, her eyes still bent on the meadow. 
 
 " Oh, they are coming," cried Matty, " I am so glad ;" but 
 scarcely had she spoken the words when it was discovered that 
 the children came alone ; to the frantic inquiries, for they came 
 crying as they ran, they replied that a tree under which they 
 had taken shelter was struck, and that their father was killed. 
 
 "Heaven have mercy on us !" cried Mrs. \Valden, her face 
 growing white, and her limbs sinking beneath her, and her 
 daughter and sons answered by sobs and cries. 
 
 " What is the matter, my good friends ?" said a voice, kindly 
 and earnestly, and a young man, that Matilda recognized as 
 Dr. Meredith, stood in their midst. The awful calamity was 
 explained, and the young man hastened to call the assistance 
 of another neighbor, who was returning like himself from the 
 celebration, and with a brief word of comfort and hope hurried 
 to the field, accompanied by the oldest son. 
 
 Ages seemed to pass in the minutes till their return, and 
 when they came, the pain and weight of ages seemed to crush 
 down the hearts of the mother and her children. 
 
 Dead they were bearing him home dead J 
 
 " Let me die, too," exclaimed the almost distracted wife, 
 throwing herself on his bosom; but when the doctor said there
 
 302 MRS. WALDEX'S COXFIDAXT. 
 
 was yet hope he might be only stunned and senseless the 
 struggle between hope and despair became almost frenzy ! 
 never till now had she known how good Timothy was, and how 
 much she loved him. With almost superhuman faith and 
 energy the young doctor strove to subdue the last enemy, for 
 he was not yet quite triumphant. " Oh ! if he were only well 
 if he could only speak to me once more, and say I was forgiven," 
 cried the poor wife, as she rocked herself to and fro and moaned 
 for her own wicked accusations, as she now thought them, 
 almost as much as for the lost ; for there is no thought so bit- 
 ter as the memory of a wrong to the dead. In her heart she 
 accused herself of being his murderer ; it was as if heaven had 
 taken him away to show her how good he was. One who went 
 to see how the tree was divided by the lightning, returned 
 carrying a pitcher of blackberries, seeing which the youngest 
 boy began to cry all the more ; " he was picking them for you, 
 mother," he said, " it was the last thing he did." Mrs. Walclen 
 could not speak ; everything seemed to show her that herself 
 was more and more to blame. Suddenly there was a cry of 
 joy the dead man was alive ! No enemy, even death itself, 
 it seemed, could stand before the love that fought him back. 
 Words would fail to describe the joy of that household when 
 the husband and father was able to sit up and speak. 
 
 The storm swept by the breeze came fresh and cool from 
 the meadow the clouds broke to pieces and scattered from 
 the heavens, and the sun came out broad and bright for the 
 setting. Dr. Meredith's reputation was established, for all the 
 people said " If he can bring Timothy Walden to life, what is 
 there he can't do ?" and so came one and another for his medi- 
 -cal advice and assistance. Perhaps, the faith of his patients
 
 MRS. WALDEN'S COXFIDANT. 303 
 
 had something to do with it, but certain it is that great success 
 attended him. 
 
 As may be supposed, Mrs. Walden found it the easiest and 
 most natural thing in the world to say, " Dr. Meredith" in- 
 ^eed, she quite forgot whether the coat he used to wear was 
 black or brown, and as for the two shirts, she would not bo 
 positive but that he had had three ; and she was quite sure she 
 had seen him at work in his mother's garden a thousand times 
 when other boys were playing. There was new light come 
 into her world, and as the work and bustle of her life stood 
 still while she waited at Timothy's sick bed, she found time 
 to see how many blessings she had, and how many she had 
 neglected. 
 
 She made no complaint of the time she was losing on the 
 contrary, she had never talked so cheerfully and hopefully in 
 her life, and it was perhaps as much owing to her good nurs- 
 ing, as to Dr. Meredith, that Timothy was so soon able to be 
 about his work again. 
 
 " Now be careful, Timothy, and don't try to do much," said 
 Mrs. Walden, as after a fortnight's illness he went forth from 
 the house. He looked up in astonishment came back a step 
 or two asked her what she said perhaps for the pleasure of 
 hearing it over, and when in substance it was repeated, he said 
 he felt stronger and could walk better than he supposed he 
 could. So grateful and so loving was the look he bestowed on 
 her that Sally could not help saying, " Eliza Bates give him a 
 piece of her mind, indeed she had better attend her own 
 affairs, and I will tell her so if she comes here meddling." 
 And as she went from room to room to see what could be done 
 with their contents, she kept communing with herself something
 
 304 MKS. "VVALDEX'S COXFIDAXT. 
 
 in this wise. Here are rags enough to make a carpet, if they 
 were sewed, and here are heaps and heaps of bed clothing 
 enough to last all my life, and Matty, poor girl, has been spin- 
 ning all the summer to make more. I'll take the yarn I pro- 
 posed to have made into coverlids, and have it colored and^ 
 woven into carpets I will see if I can't have carpets as well as 
 Eliza Bates, and though we have not money to buy new furni- 
 ture just now, we can make what we have appear better. So 
 she worked on and on, and at the bottom of all her work was 
 the thought that she would show Mrs. Bates that she had the 
 best husband in the world. 
 
 Matty clapped her hands in glee when her mother told her 
 she had concluded to make carpets and not coverlids of the wool 
 she was spinning. " Oh, it will look so much better," she said, 
 " when anybody comes," but she thought when Dr. Meredith 
 comes. It was easy work spinning after that, and very soon 
 the wool was made into yarn, and sent away to be colored and 
 woven. Then the rags which had cumbered the house so long 
 were cut and sewed and sent to the weaver's. Barrels aud 
 boxes were removed to the barn, and some curtains for the win- 
 dows were made of chintz, and Matty aud her mother thought 
 they would look almost as well as bought curtains, when they 
 were washed and ironed smoothly. At any rate, they were 
 better than Mrs. Bates' both were sure of that. And all the 
 while the work was going forward, there was cheerfulness in 
 the house that had never been there before. 
 
 They had so much more time than formerly, they could not 
 understand how it was, for though they were getting so much 
 done they were not all the time working for now and then they 
 stopped to plan and sometimes to admire what was completed,
 
 HES. WALDEN'S CONFIDANT. 305 
 
 and yet they had never accomplished so much when they had 
 not taken time to speak in all the day. " If Mrs. Bates can 
 make dresses for Kate out of hers, perhaps I can make some 
 for you out of mine," said Mrs. Walden to Matty, one day, 
 "Jhere is my wedding dress, and my old black silk and my 
 white dress, and one or two ginghams and calicoes, I believe, 
 in the old chest up stairs, and I shall never wear them again." 
 The chest was accordingly opened and the dresses examined 
 the white one was bleached, and with the addition of a yard or 
 two of new cloth made Matty the prettiest dress she had ever 
 worn the silk, which had been an ample pattern in its time, 
 proved all sufficient ; the calicoes were made to assume new 
 fashions, and Matty was dressed like other girls. 
 
 " There, Sally, you have been doing so much lately you de- 
 serve some pay for it," said Timothy, as he threw a neat parcel 
 into the lap of his wife one evening. It was a new dress, the 
 first one she had had for a long time, and when she laid it in 
 the closet she stopped to wipe her eyes, and having done so, 
 she removed the old coarse shirts they were just fit to wash 
 windows with, she said, and she guessed her husband could 
 afford to wear as good a shirt as Mr. Bates. 
 
 " No, Sally," said Mr. Walden, " I must wear the old ones a 
 little while longer till we get the doctor's bill paid." And he 
 untied his purse and began counting the money he had already 
 saved for the purpose mentioned. 
 
 " If it were not for that debt," said Matty, archly, " we 
 might have got the house plastered, might we not, father ?" 
 She blushed and lowered her voice, for the doctor was already 
 at the door. 
 
 " We were just talking of you," said Mr. Walden, " aud
 
 306 MBS. WALDEX'S COXFIDAINT. 
 
 perhaps I may as well ask now as any time what am I to give 
 you for your services to me ?" 
 
 " Not a cent," said Dr. Meredith, " my little service was 
 nothing compared to the great service you have done me, for 
 it was through you that I obtained the confidence of all the 
 village people." 
 
 " What a nice man he is," whispered Mrs. Walden to her 
 husband, when the young people had walked apart ; and she 
 added, " if he is in love with Katy Bates I don't see what he 
 comes here for." 
 
 Mr. Walden smiled, and said he would see about the plaster- 
 ing the next day. 
 
 " Now, boys," he continued, " if you are a mind to help, I'll 
 pay you the same that I do my other hands." Of course they 
 were delighted, and when the house was plastered, half the 
 money had still been saved, for to give it to the children seem- 
 ed the same thing. 
 
 " Is it not beautiful !" exclaimed Matty, when the walls were 
 finished and the curtains hung up and the carpets laid down 
 " why I never saw such a change with so little money." 
 
 " I wonder if Mrs. Bates' house looks any better ?" replied 
 Mrs. Walden, as she walked from one room to the other, not 
 knowing which to admire most. 
 
 " Mother and Matty have made the house so nice," said the 
 boys, " we must see if we can't improve the yard a little." So 
 they trimmed np the rose-bushes and swept off the grass and 
 white-washed the fence, and the more they did the more they 
 found they were capable of doing, and that a little will was 
 better than a good deal of money. They even began to believe 
 they could, the next year, make as good a garden as anybody.
 
 MKS. WALDEX'S COXFIDAXT. 307 
 
 " To be sure you can," said their mother ; " but, somehow or 
 other we get along with the table much better than we used 
 to" 
 
 But the " somehow or other " was that she herself made the 
 most of what she had ; and when she had flour and lard, and 
 sugar and fruit, it was easy to make short-cakes and pies. She 
 had, too, butter and milk, and eggs not so many as she would 
 like another year she must try to raise more poultry she did 
 not complain, however the potatoes were excellent the apples 
 had never been finer, and she could exchange her extra butter 
 for such articles at the grocery as they had not at home ; and 
 she always finished her congratulations by saying, while they 
 were all alive and well they must not complain, for she never 
 forgot the terrible day that Timothy was brought home dead. 
 Neither could she quite forgive Mrs. Bates, she often said she 
 was sure she wished her well, and that she would not lo,y a 
 straw in her way. Three months were gone since Mrs. Bates 
 had made the proposal of giving Timothy a piece of her miud, 
 and still that malicious work had not been performed. 
 
 " Suppose we give her an opportunity by inviting her hereto 
 supper," said Mr. Walden. 
 
 Matty warmly seconded the plan, and a day was at once 
 fixed. Such a busy time there had never been seen at Mrs. 
 Walden's as the supper induced. The house was set in com- 
 plete order the nicest coverlids were spread on the beds, and 
 the frilled pillow-cases brought from the closets a half dozen 
 new chairs were bought the silver was polished, and the 
 china set in the nicest order. Mr. Walden was to wear his new 
 clothes, and Mrs. "Walden the new dress ; the boys were to 
 make special preparation, and Matty was to wear her white dresa.
 
 308 MES. WALDES'S COXFIDAXT. 
 
 Cakes were made, and custards, and a variety of delicacies 
 I need not enumerate prepared for Katy Bates and her mother, 
 in the most excellent style ; and as a crowning triumph, Dr. 
 Meredith was invited. 
 
 " It is all admirable," he said, when he was told why the 
 sapper was made, for since the Fourth of July he had been 
 very intimate at Mrs. Walden's, " but I have an amendment to 
 suggest, which is, that my mother and the parson shall be in- 
 vited." 
 
 I need scarcely say that Mrs. Bates, notwithstanding the 
 charming occasion offered her, never gave Timothy a piece of 
 her mind. Training day saw the completion of the third story 
 of the North American Hotel, and brighter even than the new 
 sign, shone, upon that occasion, the faces of Dr. Meredith and 
 his bride.
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 " OH, mother, mother ! father has sold old Brindle and her 
 calf, don't you think ! sold her for twenty -five dollars a good 
 deal of money, ain't it ? There she goes, now ; just look up 
 the lane and see her ; how she shakes her head and bawls. 
 She don't wish to go, but her calf runs like everything it 
 don't care look quick, Hannah ; look Nancy, or you won't 
 see her, she is just going out of sight, now ;" and little 
 Willie Davidson ran out of the house as he finished telling the 
 news, and climbed to the top of the gatepost for a last glimpse 
 of old Brindle. Nancy ran to the gate too, asking Willie if 
 he was quite sure of what he said, straining her eyes to catch 
 one more look of the cow she had milked so often, and that 
 seemed to her almost like a friend. She did not return to the 
 house at once, but fell to digging about some pink roots per- 
 haps to divert her thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Davidson stitched faster on the work she was sewing, 
 and the moisture gathered in her soft blue eyes as she did so, 
 for she was a kind-hearted w.oman, and could not have even a 
 dumb creature about her that she did not love. 
 
 "Oh, mother!" shouted Willie, "all the cows have seen 
 
 809
 
 310 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 that Brindle is going, and they are scampering across the field 
 towards her, as fast as they can ; Spot is tearing up the ground 
 with all her might. Do you suppose cows can feel bad, mother ? 
 If they can't, what makes them act so ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, my child, never mind," replied the 
 mother, her voice choked and her eyes running over by this 
 time. Hannah called Willie in presently, and asked him if he 
 was sure Brindle was sold, and if he really knew what money 
 she had brought ; and when he said that he saw the man 
 count twenty-five dollars into father's hand, she smiled and 
 burst into a merry song, as she skipped about the work, 
 for the sun was going down, and it was time for the evening 
 chores. 
 
 Nancy remained digging about the pink roots, and thinking 
 of Brindle a long time, and of the pretty little calf whose 
 silken ears she had held so softly in her hands, only that morn- 
 ing. The last sunshine faded from the brown gable of the old 
 homestead the chickens began to gather in quiet groups and 
 talk soberly of bedtime ; the turkeys to gobble their last 
 news ; and the geese to waddle slowly homeward, when she 
 looked down the lane the way Brindle was gone, knowing she 
 would not see her, but feeling impelled to look she knew not 
 why. The dust was all settled on the path she had gone, and 
 quiet stretched the long road as far as she could see quiet, 
 but not all deserted ; slowly and wearily as it seemed, she saw 
 coming in the distance a foot traveller, his coat swung over 
 one arm, and a bundle on his shoulder. How often we look 
 at our future fate, and suspect it not. Certainly Xancy 
 dreamed not that poor traveller was anything to her. 
 
 Tired, very tired, from his work in the field, and slow.
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 311 
 
 behind the plough which he held sideways, for he did not care to 
 turn a furrow now, came Mr. Davidson the chains of the har- 
 ness dragged heavily and rattled noisily as he came ; and the 
 old work-horses walked soberly enough, for they were tired 
 too. Perhaps the smoke going up from the homestead chim- 
 ney looked pleasant to the young man, and doubtless the smile 
 and salutation of the farmer were kindly as he overtook him 
 and slackened his pace, to make some inquiry about the near- 
 est inn, and the prospects of obtaining employment thereabouts. 
 
 " ^Vhat work can you do ?" asked Mr. Davidson, letting the 
 plough fall to the ground as he spoke. 
 
 The young man raised it up and held it steadily aslant as he 
 replied that he had been used to farm-work and could do any- 
 thing that a farmer would be likely to require. 
 
 " Come in," said Mr. Davidson, " and we will talk further 
 about the matter. 3 ' 
 
 Xaucy had seen him holding the plough for her father as they 
 came along, and she waited and gave him a sweet smile as he 
 entered the gate a smile that brought a deeper color to his 
 cheek than had ever been there before, for the youth was a 
 poor, hard-working youth, and not much used to woman's 
 smiles. Hannah gave him a careless nod, but did not break 
 off her song for his coming. She did not see the heightened 
 color of his cheek, nor the tenderness in his blue eyes. When 
 it was milking time, Timothy Linley, for that was the young 
 man's name, offered to do the milking. 
 
 " I will assist him," said Nancy, for she and Hannah were 
 used to doing all ; but Hannah made no such offer ; on the 
 contrary, she remained in the house teasing her mother for a 
 new gown and bonnet.
 
 312 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. Davidson sat on the cool stones at the 
 door, in the deep shadow of the twilight, she told him how 
 good the girls had been how they had stayed at home all sum- 
 mer, and spun and milked and churned and now it was coming 
 fall, and they deserved a little leisure and reward in short, 
 she wanted them to have some money, what he could spare, 
 and spend a week in town with their aunt Martha. Just as a 
 good husband and father would have done, Mr. Davidson 
 counted into his wife's hand half the price of the cow, saying 
 
 " Will that do ?" 
 
 " We must not both leave mother for a week," said Nancy ; 
 " you may go, Hannah, in my place, I shall be quite well satis- 
 fied with what you buy for me ; and as for visiting Aunt Mar- 
 tha, I will do that some other time." 
 
 Never once said Hannah, " we will both go and stay three 
 days that will make a nice little visit, and you must choose 
 your new dress yourself." 
 
 Timothy said Nancy must go he would help her mother 
 all he could he would churn and draw all the water, and make 
 the fires, and do many other chores ; but Nancy made excuses, 
 for she felt how ill she could be spared, and Hannah went 
 alone. 
 
 When the market-day came round, and Mr. Davidson went 
 to town with the expectation of bringing home Hannah, with 
 all the new things, mother and daughter were very busy bak- 
 ing in the brick oven was done, and the house all set in order 
 as for a stranger guest ; it was quite an event for Hannah to 
 come from town with so much to tell and so many new things. 
 Towards nightfall, when all eyes were straining down the road to 
 catch the first glimpse, the white faces of the horses were seen.
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 313 
 
 " There they come !" shouted Willie from the gate-post. 
 Nancy raised herself on tip-toe, while the good mother hastened 
 to lay the cloth but no, only the father was there. Great 
 anxiety prevailed, and the wagon seemed to be an hour coming 
 through the hollow and over the hill. Nancy ran to the gate 
 to learn what was the matter. 
 
 " Nothing, Nancy, nothing," said the old man, smiling ; but 
 it was a very sad smile, and he added, " Hannah has found 
 better friends than any of us, that is all." 
 
 Seeing how sad Nancy looked, Timothy managed to milk all 
 the cows except one it was not hard work at all, he said, he 
 always liked to milk ; and when the last chores were done, it 
 was not yet dark, and one of the mildest and sweetest of the 
 October days so mild and so sweet, that Timothy ventured to 
 say, blushing bashfully, and looking down, that a walk in the 
 orchard would be pleasant. So, taking a basket as an excuse, 
 Timothy and Nancy went to the orchard together. The knolls, 
 cushioned softly with grass, beneath the trees, invited to repose, 
 and the heavy and curtaining silence to confidence. Every 
 heart knows its own sorrows, and every heart desires that some 
 other heart shall know them, and as naturally as the leaves fell 
 in their lap, fell their words of gentle complaint and appeal for 
 sympathy not in vain. 
 
 A. few days after this, Hannah came home, riding in a fine 
 carriage, and with a fine gentleman beside her. She was a 
 girl of fresh impulsive feelings, of a showy style, and easily 
 charmed by flattery. And she had given and received admira- 
 tion, if not affection. 
 
 In her new bonnet, with its gay ribbons, and new dress, ruffled 
 and flounced, the plainer mother and sister hardly knew Hannah. 
 14
 
 314 THE COTTVTBY COUSIX. 
 
 I am sorry to say, that the disposition she had made of the 
 money was not a little selfish Nancy's dress and bonnet were 
 not only less gay, but evidently a good deal less expensive 
 than her own. 
 
 When the apples hang their red cheeks down another year, 
 and the mists were like dim shadows along the yellow leaves of 
 the woods, the old homestead had a quieter and soberer look 
 Nancy and Hannah were married. Timothy, a slender and 
 delicate youth, was the husband of one, and a healthy, hale 
 man, who counted his money by thousands the same who 
 brought Hannah home in the fine carriage was her husband 
 now. She was gone to live in a great city, to be surrounded by 
 fashion and friends, and wear fine morning dresses and even- 
 ing dresses, and forget her playmate and workmate, poor 
 Nancy. 
 
 November midnight lay black over the town, and black over 
 the country ; spires gleamed faintly through the rain ; roofs 
 stretched wide and wet over the sleeping and waking multitude, 
 and the street lamps, burning dimly, lighted only now and then 
 some home-going coach or solitary wanderer. The lamps in 
 the halls and at the doors of the great houses had been put 
 out, and only here and there, through windows closed against 
 the rain, shone a little light. Some exceptions there were, it is 
 true ; mirth will not always let the November rain put out its 
 fires, and melancholy will have its lights and watchers, too 
 life will come to life in its time, and death will claim its own at 
 midnight, as well as at noon. So, here and there, in the rainy 
 darkness, stood some, lighted from basement to chamber, 
 but only with one have we to do. The lamps at the door 
 blaze over the broad steps, and the glittering chandelier in the
 
 THE COUXTEY COUSIN. 315 
 
 hall shines up the broad and elegantly-furnished staircase. 
 Coaches wait at the door, and the silver mounting of the har- 
 ness is gemmed with rain there is no noise of music or dancing 
 within ; and yet, from the quick-moving steps and variously 
 flashing lights, the occasion seems to be mirthful. Let us go in 
 and see. In the drawing-room the lights are not brilliant, but 
 the table in the refectory is spread as for a holiday, and we 
 hear voices, suppressed, but joyful. Ah, here in the softened 
 light of these rich and carefully drawn curtains, we learn the 
 secret a child is born to wealth and honor, and friends are 
 come through the November rain to rejoice with the mother, 
 and to kiss the bright-eyed little one, who as yet knows nothing 
 of the quality of the new world into which it has come. 
 
 We will leave them now, for their lives have been " a cake 
 unturned," and have hardened in the perpetual sunshine of 
 prosperity. 
 
 The rainy clouds of that midnight stretched far beyond the 
 roofs of the city, over cultivated fields and dreary reaches of 
 woods ; over warm sheltered homesteads ; great farms, where 
 the housed cattle listened to the rain on the roof ; along the 
 grass-grown and obscure road, where the mover had drawn up 
 his wagon beneath the sheltering beech tree, and wakeful, 
 watched his log fire struggling with the storm ; and over the 
 settler's cabin and clearing and this last chiefly interests us 
 now. Scarcely at all shines the light from the small window 
 against the great background of wet, black woods ; and the 
 rain soaks noiselessly in the mellow ground of the small patch 
 of clearing where the house stands if house, so small and rude 
 a habitation may be called. But its heavy beating is heard 
 distinctly by the anxious watchers by the bedside for between
 
 316 THE COUNTRY COUSLN*. 
 
 them and the clapboards of the roof there is no floor nor ceil- 
 ing. In the rough stone fireplace some oak wood is burning, 
 and two tallow candles on the mantel-shelf make, the light, 
 which is shaded from the bed by a temporary screen. Xo 
 splended draperies soften the light to the eyes, that for the first 
 time have opened upon the pain and sorrow of the world. The 
 country doctor sits dreamily by the fire, hearing imperfectly 
 the neighing of his rain-beaten horse, at the door ; the mur- 
 mured voices of the women, and the moans of the mother, who 
 has come to a deeper than midnight darkness, and must enter 
 it alone. 
 
 The crying of the little daughter beside her makes to her un- 
 derstanding no woeful picture of orphan struggles and sorrows 
 she hears it not ; let us hope she hears the welcoming songs 
 of the angels. 
 
 Gloomily and wet came the day, and the kind-hearted women 
 trod softly about the bed not that there was any fear of 
 waking the sleeper if the crying of her baby disturbed her 
 not, how should the treading of their footsteps ? Yet her smile 
 was so like life, they could not but tread softly as they came 
 near her the hair was so bright and sunny, you could not 
 believe the cheek beneath it was so hard and cold the feet 
 had been so quick to do good, it was hard to believe they were 
 straightened for the last time ; the eyes had but yesterday 
 shone with such tenderness and love for every living thing 
 how, oh, how could they be darkened forever ? So the women 
 trod softly and folded the sheet softly down about the bosom 
 that, beyond all other chilling, Death had chilled. 
 
 The brightest of the sun's light stayed behind the clouds, and 
 the rain fell and fell most dismally over the two men who had
 
 THE COUXTKT COUSIX. 317 
 
 left all more cheerful work for the digging of a grave the red 
 brier-leaves clung about the mound, by the side of which they 
 were digging it had not been there long, for no grass was 
 grown on it as yet, and not a bit of moss dimmed the lettering of 
 the head-stone " Timothy Lindley, aged twenty-five years," is 
 all that is graven there what need of more all his goodness 
 was known to the soul that has gone to meet him ; for it is the 
 grave of poor Nancy the two men are making. No spot could 
 be more gloomy than that where she was laid, a new and sel- 
 dom-travelled road on the one side, and a thick wood standing 
 in everlasting shadow on the other. 
 
 When the baby was a week old, a man and woman, a plain- 
 looking and tearful pair, journeyed that way, and took her with 
 them. Many times they kissed her, naming her Orpha, and in 
 the old house where her mother had lived she grew to woman- 
 hood, a great comfort to them her grand-parents almost all 
 the comfort they had, in fact, for Willie had gone oat into the 
 world, and quite no, not quite but nearly forgotten he was 
 ever a boy, and sat on the gate-post, with tears in his eyes, 
 looking after old Brindle. He was a man, with all a man's 
 aims and ambitions, and though he still loved and reverenced 
 his parents the love was no longer primary, and sometimes 
 for months and months no letter came to inquire of their wel- 
 fare, or say what were his own hopes and fears. And Hannah 
 was living, and prosperous and happy, and yet so different was 
 her life from theirs and so far had she grown away from them, 
 that they thought almost as sadly of her as Nancy. 
 
 Her fine house was only a day's journey from the old home- 
 stead, and yet for seven years she had not made it a visit, so 
 absorbed with travels otherwhere, and with the thick-crowding
 
 318 THE COUNTRY COUSIX. 
 
 gaieties of her life, had she been. A sense, if not the feeling 
 of filial affection, was not quite lost to her, however, and 
 prompted, mostly by duty, she one day wrote a letter to the 
 old folks, and with a tact which, in their simplicity, they inter- 
 preted as the spontaneous opening of her heart, spoke of the 
 old life at the homestead, in terms of tender endearment, 
 almost of regret she began with " my much loved parents," 
 and closed with "your ever dutiful and affectionate child." 
 She was careful to make no account of her present mode of 
 living, further than to say they had been blessed and pros- 
 pered abundantly, and lived very comfortably, thank Provi- 
 dence. She did not say so in so many words, but the general 
 tone of her letter implied that we were all poor suffering sin- 
 ners together, travelling to the same goal, but not by precisely 
 the same road. Her oldest daughter, Anna, who it was pre- 
 tended was named for herself, was shortly to be married, she 
 intimated, very advantageously, into one of the oldest and 
 most respectable families in the country. She really wished 
 she could see the dear faces of her good old father and mother 
 again, but really her motherly duties were so stringent that she 
 found herself still obliged to hold the pleasure in reserve. 
 Upon what little chances fate seems to turn when that letter 
 was sealed and superscribed, Hannah threw it down with a 
 yawn, mingled with a sigh of satisfaction, saying to herself, 
 " Thank my stars, the dreaded task is done for another 
 jear 1" 
 
 Could that good old father and mother have heard that 
 exclamation, their cheeks would cot have flushed with the 
 happy glow of much younger men and women, as they did 
 when sweet-voiced Orpha stood up before the candle, between
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 319 
 
 the blessing and the meat of the supper-table, and read that 
 letter aloud. Orpha had been to school a good deal more 
 than they, and could read writing as well as print. 
 
 " Oh, isn't it strange," she exclaimed, when she had finished 
 the reading, " that cousin Anna is to be married ? Why, she 
 is only just as old as I am ;" and like the child she was, she 
 wondered whether Anna could make bread and pies, and was 
 thoroughly accomplished in the beautiful art of house-keep- 
 ing. Aunt Hannah did not say, but' she supposed that was to 
 be taken for granted, for Anna was an accomplished singer, 
 embroidered well, and could ride on horseback, and play chess 
 admirably all this Orpha knew, and of course the more neces- 
 sary instruction of sewing and cooking had been given first. 
 Her little head was quite turned with wonder as to what Anna 
 would wear when she was married, and in what sort of fashion 
 the dress would be made. She supposed her uncle could afford 
 to give her a hundred dollars, if she wanted it, to buy wedding 
 clothes with ; but for her part, she could not well see how so 
 much could be spent. Once, when her grandfather had given 
 her twenty-five dollars, she went to the near village and bought 
 everything she needed, and carried fifteen dollars home with 
 her. 
 
 For a few moments she sat quietly, seeing the serious hap- 
 piness in the faces of her grandparents, and then bursting into 
 a merry laugh at the idea, she said 
 
 " Wouldn't it be a pleasant surprise to Aunt Hannah, and all 
 of them, to see me coming into their house some night, when 
 they had not been told anything about it, and you grandfather, 
 and you too grandmother. Oh, wouldn't it be delightful ?" 
 
 And as she clapped her little brown hands in glee, her grand-
 
 320 THE COU>TET COUSIN. 
 
 parents could not tell whether it were she or the candle that 
 made the room so light. 
 
 " I suppose likely Anna will go away off somewhere," said 
 Mrs. Davidson, " and we shall never have another chance of 
 seeing them altogether." 
 
 She safld no more there was no need that she should say 
 more ; and after a thoughtful silence, the good-hearted hus- 
 band and grandfather said 
 
 " If there should come a good snow, now seems to me the 
 air feels like it." 
 
 " Well, grandfather, suppose there should, what of it say, 
 grandfather ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing, pet," replied the old man, trying to look 
 serious "it would be nice sleighriding, that's all." 
 
 Orpha pouted a very little, and broke the piece of bread she 
 held in her hand into small crumbs on her plate, till catching 
 the reassuring glance of her grandmother, her pretty cheeks 
 dimpled and blushed for shame for well enough she knew 
 what her grandfather was thinking about. A good girl was 
 Orpha, petted a great deal, and spoiled a little, of course, but 
 with a heart of unsuspecting innocence, and soft and warm as 
 the sunshine. As she lay in bed two hours later, in her cham- 
 ber next the roof, she held her eyes fast shut with her fingers, 
 but in vain they would not be sleepy. She kept saying to 
 herself she did not see what was the reason, for useless as the 
 effort is, we are always trying, all of us, to deceive ourselves ; 
 and though Orpha held her eyes so close, her ears were sensi- 
 tive to every sound. She heard her grandparents talking by 
 the fire below stairs, and thought it not improbable they were 
 planning a visit to Aunt Hannah's. Ho\v she wanted to know
 
 TUB COUXTKY COUSIN. 321 
 
 what they said ; to be sure, grandmother would tell her in the 
 morning but what of that, it was twenty years till morning. 
 Presently, she became almost sure she heard the snow sifting 
 against the windows in the wind. She raised her head on her 
 hand, and looked out, and though she was almost sure it was 
 snowing fast, she could not rest, and in another moment was 
 pattering across the floor in her bare feet never had snow 
 heartier greeting, than when, its white flakes fell in her hand. 
 No little bird under its mother's wing ever felt more comforta- 
 ble and happy than she that night in her own warm bed. Not 
 selfishly happy but how could she help being glad, when her 
 grandparents and she were going to give Aunt Hannah and 
 the young ladies such a surprise of pleasure. To be sure, she 
 wanted to see Anna's wedding dresses and all her fine things, 
 and felt a little curiosity to know what manner of husband she 
 had chosen whether his eyes were blue or black ; if he wore 
 his beard, and if he were worthy ; but surely he was, for her 
 Cousin Anna would never marry a man who was not both very 
 wise and very good. 
 
 The voices of the old folks by the fire had been still a good 
 while, and in the distance she heard the roosters crow for mid- 
 night, as she glided from dreams to dreams, the sleeping less 
 delusive than the waking ones. 
 
 It was well for Orpha that she did not hear what the old 
 folks said, as laying the embers together, they trimmed the can- 
 dle, and spelled through Hannah's carelessly written letter 
 it was well she did not see the tears that wet it as they 
 reproached themselves for their long neglect of their darling 
 child they had sent her presents of apples and potatoes and 
 flour every year, but they had never once gone to her house : 
 14*
 
 322 THE COUXTBT COUSIN. 
 
 fifty miles seemed a great journey, and so the faces of their 
 grandchildren were strange to them. They had thought (they 
 were sorry for it now) that Hannah would not care about seeing 
 her old-fashioned father and mother in her stylish house in 
 town. They never once saw, as they spelled through the let- 
 ter, that she did not say, " come to me," after the " I cannot 
 go to you ;" nor did they notice that Orpha's name was not 
 once in the letter. Hannah could not help wishing to see 
 Orpha, and loving her when she knew how pretty and how 
 good she was ; they knew that ; and to the dear child it would 
 be like a journey to paradise that they might well be assured 
 of so they said, as they folded the letter carefully and laid it 
 next to the picture of little Samuel, between the leaves of the 
 big Bible. 
 
 " We are growing old now, and if we ever go to see Han- 
 nah, there will not come a better time it will be a tiresome 
 day's ride ; but for Orpha's sake we must make ourselves 
 strong enough to endure the fatigue." 
 
 It was well Orpha did not see their tears, and learn that it 
 was more for her sake than theirs the visit was planned. 
 
 How sleepy she was in the morning, when her grandmother 
 said, " Come, Orpha !" It seemed as if she had but just come 
 to bed ; she could hardly open her eyes, and the " Yes, grand- 
 mother," was a good deal fainter than common ; but when 
 "Come, Orpha," was repeated, with the added words, "it's 
 time to get up, pet, if you want to go to Aunt Hannah's with 
 your grandfather and me," she was wide awake, and sitting 
 straight up in bed in a moment. She saw the snow piled 
 against the window, white and high the candle in her grand- 
 mother's hand, for it was not daylight yet, and her own fresh
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 323 
 
 and smoothly-ironed clothes over her arm. " Ob, grand- 
 mother !" that was all she could say for the happy, happy 
 tears. 
 
 Eedder than a clover field in June was all the east, when 
 having carefully secured the doors, and sprinkled the hickory 
 sticks in the fire-place with water, they set out, breaking and 
 ploughing their way through the deep snow, in the old wood- 
 sled. Nobody would notice that it was not the best sleigh in 
 the world, Orpha thought, for grandfather had tied the newly 
 painted wagon body on the sled, and that was filled with straw, 
 and overspread with the nicest coverlet of all the house. 
 
 What a pretty pink the clouds made on the snow she was 
 never weary of looking at it, and how strangely the cattle 
 looked in pastures of snow, and the haystacks, crusted like 
 pound-cakes. Grandfather's horses would be the admiration 
 of all the city, she was sure, so gay and fine they looked, their 
 manes loose in the wind, and their ears trembling with the 
 exhilaration of the snow-drive. 
 
 For the seven first miles the scene was quite familiar she 
 had twice been that distance on the road once with her 
 grandfather to mill, and once to a funeral, but the strange 
 country into which they went, after crossing the creek where 
 the mill was, afforded new and surprising interest. The sleigh- 
 ride, in itself, was a perfect delight ; to watch the snow drop- 
 ping from the bent boughs, the birds dipping into it with such 
 merry twitters, and to lean down over the sled-side and plough 
 a tiny furrow with her hand, were a great joy, without the 
 crowning lact that it was to end in the evening by arrival at 
 Annt Hannah's. 
 
 Now she came forward to the front of the sled and held
 
 324 THE COUNTRY COUSIX. 
 
 grandmother's hands in hers, wondering why they were so cold ; 
 now she turned up the collar of grandfather's overcoat, brush- 
 ing back the grey hair that the wind blew about his eyes ; and 
 now, wrapping his hands in her woolen shawl, and taking the 
 reins for a little while, she could drive as well he, she said ; 
 upon which he smiled, patting her cheek, but not telling her 
 that the' horses were so well trained, and so sobered now with 
 the distance already travelled, that they would go straight along 
 without any guiding at all. Now they went through a wide 
 brawling creek where the water ran fast through brown sand- 
 stones and cakes of broken ice, and Orpha trembled a little as 
 grandfather walked out on the tongue of the sled and loosened 
 the bridle reins so that the horses could drink. Cold as it was, 
 their sides were all wet, and they breathed very hard and fast 
 between the drinking. At length, grandfather pulled off his 
 blue mitten, and pulled out his big silver watch and said it was 
 two o'clock, and a little while after that, where a painted sifm 
 erected at the forks of the road, and a curious old house, having 
 no fence in front of it, stood, they stopped to procure an hour's 
 rest, and some refreshments for themselves and their horses. 
 There was a great fire in the big room into which they were 
 shown, before which sat half a dozen travellers, eating apples 
 and cakes, and drinking cider and whisky ; across the middle 
 of the floor a long table was spread, and, at one end of it, there 
 sat a young man, sipping tea and writing, alternately. He 
 looked up from the sheet before him, on the entrance of our 
 party, and having made a friendly salutation, such as country 
 folks, though strangers, are in the habit of giving one another, 
 resumed his pen and was presently quite absorbed ; his heavy 
 black hair fell over and partly concealed a smooth fair fore-
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIX. 325 
 
 head, as he wrote, and a smile of extreme sweetness played 
 round the mouth, betraying no irresolution, but seeming rather 
 the outward shining of firm and good principles. The health- 
 ful glow of his cheek was in fine contrast with the blackness of 
 his full curling beard, and the pearly teeth, sound and even, 
 with the ripe redness of the lips. 
 
 Orpha thought she had never seen so handsome a man in her 
 life, and in verity, she never had seen beauty cultivated and 
 matured under the refining influences of intellect and art. She 
 could not tell why, but there was an indefinable air of superi- 
 ority about him, that made even the schoolmaster and the Til- 
 lage clergyman seem commonplace in comparison with him. 
 When her thoughts reverted to her Cousin Annie, she could not 
 imagine how she could have fallen in love with any one, not 
 having seen the young traveller. But how much did his beauty 
 increase in her eyes, when, looking up as he folded his letter, 
 he made haste to offer her grandfather (who was sitting on a 
 hard bench) the leather-cushioned chair in which himself had 
 been sitting, and with a gesture and a word, not rude, bat 
 authoritative, caused the men at the fire to dispose them- 
 selves in half the room they had previously occupied, so 
 giving her grandmother and herself a warmer feeling of 
 the fire from which, till then, they had almost been shut 
 out. 
 
 " How far is it to the town of ," said the old man to 
 
 the landlord, as he entered with hot doughnuts and a fresh pot 
 of cider ; but the question was too modestly low for that blus- 
 tering personage to hear. 
 
 " It is twenty-two miles, sir," replied the young man, who 
 had heard the question.
 
 326 THE COU2STEY COUSIN. 
 
 "Are yon much acquainted there?" Mr. Davidson ventured 
 timidly to inquire. 
 
 The young man answered that he knew the city pretty thor- 
 oughly, and had indeed a large personal acquaintance with the 
 inhabitants. 
 
 " Then, perhaps, you know or have heard of my son, Joseph 
 C. Pettibone," suggested the old man, his face aglow with ani- 
 mation. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir no one in the whole city better an admirable 
 family." 
 
 " Why, isn't it strange I" exclaimed the father, turning to his 
 wife. " This young man here knows Mr. Pettibone. I am 
 glad I have met you," he continued, offering his hand to the 
 stranger, and he went on ingenuously " we are on our way to 
 Mr. Pettibone's house my wife here, and this little girl we 
 haven't seen any of them these twenty years, nor they us. 
 Indeed, Orpha, our little grand-daughter, has never seen her 
 Aunt Hannah Pettibone at all, and you may be sure she is 
 happy enough, having a sleighride and a chance to see the 
 town and her aunt and cousins ;" and tenderly he patted the 
 cheek of Orpha, already blushing painfully with the attention 
 called to her. " And so you know Mr. Pettibone, and Hannah 
 and all of them " a new thought seemed to strike the old gen- 
 tleman and he continued, " maybe you know a young man 
 of the name of Hammond, who is shortly, Hannah writes me, 
 to be married to her daughter, Annie." 
 
 There was a confused heightening of color in the cheek of 
 the handsome stranger, and he bit his lip, to which, however, 
 the accustomed smile came back with unwonted brightness as 
 he replied, that he had some acquaintance with the young man
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 327 
 
 and was just returning from a visit to his father's family, but 
 that he was quite ignorant of the proposed marriage. 
 
 " A family of position and influence, I suppose, from what 
 Hannah says," mused the grandfather aloud ; " she seemed to 
 think it would be a fine match for her girl what do you 
 think ? Was the young man at home when you were at his 
 father's ?" 
 
 " Why, yes," replied the stranger, " he was there, but in 
 fact I did not converse with him much." 
 
 " Well, do you think Annie is going to do pretty well ?" con- 
 tinued the grandfather, perseveringly : " great fathers don't 
 always have great sons, nor even good ones." 
 
 The young man replied that he hardly knew what to think, 
 and hastened to interrupt the conversation by inquiring of the 
 landlord what time the coach would arrive. 
 
 That personage raised himself on tip-toe, and looking from 
 the window, said the coach was just coming in sight ; and tak- 
 ing out his watch, he continued in a tone that indicated espe- 
 cial felicity 
 
 " She is making good time to-day that coach is ; but, young 
 man, your chance of getting aboard is slim, mighty slim, sir 
 black as she can be with passengers on the outside," and this 
 additional fact evidently gave him increased happiness. 
 
 " I have provided against that," said the young man (a 
 shadow crossing his face as he spoke), " in part, at least ;" and 
 giving a letter into the landlord's hand, he begged that he 
 would see it forwarded. 
 
 " You were designing to reach the city to-night ?" said Mr. 
 Davidson, again addressing the young traveller. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " Mrs. Pettibone bas a kind of birthnight
 
 328 THE COUXTJKY COUSIN. 
 
 merry-making at her house to-night, and I had promised myself 
 the pleasure of being with them ;" and he went on to say his 
 horse had fallen lame that day, and he had proposed leaving him 
 in the landlord's care, and going forward in the coach. 
 
 " You are very welcome, sir, to a seat with us," said the 
 grandfather, cordially ; and surveying the fashionable exterior 
 of the young man he added : " we have only a sled ; but our 
 horses are in good order, and we move pretty fast and very 
 comfortably." 
 
 Half an hour after this, the horses having been regaled with 
 oats and an hour's rest, our party, with the accession of the 
 young man, were gliding briskly through the snow. 
 
 The variedly amusing talk of the young man kept the old 
 people from feeling the cold as they did in the morning ; and 
 then he was so kind, taking his fine comforter from his neck 
 and wrapping it about that of the old farmer, and quite forcing 
 Mrs. Davidson to wear his plaided shawl, and taking the reins 
 for an hour when the hands of the old man became numb. 
 
 Not one word spoke Orpha, but such smiles dimpled the 
 cheeks that were nestled among brown curls and almost hid in 
 her deep hood, with every attention bestowed on her grand- 
 parents, that no words were needed to assure the young man 
 of her goodness of heart. The old folks grew tired after a 
 while, and sat silent, wishing the journey at an end, and the 
 stranger singing it may have been to himself, it may have 
 been to Orpha 
 
 " It may be for years, and it may be forever, 
 Then why art thou silent, thou bride of my heart." 
 
 They moved on and on, and at last to its lullaby sound, OrpLa 
 nestled down in the coverlet and fell asleep.
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 329 
 
 When she awoke it was night, and the sled standing still 
 before the finest house she had ever seen all brilliant with 
 lights and musical with voices. Lamps were shining down the 
 street,* carriages and beautiful sleighs moving to and fro, and 
 houses and people as far as she could see. 
 
 "Well, petty, we have got there," said the grandfather ; and 
 taking the handkerchief from her face, she sat up ; and, in her 
 bewilderment, said almost sadly : 
 
 " I am sorry, I wish it was further." 
 
 " So do I," said the young stranger, " from my heart ;" and 
 he almost lifted Orpha out of the sled. 
 
 " I wonder whether Mr. Pettibone has any stable ?" asked 
 Mr. Davidson of the young man ; adding, as he patted the 
 neck of his horses caressingly " poor fellows, you are tired, 
 aint you ?" 
 
 " I know where he keeps his horses," replied the young man ; 
 " go right in, and I will attend to them, if you will trust me," 
 and he ran up the steps and gave the bell a vigorous pull. 
 
 " See they don't drink while they are so warm, if you 
 please," said the careful farmer, availing himself of the young 
 man's kindness ; " and that they have plenty of meal and oats, 
 and I will see you by and by here, at my son's house, and 
 thank you." 
 
 " I guess we have got to the wrong place, like enough," he 
 said, looking inquiringly at his wife, as he saw the grin 
 in the face of the negro who opened the door, and the 
 number of black men and women moving through the great 
 hall 
 
 "Does Mr. Pettibone live here ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Yes, sah."
 
 330 TIIE COUXTBT COUSIN. 
 
 "Joseph C. Pettibone?" repeated the old man, still in 
 doubt. 
 
 " Yes, sah ; who shall I announce ?" 
 
 " Why I will announce myself," said Mr. Davidson, indig- 
 nantly ; " Mrs. Pettibone is my daughter. "Will we find her in 
 here where the frolic seems to be ?" And with his good-wife 
 beside him, he made his way to the open door of the brilliant 
 drawing-room, poor Orpha, trembling like a frightened bird, 
 nestling close to her grandmother's skirts. 
 
 A stylish and richly dressed woman advanced as their 
 shadows crossed the threshold, and started, retreating slightly, 
 and a kind of blank surprise taking the place of the welcom- 
 ing smile she had assumed, when she saw the persons who 
 came behind the shadows. 
 
 The mother's heart, rather than her eyes, told her that 
 was Hannah, and with the sobbing cry of " my daughter 1" 
 she would have taken her in her arms ; but the white-gloved 
 hand of the lady motioned her back the lights dazzled, and 
 the wonderstruck faces repelled her ; staggering, rather than 
 walking, she retreated. 
 
 " Hannah, Hannah," said the old man, giving one reproach- 
 ful look, and with his head dropping on his bosom, and the 
 tears making everything dim in spite of the much light, he 
 retraced solemnly and slowly the way he had come. 
 
 At the door they were overtaken by Mr. Pettibone, whose 
 strong common sense had been outraged by his wife's recep- 
 tion of her parents, though perhaps his feelings had little to 
 do with his manner, which was cordial enough. 
 
 He reminded them how long it was since they had met, 
 adding that a child might be forgiven for forgetting even her
 
 THE COIjpTRY COUSIN. 331 
 
 mother, in the course of twenty years. Hannah would be as 
 rejoiced as himself when she knew it was her own father and 
 mother were come. All they could do, however, the old folks 
 could not feel what the man's words implied. " And this little 
 body," he said, shaking the trembling hand of Orpha, " who is 
 Bhe ?" 
 
 " Nancy's child, to be sure," answered the old man. 
 
 '' Nancy, Nancy ; who is she ? Oh, I remember now, the 
 one who went to the new country," for Mr. Pettibone felt it 
 incumbent on him to remember something, and believing he 
 had struck the right vein, continued : " I was under the 
 impression that Nancy's children were all boys. Well, how 
 does she like the new country ?" 
 
 " We don't know," the father said, wiping his eyes ; " poor 
 Nancy has gone to the country from whence no traveller re- 
 turns." 
 
 Half believing and half disbelieving that Hannah had in 
 truth failed to recognize them, the old folks suffered themselves 
 to be conducted to one of the chambers, furnished so luxu- 
 riously and warmed and lighted so comfortably, that if any- 
 thing could have made them forget the chilly air which rustled 
 out of Hannah's brocade, they would have forgotten it. 
 
 In the second meeting with her parents, she hid her face for 
 a moment in her lace handkerchief, but the tears, if she shed 
 them, left her eyes dry ; and though she said she was never 
 so happy, she looked distressed and mortified, and seemed not 
 to know what to do or say. 
 
 Her children were brought and introduced to their dear grand- 
 papa and grandmamma, and to pretty cousin Orpha, and hav- 
 ing kissed the eheeks of the old folks, retired very properly
 
 332 T 
 
 gay butterflies that they were. Orpha, in her close-fitting 
 woollen frock, feared they would catch cold with bare neck and 
 arms, but she dare not say so ; as with admiring eyes 
 (for they looked very pretty) she watched them leaving the 
 room. 
 
 Annie, a tall, slender girl, with a colorless and expressionless 
 face, and thin, flaxen hair, insisted that Orpha should wear 
 one of her dresses and accept the services of her maid she 
 could easily be dressed before midnight, and that was quite 
 early enough. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone could not leave her guests Mr. Hammond 
 would of course be greatly annoyed by Annie's absence, her 
 dear parents must excuse them they would hasten to join 
 them the earliest moment at which they were at liberty. Some 
 wine, sweetmeats and cake were sent up, very unlike the sub- 
 stantial supper they had hoped to take with their dear children 
 and children's children. 
 
 Orpha was not hungry, she said ; but climbing to her grand- 
 father's knee, smoothed his long, silver hair, and nestling her 
 cheek against his home-made coat, than which she had 
 thought, till that night, nothing could be finer, she fell asleep, 
 thinking in her heart she did not care what anybody said, her 
 grandfather was just as good as any one. And she was right 
 good little Orpha. 
 
 Having seen the sled and horses of his new friend properly 
 cared for, our young traveller made haste to present himself at 
 Mr. Pettibone's, wondering how those dimpled cheeks would 
 look outside the muffling hood. 
 
 To his surprise, he neither saw nor heard anything of the 
 country people he feared it was all a dream, and seating him-
 
 THE coujppiY cousry. 333 
 
 self apart in the shadow of a curtain, recalled minutely all the 
 circumstances of the afternoon. Surely he was not mistaken ; 
 we come so much nearer guileless natures, the impression they 
 leave upon us is deeper than all the artificial devices in the 
 world are able to leave. He could almost hear the voice of the 
 grandfather and see his benignant smile, and no matter at what 
 beauty he looked, his eyes could not see it for the dimples of 
 Orpha. He was not long left to his quiet meditations Mrs. 
 Pettibone soon joined, and having rallied him on the sentimen- 
 tal seriousness of his mood, protested that it quite baffled her 
 powers to dissipate ; and, having deputed her daughter, Anna, 
 whose skill she hoped would be more effective, she playfully, 
 let us hope not designedly, retired. 
 
 To any one except the young lady addressed, Mr. Hammond 
 would have been delightfully entertaining ; but to her he was 
 particularly unsatisfactory he said not, in short, what she had 
 expected him to say. 
 
 When Orpha awoke in the morning and looked about the 
 fine chamber, she could not at first tell where she was, and 
 with memory came a strange, sad, home-sick feeling that she 
 had never in her life known till then. When she was dressed 
 in her brown flannel frock, she looked at herself in the great 
 looking-glass, before her, with painful dissatisfaction. After- 
 wards she seated herself at the window and looked into the cold, 
 dreary street. Few persons were stirring yet, for it was early ; 
 the snow was driving before the wind in dismal gusts all 
 looked strange and dreary, dreary ; despite all she could do, 
 the tears kept dropping and dropping on her little brown hands ; 
 folded together in her lap. When the first sunshine touched 
 the window, she held up her handkerchief to dry the tears in
 
 334 THE COU:N~TBY COUSIN. 
 
 its light. Why did she blush and smile and tremble all at once ? 
 it is not her own name wrought with black silk thread that 
 she sees Richard Hammond is written there in clear black 
 characters. How came she by it ? Ah, she remembers now that 
 when she awoke from sleep in the sled last night, she found her 
 face covered with a handkerchief could this have been the one? 
 
 Richard Hammond rose early too it was not his habit, but 
 that morning he could not sleep of course he could not 
 imagine why, and the thought came to him that a little exer- 
 cise before breakfast might be beneficial, and with no defined 
 plan or motive, he bent his steps in the direction of Mr. Petti- 
 bone's house ; he saw those tearful eyes at the window, and 
 intuition told him why they had grown so dim since yesterday, 
 and his heart knocked tumultuously to get out of his bosom 
 and go up to that window and comfort her. 
 
 Two hours later, he was ringing the bell, and inquiring for 
 Mr. Davidson. It was his duty to tell the old gentleman how 
 well his horses were doing and where they were. 
 
 " I am glad you have come," said the old man, " our folks 
 think they have been in town long enough ;" but the light 
 which beamed in his face said very plainly how pleased he, too, 
 was with the prospect of going home. 
 
 " Not to-day, surely," said the young man ; but the farmer 
 thought he would get up the horses, drive about a little and 
 show his folks the town, and then start home they would have 
 a full moon to light them, he said, and if they were a little 
 late in getting there, why no matter. 
 
 Mr. Hammond knew the town well ; everything that was 
 worth seeing he would be happy to show his new friends, if 
 they would accept his guidance.
 
 THE COUNTBY COUSIN. 335 
 
 They could not think of making him such, trouble, the old 
 man said ; but it was evidently not a trouble, and when, some 
 minutes later, the horses came prancing up to the door, it was 
 Richard Hammond who was driving them. 
 
 Neither Mrs. Pettibone nor Anna came near the front door 
 to see their guests go away they were afraid of the chilly air 
 of morning ; but what was their astonishment and confusion 
 when, on looking from the window, they saw Richard Hammond 
 almost lifting Orpha into the sled, and with a tenderness of 
 manner which they had never seen till then. 
 
 He saw them smiled and kissed his hand gaily as they 
 drove off, and the last their wonder-struck vision saw of him 
 he was carefully wrapping the coverlet about the young girl's 
 feet. Xo, not the last they saw of him the following winter, 
 looking handsomer and happier than ever, they chanced to see 
 him at the opera, and beside him, the sunny lengths of 
 her hair rippling over her dimples and half down her snowy 
 cloak, a young woman whose beauty was evidently the admira- 
 tion of the house. 
 
 " I wonder what Hannah and her proud daughters think of 
 their country cousin now !" said Grandfather Davidson, as he 
 snuffed the candles, and heaped high the fire, the while his wife 
 polished the silver tea-pot, and adjusted the pound-cake and 
 custard cups, on the evening " the children " were expected 
 home from their bridal visit in town. 
 
 The two pins in the sleeve of the grandmother's black silk 
 dress, were not straighter and brighter than everything else 
 about the house ; and the hearts of the old folks were not 
 happier their own-marriage day than when the joyous barking of 
 the watch-dog at the door told them " the children" were come.
 
 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 
 
 I WAS sitting one summer afternoon in the shadow of a grape- 
 vine and cherry tree for the one running through the top of 
 the other cast a stiadow on the short, thick grass beneath, 
 through which scarcely a sunbeam found way. I was sitting 
 there with an open book on my knee, but I was not reading ; 
 on the contrary, two or three thicknesses of the cloth which I 
 had been sewing at intervals lay on the open page, and on 
 this rested my idle hands. I was not working, nor thinking 
 of work. On the side of the hill, behind me, the mowers were 
 wading through billows of red clover they were not whistling 
 nor singing that I remember of they had no grape-vines nor 
 cherry-tree limbs between their bent backs and the sun beams 
 that fell straight and hot upon them and yet, perhaps, they 
 were happier than I with all my cool shadows, for we have to 
 pay to the uttermost farthing for the enjoyments of this life. 
 The water was nearly dried up in the run that went crookedly 
 across the hollow, and the sober noise it made I could not hear. 
 The grey, dry dust was an inch deep along the road, which 
 was consequently almost as still as the meadows. Xow and 
 then a team went by, taking a little cloud with it ; and now
 
 AX OLD MAID'S STORY. 337 
 
 and then a young woman trotted along on the old mare, which 
 at home did nothing but switch flies, and was evidently averse 
 to any other employment. Two or three young women I re- 
 member to have seen go along with bundles on their saddle- 
 horns, and a little cloud of dust, similar to that in which they 
 moved, half a mile, perhaps, behind them, in which trotted the 
 colt, after its mother. I had seen, without especially noticing 
 them, and yet it was an unusual thing that two or three young 
 women should ride along on the same afternoon. 
 
 Immediately above my head, and fronting me, there was a 
 porch, level with the second floor of the house, and on this 
 porch a young, rosy-cheeked girl was spinning wool. She was 
 running up and down as gaily as if it were gold and not com- 
 mon wool she held in her hand, and her face was beaming as 
 though the rumble of her wheel were pleasantest music. 
 Her thoughts run little further than the thread she spun, good 
 simple girl, and, therefore never became so tangled as to vex 
 and puzzle her ; and so it was easy to spin and smile, and 
 smile and spin, all day. Once in a while the high well-sweep 
 came down and down, and then went up and up the iron 
 hoops of the bucket rattled against the curb some mower 
 drank his fill, and with a deep breath of satisfaction went 
 away, never wondering how or why half the clover- along his 
 path drew so bright a red from the black ground, and the 
 other so sweet a white ; and it was well he did not wonder, 
 for had he done so ever so much all would have ended in the 
 fact that there was red and white clover, and that the same 
 ground produced both. 
 
 A little shower of dust blew over me and settled in the 
 green grass and the white dying roses about me, and Surly, 
 15
 
 338 AX OLD MAID'S STOKY. 
 
 our dapple-nosed house-dog, dashed by me and gave noisy wel- 
 come to the visitor then about unlatching the gate. I hasten- 
 ed to conceal my book under the rosebush at hand, and to 
 shake the dust from my work preparatory to using my needle, 
 for to be found reading or idle would have been considered 
 alike disgraceful in the estimation of our neighbors. When 
 the visitor appeared, I recognized Miss Emeline Barker, and at 
 the same time became aware that she was bent on holiday 
 pleasure. She had been riding on horseback, but her white 
 dress showed scarcely a wrinkle, so well had she managed it 
 a sash of pink ribbon depended from the waist, and the short 
 sleeves were looped up with roses her straw hat was trimmed 
 with flowers and ribbon, and her boots were smoothly laced 
 with tape instead of leather strings. But more than her 
 dress, her face betrayed the joyous nature of the errand she 
 was bent on. " Somebody is going to be married," was my 
 first thought, " and Emeline has come to invite me to the wed- 
 ding," and I was confirmed in this when she declined the seat 
 I offered, with the assurance that she had not tine to stay a 
 moment. Expectation was on tiptoe, and when I said " how 
 do they all at home ?" I had no doubt she would tell me 
 that Mary Ann, who was her elder sister, was to be married ; 
 but she answered simply that all were very well, and went on to 
 tell about the harvest, the heat of the day, and other common- 
 places, just as if she wore her every-day calico dress and not a 
 white muslin one, looped up at the sleeves with roses. 
 
 Directly she bid me good bye without having said anything 
 extraordinary at all, and then, as if suddenly recollecting it, she 
 exclaimed, " Oh ! I want to see Jane a moment." I pointed to 
 the porch where Jane Whitehead was spinning, and with my
 
 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 339 
 
 heart drawing strangely into itself took the banished book 
 from its place of concealment, quite careless of what Emeline 
 Barker might think of me. 
 
 I felt dissatisfied and unhappy. I knew not why ; the 
 shadow of an unseen sorrow had fallen over me, and I could 
 not escape it in truth, I did not try. If I had taken a few 
 steps I should have found the sunshine, but I did not, and the 
 vague discomfort took a more definite shape. 
 
 I lifted the book to conceal my face, which it seemed to me 
 must reflect my unhappy mind, but I did not read any more 
 than before. Another book was opened which seemed to me 
 the Book of Fate, and to be illustrated with one picture 
 that of an unloved old maid. We might be made wiser some- 
 times,, perhaps, if it were permitted us to see ourselves 
 as others see us, but we should rarely be made more com- 
 fortable. 
 
 There were whispers and laughter, and laughter and whis- 
 pers, on the porch, but the rumble of the wheel so drowned 
 the voices that for some time I heard not one word ; but the 
 first that reached me confirmed my feeling myself was the 
 subject of conversation. 
 
 " I should have thought they would have asked her," said 
 Jane,, half piteously, and turning her wheel slowly as she 
 spoke, but not spinning any more. After a moment she con- 
 tinued," suppose, Em, you take it upon yourself to invite her." 
 
 " Fie 1" exclaimed Emeliue, " if I were an old maid, I 
 should not expect to be invited to young parties. Let old 
 folks go with old folks, I say ; and I am sure we would not be 
 mad if all the old maids in the county should make a frolic 
 and leave us out, would we, Jenny ?"
 
 340 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 
 
 " Why no," replied Jane ; " but then this seems like an- 
 other case, and I can't help liking Miss " 
 
 " So do I like her well enough in her way," said Emeline, 
 " but I would not like her at a party of young folks. She must 
 be as old as the hills, and the dear knows she has no beauty to 
 recommend her." 
 
 " Oh, she is not so very old past getting married to be sure, 
 or being cared for in that way, but she could help sew, yon 
 know, and be amused by our fun in the evening. Suppose we 
 ask her to go with us ?" 
 
 " I tell you she would be in the way," persisted Emeline, 
 " and I suppose if Mrs. Nichols had cared to have her she 
 would have invited her." 
 
 " Perhaps .she forgot it," insisted Jenny. 
 
 " No, she didn't," replied Emeline. " Didn't I hear her talk- 
 ing all about who she wanted and who she did not, and who 
 
 she felt obliged to ask ; and she said if she asked Miss 
 
 there were two or three others a good deal older and less de- 
 sirable that would think themselves entitled to invitations, and 
 she must stop somewhere, and on the whole might better not 
 begin." 
 
 " Well, then, you tell her," pleaded Jane, evidently receiv- 
 ing, and sorry to receive, the stubborn facts. 
 
 When I became aware that I was the " old maid," so compas- 
 sionated and dreaded, I was as one stunned by some dreadful 
 blow. I felt it due to myself to remove from where I sat, but I 
 had no strength to go ; I seemed not to be myself. I saw my- 
 self by the new light whereby other people saw me. I began to 
 count up my years. I was twenty-five the May past, but my 
 life had been entirely confined to the old homestead, and no
 
 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 341 
 
 special, peculiarly interesting, or peculiarly sorrowful events 
 had broken its monotony, so that I found it hard to realize the 
 truth. I was young in knowledge young in experience, and 
 one year had been drawn into another without the visible sepa- 
 ration of even a New Year's dinner. I had never thought of 
 dividing myself from the younger people of the neighborhood, 
 and till now I had never suspected that they desired to divide 
 themselves from me. Directly Jenny sliped the bands, set by 
 her wheel, and whispering and laughing the two girls came 
 down and essayed to make some explanation which should not 
 be wholly false, and yet soften the truth. Emeline was to re- 
 main a little while and assist Jenny, after which the two were 
 to go together to Mrs. Nichols' to help with some sewing she 
 was busy about. 
 
 So the old mare was led into the door-yard, Emeliue hung 
 her gay hat on a low limb of the cherry-tree, and tying on one 
 of Jenny's aprons the happy pair se busily to work. 
 
 My task was much harder than theirs, for I must keep close 
 the misery that was in my heart, and not suffer one single pang 
 to break the expression of quietude in my face. The hat 
 swinging gaily in the wind the laughter of the girls, smoth- 
 ered away from my participation, seemed like injuries to my 
 insulted sorrow. I could have lifted myself above hatred. 
 Against a false accusation I could have proudly defended ray- 
 self, bat my crime was simply that of being an old maid, whom 
 nobody cared to see, and against that there was nothing I 
 could interpose. For the first time in my life I felt a sort of 
 solemn satisfaction in the white and dying roses, and in the 
 yellow leaves that fell from the cherry-tree over my head and 
 into my lap.
 
 342 A^ OLD MAID'S STORY. 
 
 Sometimes, when the girls came near me, they would lift up 
 their voices as if in continuance of a conversation previously 
 going forward, but I understood very well that these clear- 
 toned episodes were put in for the occasion. 
 
 When the heart is light the hands are nimble, and the work 
 was soon done, and Jenny ready to make her toilet a task for 
 which a country girl, at the time and place I write of, would 
 have been ashamed to require more than ten minutes. The 
 shadow of the cherry-tree was stretching far to the east when 
 the old mare, quite used to " carry double," was led to the fence- 
 side, and Emeline and Jane mounted and rode away. 
 
 I put my hands before my face when they were gone, but I 
 did not cry. It was a hard, withered feeling in my heart, 
 that tears could not wash away. In all the world I could see 
 no green and dewy ground. There was nothing I could do 
 nothing I could undo. There was no one I blamed, - no special 
 act for whch I blamed myself, unless it were for having been 
 born. The sun went down under a black bank of clouds, and 
 the winds came up and began to tell the leaves about a com- 
 ing storm. 
 
 Pattering fast through the dust a little boy passed the gate, 
 climbed into the meadow, and was soon across the hollow, and 
 over the hill. The men were very active now, pitching the 
 mown hay into heaps, turning their heads DOW and then to- 
 wards the blackening west, and talking earnestly and loud. 
 The boy drew close to them and seemed to speak, for all the 
 workmen stood silent, and the rake dropped from the hand of 
 the foremost and his head sunk down almost to his bosom. 
 Presently one of the men took up the rake, another brought 
 the coat and hat of the foremost laborer, who had been work-
 
 AX OLD MAID'S STUKY. 343 
 
 ing bareheaded, and assisted him to put them on, for he seem- 
 ed as one half dead, and quite unable to help himself then the 
 little boy took his hani and led him away, and I noticed that 
 he walked with staggering steps, and often passed his hand 
 across his eyes as he went. The men left in the field resumed 
 work directly, but though a deep silence fell with the first 
 shadows I could not hear a word, so lowly they spoke to one 
 another. Till long after dark they kept rolling and tumbling 
 the hay into heaps, but at last I heard them gathering water 
 pails and pitchers together, and soon after they crossed the 
 meadow towards the house not noiselessly, as they came gen- 
 erally, but speaking few words and the few in low and kindly 
 tones. The black bank of clouds had widened up nearly half 
 the sky, and a blinding flash of lightning showed me their 
 faces as they drew near the well and paused not so much be- 
 cause they wished to drink, as because they felt reluctant to 
 separate and go their different ways. While one of the men 
 lowered the bucket, another approached me, and wiping his 
 sunburnt face with his red silk handkerchief, said " One 
 of our hands has had bad news this evening." 
 
 I felt what it was before he went on to say, " his youngest 
 child died about five o'clock, and will be buried to-morrow 
 morning, I suppose." 
 
 Poor, poor father no wonder the rake had fallen from his 
 hands, and that he had suffered himself to be led away like a lit- 
 tle child. What anguish must be the mother's, thought I, when 
 the sterner and stouter-hearted father so bows himself down, 
 and forgets that there is anything in the world but the cold 
 white clay that is to be buried to-morrow. 
 
 I forgot Mrs. Nichols and the gay people she had about
 
 344 AX OLD MAID'S STORY. 
 
 her ; forgot that I had been forgotten, and remembered only 
 our common humanity and our common need. 
 
 The sky was black overhead and the lightning every few* 
 minutes illuminated the grey dust before me, that was begin- 
 ning to be dotted with drops of rain, falling at intervals, as I 
 hurried through the darkness to the humble home where last 
 year a babe had. been born, and where the last davit had 
 died. Two or three living children were left, and yet it 
 seemed as if all were gone, the room was so still and 
 gloomy. The little mouth had never spoken, and the little 
 hands had never worked for food or for clothing, yet how 
 poor the parents felt, having the precious burden laid from off 
 their bosoms. 
 
 Close by the window, where the morning-glories grew thick, 
 dressed in white and as if quietly asleep, lay the little one, 
 waking not when the flowers dropped on its face, nor when the 
 mother called it by all the sweetest names that a mother's 
 fondness can shape. 
 
 " You must not grieve the baby is better off than we," 
 said a tall woman, dressed in black, and she led the poor 
 mother from the white bed where it lay. After some further 
 words of admonition and reproof, she proceeded to light the 
 candles and to arrange the table preparatory, as I supposed, 
 for morning service. 
 
 The rain came plashing on the vines at the window, and the 
 mother's grief burst out afresh as she thought of the grave it 
 would fall upon in the morning. A step came softly along the 
 rainy grass, and a face whose calm benignity seemed to dispel 
 the darkness, drew my eyes from the sleeping baby to itself. 
 But the voice there was in it such sweetness and refinement
 
 AX OLD MAID'S STORY. 345 
 
 snch a mingling of love and piety, that I was blessed, as I had 
 never been blessed, in being permitted to listen to it. 
 
 I recognized the visitor for the village clergyman who had 
 lately come among us, and whom I had only seen once, when 
 he gave baptism to the little one that was now returned to 
 dust. 
 
 I recognized not only the form and features, but I also re- 
 cognized, or thought I did, a spiritual kindred the desolation 
 that had divided me from the world an hour past was gone 
 heaven came down near to me, so near that earth was filled 
 with the reflection of its glory and happiness. 
 
 All the night we were together. There were few words 
 spoken. There was nothing to do but to listen to the rain 
 and the beating of my heart. There was nothing to see but 
 the baby on its white bed, the dimly-burning candle and the 
 calm soul-full eyes of the clergyman now bent on the sacred 
 page before him, now on the leaves that trembled in the rain, 
 and now, as something told me, for I scarcely dared look up, 
 upon myself. 
 
 I wished there were something I might do for him, but I 
 could think of nothing except to offer the rocking-chair which 
 had been given me on my coming, aud which was all the luxu- 
 ry the poor man's house afforded. In my over-anxiety to 
 serve, I forgot this most obvious service I could render, and 
 when it occurred to me at last my unfortunate forgetfulness so 
 much embarrassed me that I knew not how to speak or stir. 
 If there had been any noise if any one had been present but 
 our two selves if he would speak to me but as it was, I 
 could not for a long while find courage for that proffer of my 
 simple courtesy. There he sat silent, as far from me as he 
 15*
 
 ;MC, AN OLD MAID'S STOUT. 
 
 could well be, and as more time went by, looking at me more 
 and more earnestly, I thought. At last the steadfast gaze be- 
 came so painful that I felt that any change would be relief, 
 and mastering my embarrassment as I best could, I offered the 
 rocking-chair to the clergyman, whose name was Wardwell, 
 with the energetic haste with which one touches the lion he 
 would tame. 
 
 " No, my child," he said, very calmly, " you have most need 
 of it." 
 
 I know not what I said, but in some vehement war, which I 
 afterwards feared expressed all I was most anxious to conceal, 
 made my refusal. 
 
 He smiled and accepted the chair, I thought in pity of my 
 confusion, and rather to place me at ease, than for the sake of 
 his own comfort. 
 
 He asked me directly whether I had ever been far from the 
 village a natural question enough, and asked doubtless for 
 the sake of relieving the tedium of silence but I saw in it on- 
 ly the inference of my rusticity and want of knowledge, and 
 replied with a proud humility that I was native to the village 
 had scarcely been out of sight of it, and had no knowledge 
 beyond the common knowledge of its common people. 
 
 With a changed expression I could not tell whether of 
 pain or annoyance Mr. Wardwell moved his position slightly 
 nearer me, but the habitual smile returned presently, and he 
 rocked quietly to and fro, saying only, " well, well." 
 
 There was nothing in the tone or the manner to give force 
 to the words. They might indicate that it was as well to live 
 in the village as any other place. They might indicate that he 
 had no interest in the inquiry and none in the answer or it
 
 AX OLD MAID'S STORY. 347 
 
 might be that they expressed the fixedness of a foregone con- 
 clusion. I chose to receive the last interpretation, and leaned 
 my head on the hard sill of the open window to conceal the 
 tears with which, in spite of myself, my eyes were slowly 
 filling. 
 
 All the time the clergyman had remained silent I had 
 longed with a sincere and childish simplicity to be noticed or 
 spoken to, and now if I could have unsaid the few words he 
 had directly addressed to me a tormenting weight would have 
 been lifted from my bosom. 
 
 The wet leaves shook almost in my face, and now and then 
 some cold drops plashed on my head ; but I would not mani- 
 fest any inconvenience. I felt as if Mr. Wardwell were re- 
 sponsible for my discomfort, and I would be a patient martyr 
 to whatever he might inflict. 
 
 "My child, you are courting danger," he said, at last ; "the 
 chill air of these rainy midnights is not to be tampered with 
 by one of your susceptible organization." 
 
 Ah, thought I to myself, he is trying to pour oil on the 
 wound he has made, but doubtless he thinks no amount of 
 chill rain could injure me, for all of his soft speaking. So I 
 affected to sleep, for I was ashamed to manifest the rudeness I 
 felt, though my position was becoming seriously uncomfort- 
 able, to say nothing of its imprudence. My heart trembled, 
 audibly, I feared, when Mr. Wardwell approached, and stoop- 
 ing over me, longer I thought than need were, softly let down 
 the window. I would have thanked him, but to do so would 
 have been to betray ray ill-nature, which I was now repentant, 
 and ashamed of. He passed his hand over my wet hair, and 
 afterwards brought the cushion of the rocking-chair and placed
 
 348 AX OLD MAID'S STOKY. 
 
 it stealthily beneath my head. Soothed from my sorrow, and 
 unused to watching, I was presently fast asleep. I dreamed I 
 was at home, and that some one was walking across and 
 across my chamber, and so close to my bedside that I felt a 
 distinct fear. So strong was the impression I could not rid 
 myself of it, even when, fully conscious, I unclosed my eyes 
 and saw the still baby before me, and the clergyman appar- 
 ently dozing in his chair. "Was it he who had been walking 
 so near me, in forgetfnlness of me and simply to relieve the 
 monotony of the time ? Yes, said probability, even before my 
 eyes fell upon a handkerchief of white cambric, lying almost 
 at my feet, and which I was quite sure was not there when I 
 took my seat at the window. 
 
 I took it up, partly from curiosity, partly for the want of 
 other occupation, examined the flowers in the border, and 
 read and re-read the initial letters, worked in black in one 
 corner C. D. W. I fancied the letters had been wrought by 
 a female hand, and with a feeling strangely akin to jealousy, 
 and which I should have blushed to own, tossed the handker- 
 chief on the table and took my own from my pocket, more 
 aware of its coarseness and plainness than I had ever been 
 till then. It was as white as snow, neatly folded, and smell- 
 ing of rose-leaves ; but for all that I felt keenly how badly it 
 contrasted with that of the clergyman. 
 
 I wished he would wake, if he were indeed asleep move 
 ever so slightly, look up, or speak one word, no matter what ; 
 but fov all my wishing he sat there just the same his eyes 
 closed, and his placid face turned more to the wall than to me. 
 
 From the roost near by, and from across the neighboring 
 hill*, sounded the lusty crowing it might be midnight or day-
 
 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 349 
 
 break ; I could not tell which, for the night had been to me 
 nnlike any other night. I arose softly, and taking the candle 
 which burned dimly now, held it before the white face of the 
 skeleton of a clock, to tell the hour, but the clock had been 
 forgotten and was "run down." 
 
 I crossed the room on tiptoe and reseated myself without 
 noise, but had scarcely done so when Mr. Wardwell, evidently 
 aware of my movements and wishes, took from his vest an ele- 
 gant watch and named the time, which was but half an hour 
 after midnight. I sighed, for I felt as if the morning would 
 never come. 
 
 "The time is heavy to you, my dear child," he replied, as 
 if in answer to my sigh, and replacing the cushion, he offered 
 me the easy-chair, blaming himself for having deprived me of 
 it so selfishly and so long and professing to be quite re- 
 freshed by the sleep which I suspected he had not taken. 
 
 I tried to decline, for in my heart I wished him to have the 
 best chair, but when he took my hand with what I felt to be 
 rather gallantry than paternal solicitude, I could no longer re- 
 fuse, and in affectation of a quietude I did not feel, took up 
 the hymn-book which lay at hand, and bent my eyes on the 
 words I did not read. 
 
 " Will you read the poem that interests you ?" asked Mr. 
 Wardwell, coming near, and turning his bright, blessed face 
 full upon me. 
 
 I trembled, for it seemed to me that my heart was open be- 
 fore my companion, and even if it were not I knew my cheek 
 was playing the tell-tale, but in some way I stammered an an- 
 swer to the most obvious sense of the words, and replied that 
 it was the hymn-book I held.
 
 350 AN* OLD MAID'S STOKY. 
 
 " I know it," replied my pleasing tormentor ; " but it is a 
 poem you are reading for all that," 
 
 I said there were some hymns which were also most ennob- 
 ling and beautiful poetry, and I went on to instance a few 
 which I regarded as such. He seemed not to hear my 
 words, but said, rather as if musing aloud than speaking 
 to me, 
 
 " Yes, yes, my dear child," (he said dear child now, and 
 not child as at first) " at your time of life there are many 
 sweet poems for the heart to read, which it does read without 
 the aid of books." 
 
 He looked on me as he spoke with a sort of sorrowful com- 
 passion, I thought, and yet there was something tenderer and 
 deeper than compassion, which I could not define. 
 
 He was greatly my senior, but it was not a filial feeling that 
 caused me to say, I was past the time when frivolous fancy 
 most readily turns evanescent things to poetry, and I men- 
 tioned myself as. twenty-six the May coming, and not twenty- 
 five the May past, as most women would have done. 
 
 " To me that seems very young !" replied my companion, 
 solemnly, " I am" he hesitated, and went on hurriedly and 
 confusedly I thought, " I am much older than you are." 
 
 He went away from me as he spoke, and passed his hand 
 along his deeply-lined forehead and whitening hair, as if in con- 
 templation of them. 
 
 I could not bear the solemn gladness that came like a soft 
 shadow over the dewier glow that had lighted his face awhile 
 past, and hastened to say, though I had never thought of it 
 before, that the best experience and the truest poetry of life 
 should come to us in the full ripeness of years. He shook his
 
 AX OLD MAID'S STORY. 351 
 
 head doubtfully, smiled the old benignant smile, as he re- 
 plied : 
 
 " It is quite natural, my dear child, that you should think so." 
 
 I had no courage to say more, especially as his thoughts 
 seemed to return to their more habitual channels ; but oh, how- 
 much I wished he could feel this life as richly worth living as 
 I did. 
 
 He raised the sash, and leaned his head close to the wet 
 vines, though he had reproved me for doing the same thing, 
 and before I could find courage to remind him of it, or to say 
 anything, he was fast asleep. 
 
 I recalled every word I had spoken, and conscious of an 
 awakening interest that I had never before experienced for 
 man or woman, I thought I had betrayed it, and the betrayal 
 had produced the sleepy indifference, which, in spite of myself, 
 mortified me to the quick. I read the hymn-book till I was 
 weary of hymns ; and afterwards thought till I was weary of 
 thinking, then read again, and at last, to keep the place which 
 I had no interest in keeping, I placed my handkerchief between 
 the leaves of the book, and so turning my face as to see just 
 that part of the wall which Mr. Wardwell had looked at an 
 hour previously, I forgot him and myself and all things. 
 
 It was not the noise of the rain that woke me nor the 
 crowing of the morning cocks, nor the sun's yellow light that 
 struggled through the room, nor yet the mother calling in her 
 renewed anguish to the baby that smiled not for all her call- 
 ing, nor lifted its little hands to the bosom that bent above it 
 in such loving and terrible despair it seemed to me it was 
 none of these, but a torturous premonition of solitude and 
 desolation.
 
 05-2 AX OLD MAID'S STORY. 
 
 Mr. \Vanl\vell was gone, and the night was gone but there 
 was a pleasant voice iu my ear, and a serene smile, kindling 
 now and then in transient enthusiasm, whichever way I turned. 
 
 night of solemn joy, humble room, made sacred by the 
 presence of death dream, whose sweet beginning promised 
 so beautiful a close, how often have I gone back to you, and 
 hewed out cisterns that I knew must break ! 
 
 Surely in the mysterious providences that wrap themselves 
 around us and which to our weak apprehensions seem so dark 
 and so hard, there are true and good meanings, if we could 
 but find them out. 
 
 Help us to be patient, oh, our Father, and give us the trust- 
 ing hearts of little children, and the faith that mounts higher 
 and brighter than the fire. 
 
 In the southern suburb of the village, and in sight of my 
 own chamber window, is a low, gloomy stone church, which 
 stood there before I was born, and which had scarcely 
 changed any within my remembrance. All the long summer 
 afternoons I used to sit at this window, looking up often from 
 my sewing or my book, and always in one direction that of 
 the dark little church. I could see the oak trees that grew in 
 different parts of the churchyard, and made deep shadows 
 over the green mounds below, and it pleased me not a little to 
 think Mr. Wardwell might be looking on them at the same 
 moment with myself, for the parsonage, or " preacher's house," 
 as it was called, stood in the same inclosure with the church 
 building. 
 
 1 could not see the parsonage itself, but I could see the 
 smoke drifting from its chimneys, and know when a fire was 
 being made, and could guess at the probable work that was
 
 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 353 
 
 going on indoors whether dinner or tea, or whether it were 
 the day for scrubbing or for baking, for I took the liveliest in- 
 terest in such faint and far-away observations of Mr. A^ ^ ard- 
 well's household affairs, as I was able to make. Sometimes I 
 would see a white fluttering among the trees, and know it had 
 been washing day at the preacher's house, and then I would 
 imagine the discomfort that had reigned in the kitchen all day, 
 and the scouring of the ash floor, and the brightening of the 
 hearth, that came afterward. I never made my seat under the 
 grape-covered cherry tree, after the day that solemnized my 
 destiny with the appellation of " old maid," and the evening 
 that saw our first hand led away. 
 
 The night that followed had opened a new page in my life 
 a page where I saw my future reflected in colors brighter 
 than my spring flowers, that were all dead now. I did not 
 regret them. Often came Emeline and talked and laughed 
 with Jenny as bhe spun on the porch, and I praised the pink 
 and blue dresses she wore, and the roses that trimmed her hat, 
 and said I was too old for pink dresses and roses, without a 
 sigh on my lips, or a pang in my heart. I lived in a world of 
 my own now ; on Sunday eve we went to church together, 
 and yet not to the same church we sat in the same pew, but 
 the face of the 'preacher turned not to the faces of my com- 
 panions as it sometimes turned to mine, and for me there were 
 meanings in his words which they could not see nor feel. 
 
 When he spoke of the great hereafter, when our souls that 
 had crossed their mates, perhaps, and perhaps left them be- 
 hind or gone unconsciously before them dissatisfied and 
 longing and faltering all the time, and of the deep of joy 
 they would enter into, on recognizing fully and freely the
 
 r,.34 AX OLD MAID'S STOKY. 
 
 other self, which, iu this world, had been so poorly and vague- 
 ly comprehended, if at all what delicious tremor, half fear 
 and half fervor, thrilled all my being, and made me feej that 
 the dust of time and the barriers of circumstance the dreary 
 pain of a life separated from all others death itself all were 
 nothing but shadows passing between me and the eternal sun- 
 shine of love. I could afford to wait I could afford to be 
 patient under my burdens and to go straight forward through 
 all hard fates and fortunes, assured that I should know and be 
 known at last, love and be loved in the fullness of a blessed- 
 ness, which, even here, mixed with bitterness as it is, is the 
 sweetest of all. What was it to me that my hair was black, 
 and my step firm, while his hair to whom I listened so reveren- 
 tially was white, and his step slow, if not feeble. What was 
 it that he had more wisdom, and more experience than I, and 
 what was it that he never said, " you are faintly recognized, 
 and I see a germ close-folded, which in the mysterious processes 
 ff God's providence may unfold a great white flower." We 
 had but crossed each other in the long journey, and I was 
 satisfied, for I felt that in our traversing up the ages, we 
 should meet again. 
 
 How sweet the singing of the evening and the morning service 
 used to be. Our voices met and mingled then, and in the 
 same breath and to the same tune we praised the Lord, for 
 his mercy, which endureth forever. 
 
 One afternoon Emeline and Jenny teased me to join them 
 on the porch they pitied me, perhaps, shut up in the dim old 
 chamber, as we often pity those who are most to be envied, 
 and finding they would not leave me to my own thoughts, I 
 allowed myself to be drawn from my favorite position.
 
 AX OLD MAIO'S STORY. 355 
 
 Eineline was cutting some handkerchiefs from a pieco of 
 linen, and she asked me for one of mine as a measure. I 
 opened a drawer where my nicest things were, sprinkled over 
 with dried rose-leaves, and took up a white apron with a ruffled 
 border, which I had worn the most memorable night of my life, 
 and folded away just as I wore it I took it up, thinking of 
 the night, drew a handkerchief from the pocket and laid it 
 across the lap of Emeline. 
 
 What laughter and clapping of hands and accusations of 
 blushes followed, and true enough, the blushes made red con- 
 fusion in my face when Emeline held up, not my o"wn coarse, 
 plain handkerchief, but a fine one with a deep purple border, 
 and marked with the initial letters of Mr. WardwelFs name. 
 
 In vain I denied all knowledge of how I came by it ; they 
 were merrily incredulous, and asserted that if I knew nothing 
 of the handkerchief I of course cared nothing for it they 
 would keep it and return it to the owner, who had no doubt 
 dropped it by accident just as I had taken it up. 
 
 I said it must be so, and spoke of the watch we had- kept to- 
 gether, which gave the utmost probability to their suggestion, 
 and which involved me in a serious dilemma. In the early 
 twilight, they said we would walk together to the preacher's 
 house return him the lost handkerchief, and in return for our 
 good office receive some of the red pears that grew at his 
 door. 
 
 I could not bear that Mr. Wardwell should be mentioned in 
 the same sentence with red pears -just as I would have men- 
 tioned any other person, and yet for the world I would not 
 have had them see him as I saw him. I could not bear the 
 thought of parting with my treasure which I had unconsciously
 
 356 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 
 
 possessed so long ; I would speedily have folded it just as I 
 found it and as he had folded it, and replacing it in the pocket 
 of my apron, have kept it forever shut in the drawer among 
 the rose-leaves. 
 
 But how to evade the plan of my young friends without be- 
 traying my own secret I could not discover. Having forced 
 myself to comply, for they insisted that they would go with- 
 out me if not with me, I tried to reconcile myself by the light 
 of judgment and the cold probabilities of the case. Between 
 dreaming and waking I must have taken up the handkerchief 
 instead of my own. But convinced against my will, I was 
 of the same opinion still. I remembered very distinctly plac- 
 ing the handkerchief on the table before me, and of seeing it 
 there when I placed my own between the leaves of my hymn- 
 book and I remembered too, right well, that Mr. Wardwell 
 was gone when I awoke how then could the accident have 
 occurred ? And yet, if not by accident, how came I by the 
 handkerchief ? I could not tell, but one thing I was forced to 
 do, to give it back. If it must be done, it should not be the 
 hand of Emeline or of Jenny that did it, but my own. When 
 it was time to go I folded my treasure neatly, and hid it under 
 my shawl and next my heart. It was autumn now and there 
 were no flowers but the few deep red ones that were left on 
 the rose of Sharon that grew by my window. I gathered a 
 green spray that held two bright ones, and hiding my heart as 
 carefully as I did my treasure, I seemed to listen to what my 
 young friends said as we went along. 
 
 A little way from the^door, in a rustic seat, beneath the 
 boughs of an apple-tree Mr. Wardwell sat reading as he 
 looked up, the expression of a young and happy heart passed
 
 AN OLD MAID'S STORY. 357 
 
 across his face, and gave way to a more sober and paternal 
 one. He laid the book he had been reading in the rustic chair 
 and came forward to meet and welcome us. He called me 
 dear child again and laid his hand upon my head with a 
 solemn and tender pressure, that seemed to me at once a 
 promise and a benediction. 
 
 I said why we were come, and in my confusion offered the 
 handkerchief with the hand that held the flowers. He smiled 
 sadly as we sometimes do when we are misunderstood, and 
 pointing my friends to the pears that were lying red on the 
 ground, he took the handkerchief, the flowers and the hand 
 that held them in both his own, and for a moment pressed 
 them close to his bosom. When my hand was restored to me 
 the handkerchief was in it, but not the flowers. 
 
 " I want the roses," he said, " and will buy them with the 
 handkerchief, for we must pay for our pleasures whether we 
 will or no." 
 
 I knew not how to understand him, and was yet holding my 
 treasure timidly forth, when, seeing my friends approach, he 
 put my hand softly back, and I hastened to conceal it as be- 
 fore next my heart. The youthful expression, that dewy- 
 rose-look of summer and sunshine, came out in his face again 
 my heart had spoken to his heart, and we felt that we were 
 assuredly bound to the same haven. 
 
 The aprons of my young friends were full of red pears, and 
 their faces beaming with pleasure, and I, whom they compas- 
 sionated as an old maid, hid my sacred joy deep in my bosom, 
 and turned aside that their frivolous and frolicsome mirth 
 might not mar it. Involuntarily I turned towards the rustic 
 chair, and with an interest which I felt in everything belong-
 
 358 AN OLD MAID'S 
 
 ing to Mr. Wardwell, opened the book he had left there. It 
 was the well-remembered hymn-book, and my handkerchief 
 was keeping the place of the hymn I had read so often on the 
 most memorable of the nights of my life. How happy I was, 
 and what dreams I dreamed after that. The blessed handker- 
 chief is shut up with rose-leaves in my drawer, but the giver 
 I never spoke with but once again. 
 
 It was years after I had learned that my treasure was not 
 an accident, and when Jenny and Emeline were each the hap- 
 py mother of more than one pretty baby still liking me a 
 little, and pitying me a great deal because I was an old maid, 
 when one snowy night, the old woman, who kept house at the 
 parsonage, came for me. I must make haste, she said, for 
 good Mr. Wardwell had been that day seized with a fit, and 
 seemed to be slowly dying. It was true, as she said, he seem- 
 ed but to wait for me. The Bible and hymn-book were by his 
 bedside ; the plain linen handkerchief was between the leaves 
 of the latter, and placing his hand on it, he whispered 
 
 " Put this over my face when I am dead and the flowers" 
 
 He could not say more, but I understood him and softly 
 placing my hand on the heart where the life-tide was ebbing, 
 I bent my face down close and kissed the cheek that was al- 
 ready moistening with death-dew. All the face brightened 
 with that sweet, sweet expression that was manhood and 
 angelhood at once then came the terrible shadow, and the 
 eyes that had known me, knew me no more the lips gave up 
 their color, but the habitual smile fixed itself in more than 
 mortal beauty. As I unfolded the handkerchief two roses fell 
 from it, which we buried with him. 
 
 His grave is at the south of the old church, and a rose-tree,
 
 AX OLD MAID'S STORY. 359 
 
 grown from the slip of the one at my window, blooms at his 
 head. Nothing now would tempt me away from the hills I 
 was born among from the old grey church, and the grave 
 near which I hope to be buried. 
 
 " Come see my treasure ;" and Abbie Morrison (for that 
 was the story-teller's name) unlocked the drawer, where, fold- 
 ed among rose leaves, almost scentless now, was the handker- 
 chief with dark border, and marked with the initials, C. D. W. 
 
 To her neighbors Abbie Morrison is only an old maid in 
 whose praise there is not much to be said. If any one is sick 
 she is sent for, but in seasons of joy nobody has a thought of 
 her. What does she know of pleasure ? they say, or what 
 does she care for anything but singing in the church and cut- 
 ting the weeds from the graveyard ? 
 
 The children love her sweet voice, and stop on the way to 
 school if she chances to sing in the garden, and, as she gives 
 them flowers, wonder why their sisters call her old and ugly. 
 It may be that angels wonder too. 


 
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