THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 ORPHAN BOY; 
 
 OR, 
 
 f ijjjts aifo Sjjatofos of |tor%rn fife. 
 
 BY JEEEMY LOUD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " DOVECOTE." 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU ST. 
 
 1857.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, In the year 1866, by 
 
 DERBY & JACKSON, 
 In the Clerk's Office of tha District Court, for the Southern District of New York 
 
 IEREOTTPED PRINTED BY 
 
 THOMAS B. SMITH, TTOHEY <fc BUSSEL, 
 
 82 A 84 Beekmon 79 John Street.
 
 Lilt* 
 
 I CONFESS I never could understand why a Preface 
 need always be an Apology. If a man has written a 
 book, and fairly put his heart into what he has done, 
 it is not so easy to tell what there is for him to be 
 ashamed of. 
 
 A Preface certainly should not be a whine. It 
 may be made a vehicle for either this, that, or the 
 other sort of sentiment respecting the book, bespeak 
 ing for it nothing more than fair play in its proper 
 turn ; or it may be the avant courrier the clear- 
 the-way guard (in the case of a Novel) to the main 
 body of personages just ready to come up : but 
 whatever it is, there is no use in crying about it. 
 For my own part, while I have no such design as that 
 of hawking my own literary wares through the world, 
 neither will I consent to beg a well-disposed Public 
 to wink at what they honestly want to condemn. 
 
 Therefore the less said about the contents of these 
 two covers, the better. My readers will be likely to 
 say all that is necessary in the matter, and say it a
 
 IV PREFATORY. 
 
 great deal better than I can. The story in the main 
 is a simple one, rehearsing the interwoven histories of 
 a round of every-day characters in town and country. 
 I have thought but to describe the passions and 
 pleasures, the trials and triumphs of common .life, 
 trenching in no part upon ground that properly 
 belongs to the domains of romance, and seeking to 
 balance all drafts on the imagination against the 
 actual experiences of existence. 
 
 If there should be a passage or a page, here and 
 there, by whose silent means the heart of the reader 
 may be drawn to the heart of the author, the book 
 will have served the first and highest purpose for 
 which it was written. If there is any thing in life in 
 which the author implicitly believes, it is the mag 
 netism of Love. The intellect is regal, because for 
 ever tossed by the waves of a restless ambition ; but 
 the soul of man is far greater, because it expands only 
 as it aspires. The secret sympathy of a single human 
 heart, therefore, is better than the echoed applause 
 of a thousand minds, even if they all sat at the very 
 top of literary judgment.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A PAUPER'S FUNKRAL 11 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 A ClIASE AKOUND THE CHIMNEY 19 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER IH. 
 BOUND OUT 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 KIT NUBBLES 43 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TEN-ACRE ELYSIUM 53 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 OUT OF THE BUSHES , fti
 
 Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. HOLLIDAY .................. 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 A MORNING CALL ....................................... 83 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 KIT AND HIS CROW ....................................... 92 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 THE WORTH OF A RELATION ............................... 102 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE ............................... 110 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE .................................... 120 
 
 CHAPTER XHI. 
 
 A WALK ACROSS THE COUNTRY ____ . 130 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AFTER THE FEAST. . , . 139
 
 CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 GABRIEL AND BIS FRIENDS 146 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 SCHOOLFELLOWS... . 169 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 NONESUCH 171 
 
 CHAPTER XVHI. 
 THE OLD APPLE DEALER 181 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 TO-MORROW 192 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 POVERTT JO 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A BACK-DOOR VISITOR 212 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 LITTLE PILGRIMS . . 221
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FAOB 
 
 CHOWDER AND CHARITY 231 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING , 240 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 COUSINS 249 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 AT.T. IN CONFIDENCE 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 Ax AUTHOR AT HOME 268 
 
 > 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. , 
 
 A SOBER RECKONING 284 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 THE DOUBLE SECRET 294 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLER , , . 302
 
 CONTENTS. lx 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A LOVER s KNOT 317 
 
 CHAPTER XXXH. 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 326 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 A MUTE MONITOR ." 335 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED . 344 
 
 CHAPTER ,XXXV. 
 
 A SECRET OUT. ., .358 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 LIFE IN THE BALANCE 361 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 THE WORK OP A MAGDALEN . , 378 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIH. 
 
 THE HANGMAN'S EOPE '. . 385 
 
 1*
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A HAPPY MARRIAGE.. . 396 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 GOOD FANNY WARE 404 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 OLD NATHAN GRUBB AND HIS ERRAND... ,.411
 
 GABRIEL VANE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 SNOW snow snow, and the dreary night falling. 
 
 For hours the flakes had kept coming finer, faster, 
 thicker. Now they fell so swiftly your eyes were dazzled 
 trying to follow them down. The landscape was wrapping 
 around itself a great white shroud with many folds. It was 
 just such weather as you might expect though it is not 
 always to be had in mid December. The scene was a 
 country scene ; a dead, drear landscape ; hills and woods 
 fading away in the misty maze of the snow ; houses look 
 ing in the distance Hke mere humps on the back of the 
 world, each moment getting dimmer and dimmer ; roads 
 closing up to the eye as if by the storm they were made 
 as impassable as by gates; and overhead the heavens 
 darkening till the gloom promised to be complete and 
 profound. 
 
 It was dismal enough in town, where the few travelers 
 staggered against one another in the streets; but in the 
 open country, without the protection of high houses on 
 either side, or the half-cheery companionship of lanterns 
 that tried to wink through the blinding storm, it was dis-
 
 12 A PAUPEK'S FUNERAL. 
 
 mal indeed. There was nothing to cheat your senses of 
 the dull reality in the country. Your imagination could 
 create no Avails to narrow down the width of the picture, 
 nor light rows of lamps to break ever so feebly the mo 
 notony of the gloom. 
 
 There stood an old poor-house on a bleak country cross 
 road that appeared to take a real pride if poor-houses may 
 be supposed to be proud in its environments of desolation. 
 Unlike some who manage to wear the livery of a good char 
 acter got under false pretenses, this edifice rather seemed 
 to wear its garments and name with an air of undeniable 
 satisfaction. Being a poor-house only a wretched coun 
 try poor-house it would wish to appear nothing more 
 nor less than itself. So the yard that stretched from the 
 front-door to the end of the lane was strewn about with 
 logs, chips, fragments of vehicles of various sorts, broken 
 cart-wheels, and a grind-stone without a crank. And a 
 tumble-down shed hard by vainly pretended to keep the 
 storm out of the seat of the best and only wagon its pro 
 prietor had to ride over to the village in. And the stone 
 walls gaped widely opposite the house, as if they might 
 possibly be sleepy, and that there might be no trouble 
 about the cows getting into the fields in summer. 
 
 The dwelling itself was very brown and very dingy; 
 oblivious of any coat the painter might have thrown over 
 its shoulders in earlier days. The windows were remark 
 ably diminutive, and without either curtains or shutters. 
 A single stone chimney rose like a turret from the middle 
 of the sharp ridge-pole, stained and dirty with the smokes 
 of full forty years. The door was low, and just over it 
 was set a row of thick glass windows to serve as lights 
 for the entry. No description could exactly carry the 
 building, with all its many uninviting accompaniments, 
 and set it "down before the reader's imagination. To be
 
 A PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 13 
 
 perfectly and properly estimated, inwardly as well as out 
 wardly, it must needs have been made the subject of 
 individual reconnoissance. 
 
 At one of the diminutive front windows was standing 
 the slight figure of a little boy, who was occupied with 
 looking out thoughtfully on the dreary scenery and the 
 falling snow. He was an object that challengedat the 
 same time one's attention and compassion. His face was 
 extremely pale, and his eyes were red and swollen with 
 much weeping. A capacious and open forehead, over 
 whose temples were ^carelessly strewn the auburn locks 
 he now had no one' to keep arranged for him, spoke of a 
 quick and abundant intellect ; while the whole expression 
 that sat on his youthful countenance was that of the most 
 abject sadness. 
 
 Standing thus apart at the window, in the common 
 room where several others were gathered silent, sad 
 dened, and thoughtful his very tenderness of years ex 
 citing a quick and subtle sympathy with the beholder, he 
 offered such a picture as every dreary country poor-house 
 is not able to produce. The others in the room men 
 and women kept throwing glances at him as if he must 
 be uppermost in their thoughts ; and more than one of 
 the old creatures drew real and honest sighs in looking 
 forward to the future that stretched away at his feet. 
 
 " Poor boy !" said one of the men sitting near the stove, 
 in a tone he might have meant for a whisper ; " he takes 
 it hardly enough, don't he ?" 
 
 " Ah ! but there be few at his age," was the reply, 
 " that know, as he does, what 'tis to lose a mother ! It 's 
 a great loss ; a very great loss, you see." 
 
 " And he always loved her so much ! Leastways, he 
 always seemed to." 
 
 " Yes, and she him jest as much, too."
 
 14 A PAUPER'S FUNEKAL. 
 
 The men both turned their faces and surveyed him 
 again soberly. 
 
 " The poor little feller ! I wish I was able to do some- 
 thin' for him ; I really do. If some real good rich man 
 would come along, now !" 
 
 "Ah, but don't be too sure. Your rich men ain't al- 
 waysyour best men. They don't make a p'int o' lovin' 
 the downright poor any too much. Oh, no ; they seem 
 to think their money has put 'em forever out o' the reach 
 of poverty, and all they mean to do is jest to look out and 
 keep it at a safe distance. So poor folks have to crowd 
 back ; and they do crowd, and dreadful close too, some 
 times, I can tell ye ! It 's really astonishin' how little feel 
 ing there is in the world, arter all 's said and done." 
 
 The boy still kept his position at the window. The 
 room was not yet lighted, and only the few unsteady 
 gleams of the flame that played through the chinks of 
 the stove door were allowed to throw their glimmering 
 radiance over the apartment. Now and then they suf 
 ficed to light up quite grotesquely, and but for a passing 
 moment, the different figures that were drawn in a hud 
 dled circle around the stove ; but that was all. 
 
 The snow was falling fast. It was covering every 
 thing. It was weaving the winding-sheet for the new 
 grave of the boy's dead mother ! 
 
 His thoughts were busy with the subject. His eyes 
 mechanically tried to follow some of the flakes, and 
 watched them as they were silently matted into the 
 pearly mass that enveloped the ground ; and his feelings 
 brooded sadly in the grave he had that afternoon seen 
 closed. 
 
 It was an unhappy scene even for so unhappy a spot as 
 the poor-house of Epping. It was a funeral. Every 
 where funerals are impressive, but especially so in the
 
 A PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 15 
 
 deep quiet of the country, and in the almost unbroken 
 solitudes of winter. The shivering regiment of the town's 
 poor in Epping had on that same afternoon voluntarily 
 marshaled itself into a double line, and, with a depth of 
 sympathy that even raggedness and cold can not freeze 
 in every human heart, paid unitedly its last sorrowful re 
 spects to the memory of the dead. It was a melancholy 
 sight this thin procession of paupers, and challenged 
 the compassion of all who beheld it. 
 
 At the head of the line walked the village minister, 
 holding the little orphan's hand. One of the Selectmen 
 of the town was likewise present, who had arrived for the 
 purpose of keeping matters as orderly as possible. And 
 Mr. Hardcastle, the keeper of the poor, himself was no 
 wise behindhand in lending his supervisory assistance on 
 the mournful occasion ; albeit Mrs. Hardcastle felt herself 
 assured that she had more* important work to do, than fol 
 lowing a friendless and unknown pauper to her grave. 
 
 " For," said she with herself, " who is there that knows 
 any thing about this woman ? The Selectmen sent her 
 here to be taken care of; she has been taken care of. 
 And now that she 's finally dead and gone, she '11 be put 
 out of the way altogether, where she'll be no further 
 trouble to nobody. Is there any body, now, that knows 
 who she was ? or where she came from ? or any thing at 
 all about her? And to cap the whole, she must needs 
 put on such very pretty airs, and try to make it appear 
 as if she had been once such a very great lady, and so 
 very feminine, and quite above work, and eternally com 
 plaining of her health and all such things as that ! Why, 
 if she had friends, why 'did n't she call on 'em, and not 
 lay and die in a poor-house? At all events, why didn't 
 she once tell where they be ? We. might have been put 
 in the way then of helping her some. As it was, she
 
 16 A PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 kept every thing to herself, as close as could be ; and I 'm 
 sure I don't know how she'd expect others to go to work 
 for themselves and find out her secret ! I don't believe 
 there ever Avas any secret ; I believe she never was any 
 thing more than just what she Avas when" she died !" 
 
 Thus soliloquized Mrs. Hardcastie ; and Mrs. Plard- 
 castle, as a general thing, did the thinking for both herself 
 and her nominal lord. In the matter of action, he Avas 
 conceded to stand rather foremost. Yet, in fact, he never 
 dared to push forward save on the smooth track of the 
 plans she had previously prepared for him. 
 
 While the boy, Avhose name was Gabriel, was yet stand 
 ing before the dai'kened AvindoAv, as I have already de 
 scribed, one of the two men who had employed the fore 
 going expressions of pity toAvard him, stepped slowly over 
 to where he was, and took hold gently of his shoulder. 
 
 " Gabriel !" said he, in a low and husky tone. 
 
 The boy looked up ; but he did so with such modera 
 tion and self-possession, that the man partially started 
 before the mild expression of his eye, and for a moment 
 hesitated. As soon as Gabriel saw who the speaker was, 
 he instantly threw his eyes out the AvindoAv again. 
 
 " Why don't you set by the stove, Gabriel ?" asked 
 the man, still in a low tone. " You must be cold here." 
 
 " I'd rather stand here and look out the windoAV," was 
 the answer. 
 
 " You must be lonesome," said the man. " Come and 
 set doAvn by me awhile. Come," and he pulled gently at 
 the boy's arm. 
 
 " I like to stay here by myself, and watch the snow, 
 I can't sit by the stove. I want to think about my 
 mother." 
 
 The reply dimmed, the eyes of old Nathan Grubb with 
 tears.
 
 A PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 17 
 
 " I will be your friend, Gabriel," said he. " I will take 
 the place of your mother for you. Come, come with me, 
 and set up to the fire. You must n't think of these things 
 too much ; they ain't good for you; they'll hurt your mind." 
 
 " Will it do me any hurt to think of my dear mother, 
 Mr. Grubb ?" inquired the boy, with great iimocence. 
 
 " No ; but you must n't let your thoughts run to mel 
 ancholy too much. That 's all. You 're young yet, you 
 know. You '11 get over it all sometime, perhaps. Come ; 
 don't stay off here alone so !" 
 
 " Shall I ever forget my mother, Mr. Grubb, do you 
 think ?" returned Gabriel, turning over the words of his 
 consoler. " Have you forgotten all about your mother, 
 Mr. Grubb ?" 
 
 " No, no, bless your innocent soul ! No, no ; my dear 
 little lad ! Not at all, I thank God most devoutly ! Not at 
 all have I ! She 's in my heart here, every day I live ; and 
 she 's in my dreams at night, too, pretty often. But I 
 never allowed myself to think of nothing else ; if I had, I 
 should n't know how to do what it's so necessary I must 
 do. Ah, no, poor boy ! Never forget your own mother, 
 as long as you live. A man never has but one mother in 
 this world. Always be true to her memory, and you 
 can't well help bein' happy all the way through the world,, 
 let you be as poor as you may. Just remember that, 
 will you ? and remember old Nathan Grubb too, of the 
 Epping Poor-house, every time you think of it. Come 
 now, won't ye, and set up by the fire with me. You 're 
 lonesome here, I know. I want to cheer ye up a little. 
 Come ; it 's too cold out here." 
 
 Still the boy kept his attention riveted on the dreary 
 scene without doors. He made no answer, wrapped, to 
 appearance, in the sombre drapery of bis feelings. 
 
 Old Nathan stooped down to whisper in his ear, and so 
 brought his own face in close contact with the little sufferer's.
 
 
 18 A PAUPER'S FUNBKAL. 
 
 Down the boy's cheeks the great tears were rolling, 
 while his little chest heaved convulsively with the sobs it 
 had not the power to stifle. 
 
 Old Nathan started. His heart was touched deeply. 
 And as he turned sorrowfully away, he said, half aloud 
 as he went, 
 
 " Poor little feller ! Come, come and set with me I" 
 
 A shriveled and sputtering candle was not long after 
 brought in, that made the dreary room look drearier than 
 ever. Gabriel could not once be seduced from the posi 
 tion he had chosen ; and not until Mr. Hardcastle himself 
 finally came and told him it was time for him to go to 
 bed, did he offer to move from the spot. 
 
 In the dark as they always did he found his way to 
 his little bed up stairs, and hastily crawled in. As he 
 threw his head upon the pillow, tears rained from his 
 eyes, and wet his cheeks. 
 
 " Oh, my mother !" exclaimed he, in a moaning voice ; 
 " if I could see you once more ! Oh mother! mother!" 
 
 Had he dared, he would certainly have called on her 
 aloud. His heart was so cruelly torn with the thorns, 
 that he felt that to cry out would be a sure relief. This 
 way and that he turned, ciying, sobbing, whispering over 
 and over again words of anguish and distress ; and he 
 stared about him fitfully in the gloom of his cribbed little 
 room, as if it were possible that the figure of his dead pa 
 rent might appear in the darkness, and once more salute 
 him with her old kiss of affection. 
 
 And between sobbing and watching, weeping and 
 wishing, more in a dream than in a waking state, hardly 
 knowing who or where he was, the orphan fell finally 
 asleep. In dreams, at least, there might be happiness for 
 him. In dreams he might be permitted to behold his 
 mother again.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A CHASE ABOUND THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 GABRIEL awoke as soon as morning dawned, and tried 
 to recall his exact situation and properly connect the 
 strange circumstances that surrounded him. The first 
 thought that came filled his whole mind. "I have lost 
 my mother!" His heart sunk, and he felt as if in that 
 one instant he were being drawn down to the lowest 
 deep of despair. 
 
 His eyes wandered over the unfinished and unfurnished 
 room, from the floor to the rude rafters, among the dark 
 beams and cross-beams, and in the gloomy shadows of 
 the angles. Every thing looked so dismal ! Every object 
 spoke so loudly of desolation ! What was there to life 
 that he should desire to see any more of it ? How soon 
 had the light gone out for him, smothered with the folds 
 of a great and lasting trouble ! 
 
 Through the day, cold and unwelcome as it was, he 
 did nothing but sit silently by himself, or loiter alone 
 with an exceedingly sad countenance from one room to 
 another. The snow had piled itself high every where out 
 of doors, and only a single path had been made to the 
 wood-pile, the well, and so on to the barn. He sat by 
 the window^he greater part of the forenoon looking out 
 upon the spectacle. The sun had not risen clear, and the 
 sky still continued sullen and gloomy. The air seemed
 
 20 A CHASE ABOUND THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 not yet to have quite sifted down the whole of its feathery 
 freight. And all things out of doors conspired to in 
 crease the boy's despondency. 
 
 He Avould, at times, so far escape from the conscious 
 ness of his real situation as to lose himself for a moment 
 in his admiration of the fantastic freaks performed by the 
 snow over night ; studying its queer devices upon posts 
 and rails, roofs and walls; taken up with the various 
 images and pictures that crowded themselves so rapidly 
 into his mind ; and essaying to make out Faces and figures 
 on the trees, on the barn roof, about the old shed, and 
 the well-curb : and instantaneously the dread shadow of 
 that terrible recollection " I have lost my mother !" 
 would swing over his heart, and his brain reeled and 
 swam with the power of the sudden shock it gave him. 
 
 The men and women belonging about the house could 
 do but a trifle on such a day in the way of out-door 
 work : so they drew themselves in a sober circle around 
 the stove that stood in the middle of the floor, and oc 
 cupied themselves with sage comments on the character 
 and extent of the storm, the length of time before the 
 roads would get " broke out," and the prospects of sun 
 shine for some time in the future. The most of them 
 leaned their elbows forward upon their knees, getting in 
 as near proximity to the stove as they could ; and when 
 ever one and another of them moved much, the old ash- 
 bottomed chairs creaked with a sound that seemed to 
 have been created for a country poor-house, and for just 
 nothing else. 
 
 A few indulged in their old habit of smoking, draw 
 ing at their dingy pipes as if they could yield them 
 sustenance itself, and crunching the pipe-sterns between 
 their teeth while they essayed to add to the con\eisation. 
 The floor was entirely bare, and about the stovo was wet
 
 A CHASE AROUND THE CHIMNEY. 21 
 
 i 
 
 the melted snow that had been stamped off from one 
 and another's boots. There had long been great need of 
 a cleaning at the windows, and the need made itself still 
 more manifest as the dinginess was now set off so clearly 
 against the spotless ground of snow. 
 
 The men turned now and then, some of them, to look 
 at little Gabriel, who carefully kept his back toward 
 them, and occasionally they had something sorrowful to 
 say in a loud whisper with each other ; which was gen 
 erally accompanied with a shake of the head, and a 
 lengthening expression of countenance. Two or three 
 women poor, worn-down creatures helped fill up the 
 circle of paupers around the stove. They were attired in 
 the most meager style, and their faces looked dried and 
 shriveled. They, too, bent their eyes on Gabriel, though 
 they said nothing of him as yet among themselves. 
 Their sympathy for him was quick far more so th#n 
 that of the others could have been. 
 
 As the smoke from their pipes began by degrees to fill 
 the room, the orphan was seized with a fit of coughing ; 
 and at last, stealing out unseen through the door, he 
 found his way upstairs to his sleeping apartment. 
 
 The sight of the little bed instantly stirred afresh the 
 grief that had all the time been waiting to break its 
 bounds and overflow. When he looked at it, deserted 
 and empty, and when he thought, too, how tenderly his 
 own mother had always watched for him at his bedside, 
 coming to look at him often before he arose in the morn 
 ing he could not control himself any longer, but fell in 
 voluntarily on his knees and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 Something like a prayer it was a true and hearty 
 child's prayer escaped his lips, in a voice that was but a 
 deep moan. "Oh, my mother! my mother!" could be 
 heard in the midst of convulsive sobbings and sighings
 
 S2 A CHASE ABOUND THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 all over the room. Every thing his mother had told him, 
 every word she had spoken, all her blessed expressions 
 of affection, all her looks of love came freshly to him 
 now. He saw her dear face again. He caught the 
 glimpse of that same sweet sweet smile. Before his 
 very eyes danced her image, holding out to him its open 
 arms. He yearned to throw himself into these arms. 
 He longed to lay his head once more upon that bosom, 
 and there forget his destroying griefs. And then as the 
 image suddenly disappeared from his vision, and the 
 sweet smile faded slowly from her face, and her opened 
 arms were lost in the vapory mists that seemed to re 
 ceive and enshroud her the dark shadow sailed over his 
 soul darker than ever, and the very air of the apartment 
 grew oppressive to his lungs. 
 
 " Oh, my mother ! my dear mother !" 
 
 Could cry of any other syllables so move the hearts of 
 those who might be listeners ? 
 
 When the full power of his grief was in some degree 
 spent, and exhausted nature doggedly refused to go 
 further with its poignant suffering, he leaned his head 
 against the edge of the bed, and, still sitting on the 
 naked floor, seemed slowly lapsing into a gentle slumber. 
 Cold as it was he felt that he could have fallen asleep in 
 that place as well as any other. And now the light from 
 the single little window grew dimmer and dimmer, fading 
 slowly on his sight, and opening to his drowsy senses a 
 vista in which he aw the strangest objects mixed inex 
 tricably in the strangest confusion. Faces such as he 
 never could have beheld any where in his short lifetime 
 before, now came crowding and flying past each other 
 through. -the window, dancing along toward him on the 
 pale rays of the light ; and heaps of outstretched bands 
 seemed extended to him from all directions, as if they
 
 A CHASE ABOUND THE CHIMNEY. 23 
 
 would bring him help in his trouble, or were beckoning 
 him away from that scene of sorrow and distress, or 
 would clutch at him to save him from the weary life and 
 the saddened death of the pauper. 
 
 These images mixed themselves up grotesquely with 
 his dreaminess, peopling thickly the land of visions to 
 which he was fast going. Some of the matter seemed a 
 reality ; and some of it was so dim and distant he could 
 not make beginning or end out of it at all. And among 
 the beams and rafters, and away in the darkened angles 
 did these phantoms go ; some of the faces looking as dull 
 as they anywise could, grinning and chattering at him ; 
 and some of the figures playing fantastic tricks, and 
 making most ridiculous leaps and swings all about the 
 walls and ceiling. 
 
 His eyelids grew heavy. His eyes almost shut then 
 opened themselves wide then quite shut together ; and 
 he was at last in the realms of slumber. And out of all 
 those strange and droll faces was looking forth now only 
 a single face that well-known face of his mother ; and 
 the smiles were beginning to beam again on him, and the 
 eyes to sparkle with the old-time affection. 
 
 Suddenly a loud, sharp cry rang in his ears ; and im 
 mediately following it was to be heard a wild medley of 
 sounds that might have been human, but seemed little 
 less than unearthly. His eyes opened, and he raised his 
 head to look about the room. 
 
 Instantly the cries were repeated, making an indescrib 
 able combination of noises that were enough to chill one's 
 blood with horror. 
 
 He rose to his feet, and walked cautiously toward the 
 window ; then it suddenly occurred to him whence these 
 hideous outcries came ; and, obeying the curiosity that
 
 24 A CHASE ABOUND THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 took instant possession of him, he went out of the room 
 and up into the garret. 
 
 In a distant corner of the dismal and darkened old gar 
 ret had been made a kind of cage or pen, much after the 
 style of a coop for wild animals, in which was at this time 
 confined a human being. As Gabriel reached the top of 
 the stairs he stopped and listened. Dim as the light of 
 the attic was it was yet sufficient to disclose to his strain 
 ing gaze a pair of fierce and burning eyes that peered 
 through the bars of that wooden cage ; and a row of huge 
 white teeth, that gnashed between lips all parched and 
 livid ; and a human head, with hair crazily tossed and 
 tangled upon its wrinkled temples. He had heard those 
 noises before, and might perhaps have known that there 
 was some deep mystery in them. He must have hitherto 
 suspected that the dreary attic was put to uses of which 
 he had not been very minutely advised ; and he remem 
 bered that sundry expressions from the older ones in the 
 house, dropped in cautious tones, had often fallen within 
 his quick hearing. 
 
 Going straight to the great chimney, he crouched in its 
 shadow, peering from around the corner at the creature 
 thus kept in confinement. He felt a creeping sensation 
 come over his flesh as the sounds continued ; yet he could 
 not stir, for a feeling that was strangely compounded of 
 fear and inquisitiveness. He was riveted to the spot. 
 
 "With howls such as a child could never before have 
 heard, and a quick succession immediately after of a series 
 of the most unearthly and terrific guttural sounds imagin 
 able, the maniac continued alternately to beat together 
 the palms of his hands, pluck fiercely at the locks of his 
 hair, that for a longer time than usual had escaped shear 
 ing at the hands of Mr. Hardcastle, and pull and tug with 
 all his excited strength at the bars of his most unwelcome
 
 A CHASE AROUND THE CHIMNEY. 25 
 
 prison. His great gray eyes flashed like coals of fire. 
 He raved and cursed impiously. He stamped his naked 
 feet upon the floor as if he would tear every board 
 through. 
 
 Perhaps he was cold. What of that ? He was a crazy 
 man ; and such needed not to be warm. They must only 
 be kept from harming those whom God had made more 
 jane than they. Possibly the frost had taken hold of his 
 feet. But better so, said his friends and keepers, if by 
 the means be brought no untimely frost upon their own 
 individual happiness. A poor, pitiful, wretched outcast! 
 cooped and caged in the darkest corner of the dark gar 
 ret of the old poor-house ! when out of hearing, utterly 
 forgotten by those of his kin ; and when accidentally 
 within reach of their ears, flung off hastily from their com 
 passion with a light and random expression, perhaps more 
 than half of contempt ! 
 
 He espied Gabriel at length, whose curiosity or intense 
 sympathy had led him to expose himself round the corner 
 of the chimney ; and calling out to him with a variety of 
 sounds, that could be said to express hardly more than 
 the idiotic noises in the throat of a deaf and dumb man, 
 he again shook the bars of his cage as if nothing could 
 prevent his coming through. 
 
 The boy now walked forward a step or two. In this 
 novel and startling spectacle he had for the moment for 
 gotten all his own sorrows, and was giving his sympathies 
 entirely over to another. He saw that his was not the, 
 one case of trouble in the world ; aud as. his young mind 
 opened to receive such a truth, and in such a terribly un 
 happy way, too, he had already learned what all the mere 
 words of feeling friends might not have Convinced him of 
 in his lifetime. 
 
 Such cries as the poor creature now put forth were not 
 2
 
 26 A CHASE AKOUND THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 within the power of description. He got through rav 
 ing only to tear his hair, or to shake once more at the 
 bars, or to pull off the meager remnants of his thin gar 
 ments in shreds and. tatters. Pacing up and down for the 
 whole length of his apartment, yet every moment keeping 
 his eyes fiercely fixed on his unexpected visitor, he was 
 an object to awaken dread quite as much as compassion. 
 He seemed a monster, though he might, beneath all, have 
 possessed the heart of a woman. The glare of his eye 
 balls was enough to burn its impression for years upon the 
 brain. 
 
 " Come ! come ! come here .!" he called, beckoning 
 with all his might to Gabriel. " I want you here ! No 
 body comes near me now ! I want to look at your eyes ! 
 Let me eat your cheeks ! They 're good I know they 're 
 good! Come, and let me get hold of you !" 
 
 And then following up these crazy importunities with 
 syllables that no being entirely human could have, uttered, 
 he clutched at the boy fiercely through the. bars of his 
 prison, while his eyes gleamed with a still increased wild- 
 ness and ferocity. 
 
 " O o h ! I must have you !" again he cried. " I 
 must get you ! Come to me here ! Come in the reach 
 of my hands ! I know you, though you don't think so ! 
 I know your name! I've seen your mother! Yes; I 
 know the story ; it 's a long one ; but I shall tell it some 
 time or other ; just listen, and see if I don't ! Come 
 come up to these bars ! Let me look into your eyes ! 
 They're gray, I know! I like gray eyes; they burn so 
 into the brain ! Come and let me bite once into your 
 cheek !" and then followed once more those idiotic 
 sounds from the throat. 
 
 Some indescribable fascination took possession of the 
 boy, for gradually he moved nearer and nearer the de-
 
 A CIIASE ABOUND THE CHIMNEY. 27 
 
 mented prisoner, keeping Ins eyes all the time fixed on 
 the glaring eyes of the latter. If he was terrified with 
 what he saw, it must have been a terror mixed strangely 
 with a charm ; for there was some sort of an influence 
 exerted upon him that could have been little short of 
 downright infatuation. 
 
 Just as he had reached the point midway between the 
 great chimney and the cage of the maniac, and appeared 
 to hesitate over the safety of advancing a single step fur 
 ther, the prisoner made a sudden rush with hands, head 
 and feet at the door, and with the effort that only one in 
 sane could be believed able to make, he burst down the 
 barrier with as much ease as if it had been mere wicker- 
 work, and precipitated himself on Gabriel. 
 
 So unexpected was the onset, the boy was quite over 
 whelmed with terror ; and setting up a loud cry of af 
 fright and despair, he ran backward to the chimney and 
 endeavored to secrete himself from his dangerous pursuer. 
 But he found that the latter was already close upon him. 
 He could hear him as he struck down his bare heels with 
 all his force on the floor. He fancied he could see his fly 
 ing hair, his glaring eyes, and his distorted features, over 
 his shoulders. He even imagined he could feel his hot 
 and sickly breath upon his neck, and that he was ready 
 with his thin and livid lips to whisper something startling 
 in his ears. 
 
 One loud and prolonged shriek it was a shriek of real 
 agony the child set up, and then ran round and round 
 the chimney for his very life. Still he could hear the 
 sound of that terrible creature's footsteps close behind 
 him. Still he could catch the pantings of his lungs, as he 
 grew more and more excited with the chase. Once or 
 twice he thought he could hold out no longer, but must 
 sink down to the floor from sheer exhaustion. His limbs
 
 28 A CHASE ABOUND 1HE CHIMNEY. 
 
 grew weaker very sensibly. His knees almost smote 
 together, and he thought they would give him their sup 
 port but a moment longer. He caught hold by the cor 
 ners of the chimney as he went round, endeavoring to 
 steady himself in a flight that was fast becoming so ir 
 regular. 
 
 At just the last moment, and barely in time to take ad 
 vantage of the only means of escape left him, he hap 
 pened in the course of his frightful circuits to spy the 
 open trap-door through which he had come up ; and 
 making an effort that he could hardly have believed he 
 had strength enough left for, he sprang agilely down 
 through the opening, and was doubly surprised to find 
 himself caught suddenly in another person's arms, and the 
 trap-door shut with a loud bang over his head. 
 
 " Gabriel ! Gabriel ! what did you go up there for ?" 
 asked a female voice, whose possessor was Mrs. Joy, one 
 of the unfortunate inmates of the place. " How come 
 you to go up there ?" 
 
 He was too much terrified, and too much out of breath, 
 to make her any answer, but suffered himself to be half 
 led and half carried down into his little room again. Mrs. 
 Joy took care to secure the two doors behind her, and 
 hurried away to acquaint Mr. Hardcastle with the situa 
 tion of the maniac, his Avild cries and howlings reverber 
 ating through the upper part of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Joy afterward sat down with Gabriel on the side 
 of his little bed, and there talked with him of his mother, 
 and of the place where he lived, and of the people whc 
 were there around him, until he had in a great degree 
 recovered from his fright, and his terror had changed into 
 tears for the memory of his mother.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BOUND OUT. 
 
 " You 'LL take the boy then, Mr. Nubbles, will you ?" 
 said the Selectman of Epping, conversing in an undeni 
 able business style and in no other with a man who 
 had come from a neighboring town to decide upon the 
 matter. 
 
 " Wai, as for that, Mr. Jorum, I 'spose I shall ; but I 
 don't quite make up my mind yet. I must see him fust, 
 you know." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; certainly, Mr. Nubbles ! You shall see 
 him, of course. .A good boy he is, Mr. Nubbles ; got ex 
 actly the right kind of principles ; never 's been tampered 
 with by nobody and that sp'iles 'em full as often as any 
 thing, now days ; never been bound out yet to human 
 bein' : all good and new, he is! Yes, of course you shall 
 see him, Mr. Nubbles. I thought you had." 
 
 " No, I hav' n't. Shall we go now ? I never shall hev' 
 any more time, as I know on." 
 
 " Yes, we '11 go now," assented Mr. Jorum. " Besides," 
 he added, as they turned and walked away together 
 " besides, Mr. Nubbles, you know the town don't want to 
 keep such things on its hands any longer than 's abso 
 lutely necessary. You understand ?" 
 
 Was there any covert sneer meant in the use of that 
 word thing, that the Selectman of Epping employed
 
 30 BOUND OUT. 
 
 with such a contemptible flippancy ? Would a stranger 
 have thought so, do you suppose, had he himself heard 
 the expression, and seen the indescribable look with which 
 it was accompanied ? 
 
 Arrived at length at the door of the dreary old poor- 
 house, they immediately entered the room where all the 
 paupers were seated loungingly around, and fell to the 
 business in hand. By mere accident only, Mr. Hardcastle 
 in a few moments got wind of the new arrival, and hur 
 ried into the apartment to make himself officially and 
 commendably useful in the matter that was going for 
 ward. 
 
 It was in the middle of a wintery afternoon, bleak and 
 raw without, and hardly less cheerless within. Men and 
 women listened and looked on with greedy curiosity, 
 eager to see and know all. Old Nathan Grubb had suc 
 ceeded hitherto in securing the friendship of Gabriel, and 
 was just now occupied with talking to him in the most 
 agreeable and consolatory manner he was able. Both 
 the old man and the boy looked up in a little surprise as 
 the two strangers entered the room. 
 
 " Yonder 's your boy," said Mr. Jorum, in a remark 
 ably strong voice, pointing with his finger exactly at the 
 face of Gabriel. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, yes !" 
 
 That was all Mr. Nubbles ventured ; and forthwith he 
 fell to staring at the orphan most unmercifully. He then 
 ran his eyes rapidly up and down his person, surveying 
 his figure and limbs as he would have surveyed a young 
 colt, fearing lest he might become somehow a loser by 
 his bargain. 
 
 " Not very strong in the j'ints, I shouldn't judge," he 
 finally remarked, turning to, the Selectman, who had been 
 idly drumming with his fingers on the back of a chair.
 
 BOUND OUT. 31 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Nubbles," said he, " you don't know. These 
 things are the hardest sort o' things to tell. The fact is, 
 you may get a prize just when you ain't expecting it, in 
 such a matter as this. These things don't go by any rule, 
 Mr. Nubbles." 
 
 Mr. Nubbles was encouraged to go on with his survey. 
 The Selectman gazed around the room with a look of un 
 speakable dignity, and awaited the course of Mr. Nubbles's 
 investigation quite calmly. " Bright looking ?" finally 
 suggested the latter, turning his face on that of the town 
 official. 
 
 " Certainly he is ; uncommonly so, I think," assented 
 Mr. Jorum. 
 
 " He may do to run of arrants awhile, perhaps " 
 
 " Yes, just so ; and do heavier work by and by," inter 
 rupted Mr. Jorum. 
 
 " Exactly ; yis. Is he healthy, do you know ?" 
 
 "Perfectly so, I believe; isn't he, Mr. Hardcastle? 
 You know all about it. Mr. Nubbles here talks of haviti' 
 him bound out to him : taking him oif your hands you 
 know. Perfectly healthy, ain't he, Mr. Hardcastle ?" 
 
 " I frlieve so," answered the keeper. " I 'm sure, I 
 never knew nothin' to the contrary. Ain't very big, as 
 you can see for yourself; but never 's sick at all, not sense 
 he 's been with me ; and that 's sense a year ago, comin' 
 next spring." 
 
 " Hear that, Mr. Nubbles, don't you ?" asked the Se 
 lectman. 
 
 " No," reaffirmed Mr. Hardcastle, wishing to please 
 his principal all he could, " I reck'n that boy never see a 
 sick day yet. Mis' Hardcastle, you know Mr. Jorum, is 
 one o' the very best o' nurses. There's no denyin' that, 
 now." 
 
 " Yes, I believe she is. There 's as little expensive sick-
 
 32 BOUND OUT. 
 
 ness in this house, Mr. Nubbles, I '11 venture to say, as in 
 any house of the same kind in any town in New England, 
 I don't care where the town is. Yes, sir ; I think we 
 might congratulate ourselves as a town, that we 've got 
 as good a doctor here as we 've got housekeeper. There 's 
 a great deal in that, Mr. Nubbles !" and he lengthened 
 out the word great, till the very sound of it made a deep 
 impression no less on the paupers assembled than on Mr. 
 Nubbles's own self. 
 
 "Does Mr. Nubbles talk of takin' the boy?" asked the 
 poor-house keeper, directing his attention to the Selectman. 
 
 " Yes, he does," said Mr. Jorum, rather curtly. 
 
 " Then I can tell him he '11 git a mighty nice boy for 
 his bargain ; that 's all I can say about it. The boy 's 
 nothin' more nor less than a treasure; and I rather 
 reckon Mr. Nubbles '11 find it out 'fore he gits through 
 with it !" 
 
 " I guess I '11 take him," finally spoke out the latter, as 
 if he were going to make the best of a bad bargain. " I 
 must try and do somethiri* with him." 
 
 The Selectman thereupon drew up to a little table, and 
 borrowing from Mr. Hardcastle a small volume of legal 
 forms that he usually kept by him, squared away at a 
 large sheet of rather smutty foolscap, and commenced 
 copying and filling up the skeleton of an " indenture." 
 Meanwhile Mr. Hardcastle removed Gabriel to the apart 
 ment sacred to his wife's uses, where he found her, as 
 usual, surrounded with all the comforts she could, by par 
 simonious economy, impress into a place like that, and to 
 whom he pi'oceeded to communicate the exact state of 
 things. 
 
 " You '11 git him ready, Mis' Hardcastle, won't ye," 
 said he, " while I go out in t' other room with Mr. Jorum ? 
 I can't stop, ye see."
 
 BOUND OUT. 33 
 
 " But what 's to hinder your gittin' the boy ready 
 yourself, I want to know ?" returned his amiable spouse. 
 " I 'm sure I don't see, for the life of me, what the' is to 
 be done! He hain't got no clo's, as I know on, except 
 what he 's got on his back this minnit ; and as for givin' 
 him an outfit, jest because he's goin' away, it's a thing, 
 Mr. Hardcastle, I can't in any conscience do ! It 's a 
 thing, furthermore, Mr. Hardcastle, that I shan't do ! 
 You can git him ready as well as 1 can." 
 
 "But you see, Mis' Hardcastle," plead he, "you see 
 they want me in t'other room!" 
 
 "What for, now?" she asked, looking him full in the 
 face. 
 
 " Wha' for ! Why, to help about drawin' up the writ- 
 in's and things, of course." 
 
 "Then go in t'other room wW^you," said she; "but 
 I tell you once for all, that boy's got nothin' at all to 
 pack. If he 's bound out to any body it '11 be without 
 any clothiri 1 , I 'm very sure !" 
 
 Upon this Mr. Hardcastle returned to the other apart 
 ment, and posted himself exactly behind the chair of the 
 Selectman, looking with the eye of a haAvk over his shoul 
 der at every mark, sign and letter that was made, and 
 upon every word that was written. Now and then, dur 
 ing the respite of a brief conversation between the Select 
 man and Mr. Nubbles, he marched stridingly around the 
 room among his brow-beaten and spirit-broken subjects, 
 as if with a desire to impress them afresh with the conse 
 quence to which he had that day attained ; and then he 
 walked deliberately and impressively back to his place 
 near the table again. The precise amount of assistance 
 he rendered on this occasion it might be easier for him 
 self than for any one else present to compute. 
 
 At last the instrument, legally known as the indenture, 
 2*
 
 34 BOUND OUT. 
 
 was finished. Already were the many threads of the 
 afternoon beginning to draw together, and Mr. Nubbles 
 had still ten miles, or such a matter, to ride before he 
 would reach home. He started up rather abruptly from 
 : . his seat, and proceeded to button his coarse shaggy over 
 coat about him. 
 
 " "Wai," said he ; " where 's my boy now ?" 
 
 " All ready for ye," retufhed Mr. Hardcastle with alac 
 rity ; " waitin' here jest in the next room." 
 
 They went out into the entry, and there stood little 
 Gabriel, thinly enough clad for such a time as that, with 
 out any over-garment, without the slightest protection for 
 his hands, and bitterly crying. 
 
 " What 's the matter ?" inquired Mr. Jorum, affecting 
 a feeling of tenderness, now he had got the pauper off his 
 hands. " What do you cry for ? Don't you want to go 
 where you '11 have a new home ? It is n't every one that 
 can get as good a home as you ">re going to. Just remem 
 ber that, will you ? and then stop your crying." 
 
 " Hain't he got no Overcoat ?" asked Mr. Nubbles, 
 possibly as anxious to secure all the boy's clothes as to 
 provide any thing additional for his comfort. " He '11 
 freeze !" 
 
 " No," said Mr. Hardcastle ; " he '11 have to do with 
 out. He had n't none when he come here, and we 've 
 managed one way and another somehow to keep him 
 warm without." 
 " Nor mittens, neither ?" pursued Mr. Nubbles. 
 
 " He had a pair, but he did n't take care on 'em at all, 
 and they 're pootey much worn out, I guess, by this time." 
 
 Mr. Nubble-s humanely proposed to borrow something 
 to wrap him in, for the ride was to be a long and a cold 
 one ; besides, they were to make the journey in an open 
 wagon.
 
 BOUND OUT. 35 
 
 " You '11 fetch it back agin if I lend you an old coat ?" 
 said Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 " Certain : if I don't, I can send it to you, you know." 
 Then he turned upon Gabriel, -while the keeper had gone 
 for the garment in question : " Don't you want to go* 
 home with me, my little lad," said he. Gabriel felt too 
 sad to make any answer ; he had strange thoughts even 
 for a child of his years, and such as he could not com 
 municate. 
 
 Pretty soon Mr. Hardcastle returned. He held a gro 
 tesque article of. wearing apparel in his hand, quartered 
 and divided up into innumerable pieces stripes, patches, 
 and mosaic of every variety of size, shape and color. 
 It seemed to be a work more for human curiosity to feed 
 on than for a human being to keep warm with. 
 
 Clapping it suddenly over Gabriel's shoulders, so that 
 it almost buried him up in its enveloping folds, Mr. 
 Hardcastle bade the, boy keep up good heart and make 
 the best of every tning, and he would get along. 
 
 He was " getting along" even then ! 
 
 When his old master bade him good-by, and watched 
 him afterward as he followed Mr. Nubbles across the 
 yard to his wagon, he really presented a ludicrous sight, 
 though a sorry one. But far beneath the humor that 
 would have been stirred in a looker-on, was another feel 
 ing that of the profoundest pity. Once or twice Gabriel 
 turned partly round to catch a final look at the old 
 house filled with dear memories to him, yet otherwise 
 so forbidding and the tears blinded his eyes and ran 
 down his cheeks. 
 
 " Come on !" called Mr. Nubbles. " Faster !" 
 
 Gabriel made an effort to run in order to catch up ; 
 and in so doing he nearly threw himself down from en 
 tanglement in the folds of his enormous garment. As he
 
 36 BOUND OUT. 
 
 climbed into Mr. Nubble's wagon, he threw his last look 
 -half sorrowful and half wistful in the direction of the 
 old Epping poor-house. 
 
 It was dark, or very nearly so, when they came to 
 |heir journey's end. The orphan could only comprehend, 
 in the midst of his excitement and the gloomy evening 
 shadows that were falling around him, that he had arrived 
 at a shed standing but a few yards from a house, in which 
 were indiscriminately piled away old wagons, cart bodies, 
 sleighs, barrels, and odd wheels, with an additional variety 
 of trumpery that he could not distinguish, and through 
 the whole of which the horse was to be conducted to his 
 stall in the barn. 
 
 " You stan' here," said Mr. Nubbles, " while I put my 
 horse out." And Gabriel stood there, and shivered and 
 shook with the cold. 
 
 When at length his new friend was quite ready, he 
 sallied forth from the barn-door wherever in the dark 
 ness that may be and came upon Gabriel through the 
 mysterious alley of barrels and wagon-wheels with con 
 siderable suddenness. 
 
 " Now we '11 go in," said he. " Jest foller arter me." 
 
 The high kitchen-door opened, and the boy immedi 
 ately found himself in a spacious room much larger than 
 he remembered ever to have seen in a country farm-house 
 before, with a flashing and blazing fire on a very broad 
 hearth that sufficed to light the entire apartment with its 
 dazzling flames. A starved and shriveled tallow-candle 
 burned on a table against the further wall, at which stood 
 a tall, thin, shrewish-looking woman, her hair very much 
 snarled and tangled, peeling potatoes into a deep wooden 
 tray. She was preparing a supper of mincemeat against 
 the arrival of Mr. Nubbles. 
 
 On each side of the hearth that extended very far out
 
 BOUND OUT. 37 
 
 into the room, stood a wooden chair or two of odd pat 
 terns and sizes, in one of which was sitting a good-sized 
 boy gazing stupidly into the fire. He owned a round 
 pumpkin-shaped head, whose carroty hair was cut low 
 over his forehead after the law of a perfectly straight 
 line ; and in his face lurked an impression that he might 
 not yet be altogether " done," in spite of his habit of 
 hugging to the fire so persistently. When Gabriel en 
 tered he looked up from the fire at him with an expression 
 of the most settled stupidity. His eyes were like dead 
 and dull fish eyes ; the protruding cheeks seemed trying 
 to close them entirely. His half turned-up nose gave his 
 countenance an additional expression of insensibility to 
 every thing not related to those two pursuits eating and 
 drinking and his lips were not at all behindhand in 
 making complete the original design of the picture. As 
 he looked up at Gabriel his mother at the table turned 
 round likewise. 
 
 " Hullo, father !" saluted the boy, grasping a knee in 
 each hand. 
 
 " You see I 've fetched him," said Mr. Nubbles to his 
 wife, who stood regarding the youngling with a look he 
 thought decidedly ferocious. 
 
 "Wai," said she, quite slow in her articulation; "I 
 sh'd think you had !" And she fell to piercing and rid 
 dling him with her gimlet gray eyes again. 
 
 Mr. Nubbles took off the orphan's borrowed greatcoat, 
 and bade him go warm himself by the fire. 
 
 " What do you s'pose he 's good for, now ?" began the 
 mistress of the place, concentrating the very verjuice of 
 her persimmon nature into a single look at her husband. 
 
 " Good for !" exclaimed he. " Work, to be sure !" 
 
 " Don't you be too sure o' that, let me tell you ! See 
 what a little bony thing he is ! Look at his hands, and
 
 38 . BOUND OUT. 
 
 his doll arms, and his tender flesh ! Just see what dread, 
 ful slight build he 's- got ! Why, I could almost blow 
 him away with my own breath ! Pshaw, Nahum Nub 
 bles ! Pshaw, I say, Nahum ! You are a smart man, as 
 every body 'H say !" 
 
 "Hold on," said the husband. "You 're in a little too 
 big hurry, I guess, about it. Jest give my little chap a 
 trial first. You don't know yet what there may be in 
 his gristle. Wait till you 've tried him once, Kitty." 
 
 " Him /" ejaculated the wife very contemptuously in 
 reply, still holding the knife and fork with which she had 
 been taking off the jackets of the potatoes; "I wouldn't 
 IqoJc at him ; he can't earn his porridge ; no, nor even the 
 salt he '11 need to put into it ! See him, now the poor, 
 lean, shaky, starved-to-death, miserable little wretch ! 
 and then look at our Kit by the side of him ! See the 
 difference for yourself, will you, if you can! No, no 
 I say don't bring any of your little weazen-bodied fel 
 lows to me ! If you do they '11 be pretty sure to get 
 worked to death, and that 's all I 've got to say about it !" 
 
 " Wai, work 'em as hard as you 're a mind to, then," 
 answered Mr. Nubbles. " It 's nothing to me, I am sure. 
 Come ; I sh'd .like my supper : I 'm hungry if you 've 
 stopped to think of it!" 
 
 " Hungry !" sneered the gaunt female again ; " I sh'd 
 reckon you would be, ridin' home with such a hungry- 
 lookin' chap as that all the time before your eyes ! I 'm 
 sure, Nahum Nubbles, I'd never rob the poor crows, 
 'specially at this time o' year, when it 's harder 'n usual 
 for 'em to git their livin', you see !" And upon this she 
 turned immediately around to her tray, and soon had the 
 broad blade of her chopping-knife slicing and mincing to 
 gether the meat and potatoes, of which that wooden dish 
 had been made the receptacle.
 
 BOUND OUT. 39 
 
 At the fire young Kit sat eyeing the little desolate- 
 looking stranger with every bit of the intensity of which 
 his dead eyes were capable ; not for a single moment re 
 moving them from his face and person. He inspected his 
 clothes, every article and rag of them, one by one; now 
 his short and thin jacket ; now his insufficient shoes, over 
 the rough .and horny edges of which his coarse blue 
 stockings dangled about his heels; and now his short- 
 limbed pantaloons, as short as they well could be, whether 
 consistently or inconsistently with comfort. Then he fell 
 foul of his face, and studied with commendable care 
 every lineament, staring chiefly, however as he naturally 
 would at his highly expressive and beautiful eyes. Ga 
 briel began to grow a trifle uneasy under this annoying 
 infliction, and looked from him to the fire, and from the 
 fire again to him, folding and unfolding his hands in his 
 lap continually. 
 
 Mr. Nubbles had absented himself from the room. To 
 tell the exact truth, Mr. Nubbles had gone out in obedi 
 ence to what was quite a regular habit with him, whether 
 about going from home, or recently returned to that 
 spot; he had just stepped out, as he humorously ex 
 pressed himself, to " wet his whistle." So the woman 
 finding herself all alone with the boys suddenly stopped 
 the motion of her chopping-knife, and called out to her 
 son 
 
 "Why don't you speak to him, Christopher? See 
 if he can talk I See if he knows any thing, why don't 
 you ?" 
 
 Kit, the family pet, on being thus appealed to, merely 
 suffered his eyes to slide, by a motion peculiar to himself, 
 from the object on which they had long been fixed over 
 to his encouraging mother and then as quietly suffered 
 them to slide back again.
 
 40 BOUND OUT. 
 
 " Ask him what Ms name is, Kit," persisted his mother, 
 rising to empty the contents of her tray into a spider. 
 
 " It 's Gabriel Vane," timidly yet trustingly answered 
 the orphan, hoping by his own promptness to get their 
 favor in advance. 
 
 "Gabriel?" sneered and laughed Mrs. Nubbles. 
 "Named after the angel, I s'pose ?" 
 
 " Ma'am ?" inquired he, thinking she had soberly put 
 him a question that he must answer. 
 
 "No matter," she replied, a little abashed by the in 
 nocent tone in which he spoke; and immediately she 
 placed the spider full of mince-meat upon some coals she 
 had drawn out on the hearth, and drew the supper table 
 into the middle of the floor. Just then Mr. Nubbles made 
 his appearance again, coughing and wiping his lips with 
 his sleeve. 
 
 " I wish you \vould n't leave your company for me to 
 entertain," said his wife, clapping down the plates, and 
 knives and forks upon the bare table as fast as she could. 
 
 " For you /" said Mr. Nubbles. " Ha ! ha ! I did n't. 
 Kit, can't you amuse the boy ? Kit," he repeated, sidling 
 up to his son and pretending to speak in a tone of pro 
 found secrecy to him, though Gabriel could hear what he 
 said as well as Kit " I 've brought home somebody to 
 do your chores for ye ! How d' ye like that ?" 
 
 "I like it, father," answered the pig-like young crea 
 ture. " I git sick o' cleanin' out the stable, and feedin' 
 the hogs, and doin' all such things. I don't like to do it, 
 father. Shan't I have nothin' to do, then? Thunder! 
 that's good, ain't it?" And the youth chuckled, and 
 swelled out his fat cheeks, and squeezed together his 
 small eyes, and drew in his head like a mud-turtle within 
 his collar, till his father laughed aloud to see what ex 
 cellent spirits he had been the means of putting him in.
 
 BOUND OUT. 41 
 
 " Yes, but there 's work enough for you to do, Chris 
 topher," interrupted his mother, who was now taking up 
 the smoking mince-meat into a brown earthen dish ; " but 
 then, I don't calc'late any child of mine '11 ever live to do 
 what's for another to do, sich a one as that one yonder 
 for instance." 
 
 " You 're right there, Miss Nubbles," returned her hus 
 band. " I'm with you there, Kitty." 
 
 And after this little passage all sat down to table ex 
 cept Gabriel ; he hesitated. 
 
 " Come, set up," called Mr. Nubbles. 
 
 " I don't wish any," said Gabriel, scarcely knowing what 
 excuse he could make that would seem even plausible. 
 
 " Don't want any ! Yes, you do. Set up here." 
 
 " La ! Mr. Nubbles," broke in his wife, " I would n't 
 force him to eat against his will, I 'm sure. Do let him 
 go without if he wants to. His appetite will come to him 
 soon enough for our purpose, I '11 warrant you." 
 
 Could she at that moment have looked into Gabriel's 
 heart, she would have seen that he was sincerely thanking 
 her for her timely interference. 
 
 " What 's the odds ?" she went on, coarsely. " If he 
 feels as if this wasn't good enough for him, then let him 
 go back to old Epping poorhouse again. Perhaps he '11 
 manage to find something better over there !" 
 
 " I don't feel hungry," meekly put in Gabriel. 
 
 " Wai, but you 'd better set up even if you don't," 
 said Mr. Nubbles ; " you can't tell when you may be." 
 So Gabriel reluctantly complied, and took his place be 
 tween the husband and the wife, and exactly opposite 
 Kit. That youth had not wasted any time on prelim 
 inary ceremonies. Seizing his knife and fork the instant 
 he sat down with a gluttonous wink of his dead eyes, and 
 a contortion of his countenance that was mistakingly
 
 42 BOUND OUT. 
 
 meant for an unbounded expression of delight, he dove 
 like an expert swimmer right to the bottom of his work, 
 and came up to the surface again with his mouth and 
 cheeks crammed to distention with the hot mince-meat he 
 had watched while cooking with such envious greediness. 
 Gabriel only sipped a little tea, which Mrs. Nubbles 
 was considerate enough to make very weak for him ; and 
 ate a mouthful or two of brown crust, but nothing more. 
 His eyes wandered every where about the room, and upon 
 every body and every thing its four great walls contained. 
 It seemed to him as if his olden griefs had now been not 
 only entirely renewed but increased fourfold.
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 KIT NUBBLES. 
 
 P 
 
 GABRIEL was allowed a bed in a further corner of the 
 wretched old garret, almost under the very furthest reach 
 of the eaves, where through the wide cracks and chinks 
 the raw air poured in on all sides in jets and spouts, and 
 streams. A straw bed fell to his share, meagerly supplied 
 with straw at that ; and his feet stood on the icy cold 
 floor every night he drew off his stockings. 
 
 The sad-hearted boy liked most to get off early to bed 
 at night, where he felt secure from the unfeeling attacks 
 so plentifully made on him by the rest of the household ; 
 and where too, he might in peaceful though sorrowful si 
 lence, let his thoughts go out to his dear, dear mother. 
 Tears almost nightly wet his pillow. When he did get 
 permission to go to bed, he was generally so tired with 
 his work, and so much saddened with his day's busy 
 thoughts, that tears brought him the only relief he ever 
 felt. So he often wept himself asleep under the low 
 eaves of the dreary garret, and knew nothing more of 
 his griefs until morning. 
 
 Why was Mrs. Nubbles indulgent enough to give him 
 a bed by himself? It is a question, really. Her husband 
 had once taken the liberty to put her the very same one 
 himself. 
 
 " Do you think I 'd have a poor, puny, decayed little 

 
 44 KIT NUBBLES. 
 
 pauper sleep in the same bed with our Christopher our 
 only child, Nahum Nubbles !" said she. 
 
 And the reader has got his answer, too. 
 
 It was Gabriel's lot to be kept at work continually. 
 Mrs. Nubbles said that if it was in him, she was deter 
 mined to get it out of him ; and therefore set him about 
 all the odds and ends of labor, both in doors and out, 
 that she could pick up or devise. Now he lugged across 
 the yard a heavy pail of swill ; now he carried potatoes 
 and turnips in a large basket that he could scarcely lift, 
 to the cows ; now he bore bundles of one thing and an 
 other for her, from the garret to the cellar, and so back 
 again ; and now he brought in heavy armfuls of green 
 wood from the door-yard, picking the fuel from the snow 
 and ice as he was best able. Any thing to keep him busy. 
 Any thing to strain those slight limbs, and weaken that 
 slender chest, and break that too fine spirit. 
 
 On one subject Mrs. Nubbles had put her foot down at 
 the outset, and that was that the boy should be made to 
 work, and do nothing but work. And then what re 
 mained for her husband but to acquiesce with all his feeble 
 might and main in the spirit of her energetic determin 
 ation ? He might be led to this chiefly out of regard for 
 his own comfort ; for had he ventured to cross, in the 
 least, the pleasure of his other half in a matter like this, 
 he would in all probability have found his wife and boy 
 both about his ears, to his manifest disquiet and incon 
 venience. So, on a principle' thought to be pretty gener 
 ally recognized in affairs of a more public nature, he 
 yielded in silence to the ascertained will of the majority, 
 and lagged not behind in the petty persecution he saw 
 was going forward. 
 
 The residence of Mr. Nahum Nubbles was set upon an 
 elevation of land, from which could be seen several hills
 
 KIT NUBBLES. 45 
 
 and swells of ground more or less covered with trees, and 
 around which lay stretched out a tract of nature in its 
 almost primitive condition. Back from his moss-grown 
 orchard reached the forest, with huge rocks sprinkled 
 thickly among the trees, and rugged ledges rising here 
 and there within the distant shadows. The face of the 
 ground was rough and stony exceedingly ; so that as Mr. 
 Nubbles was known to get his living altogether off his 
 farm, it was equally well known that that living must 
 be but a lean one. 
 
 Years ago he had resided in another town ; and for a 
 man with industrious and persevering habits, probably 
 enjoyed as good opportunities of rising in the world as 
 the average. He was once a member of a church, too, in 
 good standing. But becoming implicated in various 
 speculating transactions, into which he was drawn by 
 those far shrewder -and more designing than himself, he 
 found his property iqpensibly slipping little by little 
 through his fingers; and, to crown his misfortune, he 
 surrendered himself for consolation's sake, undoubtedly 
 to the habit of drinking. In his cups he felt himself 
 proof against the heavy influences of adverse fortune ; and 
 he then sometimes even hailed the intelligence of a fresh 
 disaster with a glee that could have come from none but 
 one half drunken. 
 
 The habit grew upon him immeasurably. It was a per 
 fect leech to him, all the time crying out, " Give ! give !" 
 Step by step he went down mortgaging a piece of his 
 farm here, and selling outright a fat slice there until he 
 
 7 O O 
 
 was finally obliged to think seriously of abandoning the 
 remainder of it altogether, and removing to a place that 
 he could secure with the wreck of what was left. To add 
 to his troubles if, indeed, it troubled him at all he had 
 been formally dismissed from the church with which he
 
 46 KIT NUBBLES. 
 
 had united, being esteemed an unworthy member and of 
 an evil example. ' 
 
 So to do the best he could in the midst of such an 
 emergency, he bought the run-down, deserted old place 
 he now occupied, brown house, crazy sheds, tumble-down 
 barns and all where, he said, he could live out of the 
 reach of people altogether. It was a lonely place, sure 
 enough. The house stood on a little level exactly on the 
 brow of the acclivity, and all around lay the good-for- 
 nothing pastures, meadows, orchards and fields. Of hard 
 cider he made as much as of any thing else ; he said that 
 was all his apples were good for. Of corn he raised barely 
 enough to go through the year. And of potatoes, and 
 those other indispensable crops to the farmer, he had not 
 much more to say than of the rest. Every thing looked 
 slack and behindhand. There was not the first mark of 
 thrift any where to be seen. Carts and wagons were left 
 out to fall to pieces through theyrinter ; and the summei 
 exposure performed the same business for sleighs and ox- 
 sleds. 
 
 The place was a good two miles from the neighboring 
 village, and by a very lonely and untraveled road. Those 
 at the village who spoke of it always called it Worry witch 
 Hill. It had gone by that name long before he thought 
 of settling upon it ; probably from some far-back tale 
 connected with an old woman and a witch, or something 
 equally well founded, that had become traditionary in the 
 neighborhood. There were scrub-oaks and stunted thorn- 
 apples growing plentifully along the road leading from the 
 village to Worrywitch ; and pastures on either side the 
 stone walls showed abundant crops, in their season, of 
 fern, mullen, thistles and rocks. If a thrifty man were in 
 search of good land, he would have been sure, on seeing 
 this locality, to set his face exactly the other way ; no
 
 KIT NUBBLES. 47 
 
 matter where it led, it could take him to no worse a place 
 than this. 
 
 Gabriel found that his new master was already little 
 less than a vagabond, and his wife not much more than a 
 shrew. Their son was a spoiled creature, taught by 
 every method to be obstinate and self-willed, without the 
 least particle of generosity in him, and with as overbear 
 ing a disposition toward the orphan as he could possibly 
 muster. And between the steady fires 'of all, kept up 
 without intermission from the time he first beheld them 
 in the morning until he left them for his straw bed at 
 night, Gabriel truly lived but a sorry life of it. Mr. Nub 
 bles was good-natured to him at times ; but Mrs. Nubbles 
 meant that he should be left alone with her husband just 
 as little as possible. She looked out ' sharply that the 
 thorn of labor was never pulled out from his side. Her 
 shrill voice was all the time ringing in his ears, as she 
 called continually after him " Gabriel ! here !" Even a 
 stolen moment was not allowed him, in which he could 
 draw a long breath or fold his hands from the task he had 
 last been upon. It was "Gabriel! Gabriel!" all the time. 
 
 "When evening came he either pared apples, or sewed 
 or Avound carpet-rags, or stood, girt about with a long 
 piece of coarse brown toweling, pumping away with all 
 his might at an old-fashioned churn ; while Kit sat at the 
 fireside slowly vegetating in the warmth and the blaze, 
 and contemplating him with looks of the utmost profund 
 ity, and satisfaction. 
 
 He was engaged in churning one afternoon, as usual, 
 when Kit entered the kitchen and found him entirely 
 alone. This he liked ; for it would give him an oppor 
 tunity he had long coveted to visit the orphan with his 
 severest tyranny. So he began : 
 
 " Who be you, any how ?" he asked ; and immediately
 
 48 KIT NUBBLES. 
 
 slid his chunks of hands into his side-pockets, and regaled 
 himself with a good hearty stare. 
 
 Gabriel was not at first inclined to answer him, but 
 pushed and pressed away as hard as he could at the old 
 churn. 
 
 " I say," repeated Kit, his eyes glowing a little, " who 
 be you, boy ? You 're somebody, I s'pose !" 
 
 " My name is Gabriel Vane," was the mild reply : " I 
 thought you knew that." 
 
 " Humph ! But s'pose I do ? What then ? I '11 have 
 you to tell it to me over agin, if I like, I guess ! Don't 
 go to givin' me none o' your sass, now ; for for I I" 
 (he was swelling with passion) " I don't take sass from no 
 boy ! 'specially them that comes from poor-houses ! You 
 need n't feel too big in this house, I can tell you !" 
 
 The face of Gabriel quickly flushed, for his blood was 
 heated ; and he pushed down his churn-handle with much 
 more than his wonted vigor. He ventured, however, no 
 reply. 
 
 " I s'pose you know what father brought you here for, 
 don't ye ?" he asked, after a pause. 
 
 Down went the old churn-pole again harder than ever ; 
 but no answer yet. 
 
 " And I s'pose you understand what you was afore you 
 come ? nothing but a town pauper a beggar ! You 'd 
 orter be very thankful to my father for what he 's done, I 
 can tell you!" 
 
 Gabriel had something ready on his tongue's end to say 
 to this, but by a great effort he managed to keep it back. 
 
 " Tell me who you be, then," again repeated the young 
 villain. " Why don't you tell ?" 
 
 " You know," said Gabriel. 
 
 " No, I don't : your name I know ; but that ain't noth- 
 in'. Who 's your mother ?"
 
 KIT NUBBLES. 49 
 
 " She 's dead," was the sad answer. 
 
 " Dead, is she ? So she is. I 've heard father say you 
 had n't got no mother. What did she die of?" 
 
 " I can't tell you," said Gabriel. 
 
 " Guess she was n't any very great shakes," pursued he ; 
 " if she was, she 'd ha' kept herself out o' the poor-house ; 
 and such a one as the Epping poor-house, too !" 
 
 Gabriel took fire. " I liked it better than I do here," 
 said he, with a flushed face. 
 
 " Oh, you did, hey ! Wai, then, why don't ye go 
 right back there agin ? What do you stay here for, you 
 young sass-box ?" 
 
 " I would if I could, I 'm sure." 
 
 "Come, now; you needn't go to sayin' any thing 
 ag'inst livin' here with my mother, nor nothin' about it ; 
 for I sha' n't stan'it, so ! Do ye hear f Then jest look 
 out for yourself, sir !" 
 
 " You talked against my mother," put in Gabriel, in 
 justification. 
 
 " I know I did ; but that 's a different thing, I 'd have 
 you to understand, now. My mother every body all 
 over the world knows what she is ; but who was yours f 
 Who was there that knew her ? What was she but a 
 pauper? and what's a pauper, I want to know? So 
 jest be careful of yourself, you young Vane, there !" 
 
 " I sha'n't stand and hear you abuse my mother," said 
 Gabriel, with a great deal of spirit. 
 
 " You won't, hey ? What 're ye goin' to do about it, 
 now ? Come, sir," and he moved up nearer to him, and 
 began to flourish his fist quite valiantly in his face, " come 
 now, sir ! what 're ye goin' to do about it ?" 
 
 Gabriel let go the churn, and looked as straight as he 
 could into the young rascal's face. His eyes burned like 
 coals of fire. The blood crimsoned his cheeks for a mo-
 
 50 KIT NUBBLES. 
 
 inent, and then loft them altogether. He stood pale as a 
 lifeless person. 
 
 "Jest churn away there !" ordered Kit, the petty tyrant. 
 
 The boy made no movement in the way of obeying 
 him, but continued looking in his face. 
 
 "Do you hear? Churn away, or I'll I'll " and 
 there his rage choked his utterance. 
 
 "Take that, then!" said he, as he rubbed the dirty 
 palm of his fat hand roughly down Gabriel's face. 
 
 The latter instantly sprang upon the overgrown young 
 monster with all the power his passion gave him, and 
 grappled him fairly by his great thick throat. Upon this, 
 Kit who really was very much more than a match for 
 the other convulsively threw out both hands, and grab 
 bed just as many handfuls of the smaller one's hair. This 
 maneuvre brought tears to the eyes of Gabriel at once. 
 Instead, however, of letting go, he only proceeded to 
 twist and screw at the enemy's throat the more earnestly, 
 till he forced the fat creature to cry out quite sluggishly, 
 to be sure 
 
 " Oh ! O o oh ! Ye ye ch ch chok' ! 
 
 Exactly at this crisis, the door opened, and who should 
 enter but the mistress of the mansion, and the mother of 
 the valiant Kit. Her arms were filled with bundles of 
 wool from the shed, where she had been engaged in sort 
 ing it over ; but she threw them with all precipitancy upon 
 the floor, and sprang forward to the rescue. " What 's 
 this ; what does this all mean ?" she said. 
 
 Each, very naturally, at once let go of the other. 
 
 Gabriel did not speak ; but stood beside his churn in 
 silence, the tears standing in big drops in his eyes. Kit, 
 however, as soon as he could catch his breath again, set 
 about his explanation, while his mother continued to stand 
 with her hand uplifted against his opponent.
 
 KIT NUBBLES. 51 
 
 f 
 
 " He abused you, mother, an' I I pitched into him ! 
 That 'a all," said Kit. 
 
 " You did, hey, you young vagabond, you ? Abuse 
 me, did ye, you pauper? I'll teach ye!" and she tilled 
 Tier hand, in turn, with the same locks that had just been 
 relinquished by her hopeful son. " Abused me, hey ? 
 and here I am, takin' the best of care of ye all the time, and 
 tryin' all I can do to keep ye from freezin' and starvin' ! 
 We '11 see, sir, about that we '11 see !" and she jerked 
 the helpless boy very vigorously this way and that by the 
 hair of his head, till he almost found it impossible to keep 
 his feet at all. 
 
 " He said hard things of my mother," Gabriel made an 
 attempt to utter. 
 
 " You did, did you ?" she Avent on. " You abused me, 
 did you ? I '11 show how to git into my house, and abuse 
 me to my own and only child, and then fall afoul of him 
 with your pauper hands besides ! Yes, and you was goin' 
 to choke him, too, was ye ? to cJioke him, you little 
 wretch ! I '11 show ye how to choke people, now ! I '11 
 teach ye, sir !" 
 
 So to make her threat good, she seized him by the 
 throat too, and held on upon it until his face became 
 almost black. 
 
 "That's the way! that's the way, mother !" shouted 
 Kit, from the chair to which by the laws of self-preserv 
 ation he had prudently retreated ; " give it to him, 
 mother ! Let him see how good it feels to be tickled in 
 such a spot as that ! That 's good, mother ! Only see the 
 little pauper choke ! Only see how black he 's a gittin' in 
 the face !" 
 
 And with another, and a still tighter twist of her vice- 
 like gripe, she forced him to cry out with all the remain 
 ing strength he possessed ; after which, boxing his head
 
 52 KIT NUBBLES. 
 
 soundly on both sides, she pushed him down upon the 
 cellar stairs, and shut and secured the door after him, 
 leaving him in utter darkness. 
 
 Gabriel sat down pale and faint, and wept long alone. 
 He recalled the sorrows of his short life, and vainly tried 
 to see a way into the future. The rupture with the Nub 
 bles family was now complete and irreconcilable.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TEN-ACKE ELYSIUM. 
 
 How steadily it did rain drip, drip, drip from the 
 eaves and swash, swash, swash along through the gut 
 ters ! It was in the latter part of the month of April, when 
 multitudinous " showers" may naturally be expected if 
 banking snow-storms do not unnaturally take their place 
 preparatory to the bringing forth of what are conceded, 
 by an agreeable fiction, to be " May flowers." 
 
 It was a gray, dull, blankety rain, more after the nature 
 of a running mist than a falling shower, and for all of 
 twenty hours it had been visiting the face of the earth 
 with its ungenial offices. The naked tree-boughs were 
 dripping. The shrubbery along the country roadside 
 looked half-drowned, and altogether sadly bedraggled. 
 Old stone walls took upon them a duller and a grayer 
 suit than ever, and seemed to be sinking finally out of 
 sight in the thick mist and fog-banks. Sullen and grisly- 
 looking vapors, like brown and dun smokes, brooded over 
 and within warm nooks, and the wet fields began at last 
 to smoke from the glowing warmth. 
 
 There stood back on a slight elevation from the distant 
 plain below, a neat and tasteful rural structure, built evi 
 dently years ago, but recently repaired and refurbished for 
 its present occupants, which offered the casual observer as 
 pleasant a picture prospectively, at least of home hap-
 
 54 TEN- A ORE ELYSIUM. 
 
 pincss as the country any where around could produce. 
 Inviting as the spot must look when surrounded with the 
 verdure of June, it was really so, even at the present 
 time, with the rain, drip drip dripping from the roof 
 upon the piazza, and the shrubbery bent down with the 
 weight of the gathering drops. 
 
 It was a warm rain, and was doing a vast deal of good. 
 The roots and bulbs that had just been set out about the 
 yard would find their account in it before it was over. 
 The buds on the fruit-trees began to swell and break un 
 der its influences, promising them a new and showy livery 
 in as short a time if the weather should continue warm 
 as trees ought reasonably to expect. Here and there 
 the grass had turned itself into a light and delicate green, 
 showing oif very favorably by contrast with the deadened 
 color of every thing else. The lilacs, by the little gate 
 post, had pushed their leaves along further than any other 
 bushes or shrubs, and threatened to expand in a few days, 
 what now showed as long and slim mouse-ears, into broad 
 and open surfaces that would make their shadows on the 
 ground. 
 
 The place consisted of some ten or a dozen acres "be 
 the same more or less," as the legal instruments say and 
 was tastefully remodeled by its present owner, who had 
 but just removed thither from the city. The name of the 
 proprietor was Mr. Rivers ; who had been for a long time 
 a successful and wealthy merchant in town, but upon 
 whom misfortunes had latterly fallen so fast and interrupt 
 edly, that he was compelled to give way before them. 
 Out of them all he was finally extricated by a majority 
 of his creditors, who, holding unabated confidence still in 
 his personal integrity, and feeling unwilling that a man, 
 who by bare misfortune had been suddenly reduced from, 
 affluence to want, should be stripped of even the comforts
 
 T.EN-ACRE ELYSIUM. 55 
 
 of life, made liberal provision for his future by setting 
 aside, each one of them, a certain portion of their fully 
 satisfied claims. This was highly honorable ; and might 
 be practiced, with profit, in still other cases than that of 
 Mr. Rivers. 
 
 Accordingly he found himself with property enough 
 left to purchase a snug residence in the country, where he 
 might have just land enough to engross the greater por 
 tion of his attention, and live in a style of as perfect in 
 dependence and freedom from care as mortal could wish. 
 So to the country he went, far far away from the city, 
 where the lengthening radius of its great influence would 
 not readily reach. The spot to which the reader is here 
 with introduced was the spot in which he invested his 
 money, and to which, after suitable repairs and improve 
 ments, he had just brought his family. 
 
 There were only himself and his wife, his two daugh 
 ters and a maid-servant, to comprise that family, the 
 farmer not having yet been employed for the season ; and 
 quite a pretty family, too, they promised to make in 
 their novel situation. Mrs. Rivers was the second wife 
 of her husband, and but a step-mother to the girls ; who 
 seemed to entertain a high respect for her, that came as 
 near as any thing could to downright affection. 
 
 The names of the two sisters were Mary and Martha. 
 Mary was the elder, and rather the more impulsive and 
 flighty of the two ; Martha was but two years her junior, 
 a girl of great vivacity united to a deep and thoughtful 
 nature, and with a figure perfectly expressive of the beau 
 tiful spirit that governed its every motion. When Mr. 
 Rivers first proposed to his daughters his plan of retiring 
 to the pleasant old country solitudes, laying open to 
 them, as he almost always did in important cases, the 
 motives that incited him to make the change contem- 
 
 '
 
 56 'lEN-ACRE ELYSIUM. 
 
 plated, their feelings were quite in strong contrast with 
 each other in relation to the subject ; and they began 
 directly to debate the matter pro and con, according to 
 the best of their ability. Mary did not like the idea of 
 coming into the country at all ; she disliked the country ; 
 yes, she even said, in an impulse, she hated it. It was so 
 very dull. The people were so very rude and ignorant. 
 And then to think of living right in the dirt, with labor 
 ing men sweating in the sun all around one, and pigs and 
 cattle squealing and bellowing at the barn, and nothing to 
 look at or think of but the same eternal old round of 
 things without interest, and with their novelty and fresh 
 ness entirely gone ! How could she hear of this sudden 
 change in her father's plans without giving free rein to 
 her expressions of disquiet and disgust. How could she 
 think of leaving the sights and sounds that were to be 
 heard within city limits for the uncertain enjoyment of 
 persons and objects with which she might be supposed to 
 have no sympathy at all. She knew very well the crip 
 pled pecuniaiy condition of her father, yet she seemed to 
 have no thought at all for the step which that condition 
 compelled him to take. 
 
 Martha, the younger sister, was as different as she 
 could possibly be. It being understood that neither of 
 the girls was destitute of personal attractions, the fact 
 might as well be added that Martha was a person of a 
 peculiar and fascinating style of beauty. She was just 
 tall enough, and just full enough. Her step Avas light and 
 graceful, not at all too proud, and not at all too careless. 
 But it was in her sweet face, always alive with the ex 
 pressions of her glowing thoughts, and ever wreathed 
 with the pleasantest of smiles, that her charm chiefly lay. 
 With blue eyes, light complexion, regular features, and 
 that vivacious expression continually flitting over her
 
 TEN-ACRE ELYSIUM. 57 
 
 face, she was quite irresistible. She won her way to your 
 confidence at once. Indeed, she seemed to wish to make 
 you her intimate friend and the sharer of all her thoughts 
 from the moment you fell in with her. 
 
 It was not at all like this with Mary. She was a cynic 
 so far as two or three things were concerned ; and going 
 into the country was one of those things. On that point 
 it would foe vain to try to change her mode of feeling. 
 Her mind was made up, and there was an end of it. 
 And so the sisterly debate went on from the morning on 
 which their father first communicated his design until 
 the very day and a very long time after, too when the 
 reader finds them duly introduced to his or her acquaint 
 ance. 
 
 The ride into the village, on the outskirts of which 
 they dwelt, from the railroad station, was full of delight 
 and wonder to Martha ; but Mary was certain it was just 
 the deadest, dullest, excursion, long or short, that she 
 had ever made; and what there could be on_the road for 
 any one to enjoy was totally past her comprehension. 
 " Perhaps," said she to her sister, " it 's the cows in yon 
 der lot !" 
 
 " Yes, I admire sleek, handsome cows, Mary," answered 
 her sister. " I hope father will have as pretty and as 
 gentle creatures as there are to be had any where. I 
 should love to learn to milk myself." 
 
 Mary was of course astonished shocked. She had 
 given her sister credit for a more refined taste then to be 
 looking after horned cattle, and told her so ; but all she 
 got for her pains was a roguish laugh, and the sight of a 
 fresh face full of happiness. 
 
 The name of the village was Draggledew Plain. It was 
 a natural scoop out between several gentle hills that sa 
 luted the sun at his earliest coming and held its linger- 
 
 3*
 
 58 TEN-ACBE ELYSIUM. 
 
 ing light upon their bosom until it died down below the 
 horizon. Within this natural plain, stretching from hill 
 to hill, lay the quiet little village, a pleasant spot, in which 
 the stranger would expect of course to find contentment 
 in plenty. There Avas a church, a tavern-house, a post- 
 office, and a school-house in the village ; and the variety 
 of character within its limits was as truly wonderful as 
 within the circuit of a town incomparably its superior 
 both in wealth and population. It was at a distance of 
 from three quarters of a mile to a mile from the village 
 green that Mr. Rivers had selected his place of retire 
 ment, where he meant to cultivate, for the future, with all 
 his might the few acres of his rural domain. 
 
 The girls were standing on the piazza at the end of the 
 house, at the close of the afternoon, the rain and mist 
 still drizzling down every where over the face of the earth. 
 They had been contemplating the untoward weather from 
 that position for some time before either spoke. At length 
 Mary began, evidently renewing a conversation they 
 were engaged upon but a short time before. 
 
 " You like the country, you say," she taunted pleas 
 antly. " Now won't you please tell me what particular 
 part of it pleases you just at this time? I really am 
 a little curious to know. Unless you consent to in 
 form me, I fear I may sometimes make entirely wrong es 
 timates, when they would perhaps subject me to mortifi 
 cation." 
 
 "Well," responded Martha, her happy countenance 
 beaming with roguish pleasure strangely enough mixed 
 up with sisterly aifection, "just at this time I must say I 
 am most pleased with the rain ! Perhaps though, it 's be 
 cause there 's more of it just now than of any thing else. 
 But I like a rain, especially a good warm rain in the 
 spring. Don't you ?"
 
 TEN-AC BE ELYSIUM. 59 
 
 " Don't I ! You know what I think of it ; and you 
 must know how very disagreeable above all other things 
 it is to me, away out here from every body I ever knew 
 in my life. What a question !" 
 
 "Well, now, upon my word, Mary, and all seriously 
 too," said Martha, " I must confess that I enjoy this drip 
 ping storm as much as any one can enjoy such things. I 
 feel such a sense of easiness stealing over me, as if the 
 rain without did but^shut us up so much the more de 
 lightfully within. And I like to look off over the half- 
 drowned landscape, and see the bleak winter melting out 
 of sight into the earth, and the gi eat Jianges in nature 
 getting ready to burst forth. It awakens deep thoughts 
 in me ; I can not tell what they exactly are, but I ex 
 perience quite enough to know that my nature is deeply 
 stirred. 
 
 "If I only knew what your thoughts were /" said Mary. 
 
 "If I only knew how to goto work to set your feelings 
 right on this subject!" added her younger sister, "it 
 would add by just so much to my own happiness here. 
 Why, Mary, only look about you. This is not the pleas- 
 antest part of the season yet, I know ; but that does n't 
 prevent one's finding something quite agreeable even 
 now. Is n't this nature ? and does nature ever weary 
 one ? Why, you don't put yourself in a true position 
 from which to look at these things. You are all the time 
 comparing what you see here with what you have left in 
 town. I know you are." 
 
 " That would be nothing strange, as I see. But how 
 can I help it ? What would you have me do ? throw 
 away all the refinement of my feelings at a single fling of 
 my hand, and become as much a boor as the rest of crea 
 tion all around me here. Is that a condition upon which 
 alone I can be permitted to enjoy what you call rustic life ?"
 
 60 TEN-ACKE ELYSIUM. 
 
 " No, not at all, sister ; but this is the way I try to 
 view it : I reflect that as one's enjoyment in the city de 
 pends altogether on her associations there, so one's hap 
 piness in the country depends on her corresponding as 
 sociations here. In other words, dear Mary, in the two 
 places we find ourselves surrounded by two sets of cir 
 cumstances ; and all we have to do at first is to try and 
 conform to them in some manner. You must n't expect 
 to find here what is to be found every day in town ; nor 
 must you think that the town offers* cheap and innocent 
 enjoyments that are only to be found here. The two 
 views of the subject are just as separate and distinct as 
 the two places are themselves But for my part I am 
 going to try and like the country : and I don't think I 
 shall need to try very hard, either." 
 
 " Oh, dear !" said Mary, after a little pause ; " I only 
 wish father had bought a house somewhere else; any 
 where but in this dismal place ! I never shall live out 
 here half my days ; I know I shan't !" 
 
 "You mustn't forget," returned Martha, "that father 
 was compelled to consult his resources quite as much as 
 he did his taste in coming down here. I know, and so 
 does he, that it is a great sacrifice to him, and to all of 
 us, in many ways ; still I think that with a spontaneous 
 love for nature one could easily make himself as happy 
 here as any where else in the world. Just see the mist 
 over on those hills ! See what grotesque shapes it takes ! 
 We never saw such things in town. Once in a while we 
 might see sunset on a church spire, or get a walk by 
 fording through the mud in the streets ; but never did 
 we see, and never shall we see, such beautiful sunsets as 
 we shall have here, nor wade through such mud as we 
 used to have there. It's clean mud in the country, 
 Mary !"
 
 TEN-ACKE ELYSIUM. 61 
 
 Her sister's face relaxed a little. " Clean mud !" she 
 ejaculated. 
 
 " Yes, clean. Whatever you get in the fresh country, 
 you may depend upon it, will be wholesome. As soon as 
 it clears up again, you shall see how bracing and clear the 
 air is. It 's no more like what we used to breathe than 
 than , Oh, just hear that bird in the birch coppice 
 yonder ! Who would think a bird could sing in such a 
 storm as this ? Poor little thing, I hope it won't get its 
 death of cold by being out in this bad weather !" 
 
 " How very romantic all this is !" said Mary. " If I 
 could only get in such a way now, going into ecstasies 
 over every little bird, bug, and spider that flies, crawls, 
 and spins, I don't doubt that I might make living here 
 very agreeable. But unfortunately I don't happen to 
 possess that faculty. So I must make up my mind to eke 
 out the days the best way I can. They '11 be long enough, 
 I promise you." 
 
 " No they won't, sister," rejoined Martha, turning her 
 self swiftly round twice on the floor of the piazza. " I 'm 
 going all about here myself, as soon as spring sets in, and 
 lather says that will be very soon, from present indica 
 tions ; just as soon as this storm goes away." 
 
 " I should be glad to know when that will be," said 
 Mary. 
 
 " Oh, well, Mary, sometime or other, of course; don't 
 be too impatient. But as soon as the ground gets dry, I 
 mean to go out on the many excursions I have planned 
 for the spring and summer ; and I want you to go with 
 me, too, for I know how much you will enjoy it. I 'm 
 going to hunt birds' nests, and count the eggs, and watch 
 the growth of the little ones till they leave their homes in 
 the grass and leaves. And the brooks, too ; you know I 
 was always perfectly charmed with the sight of a sweet
 
 62 TEN-ACKE ELYSIUM. 
 
 little brook, Mary. Well, I 'm going to follow the brooks 
 up and down, and become a very intimate friend with 
 them all ; and I shall want you to go with me always too. 
 And what fine landscapes we can sketch with our pencils, 
 and not be at the least trouble to find originals .either ! 
 And the rocks and trees, and the meadows and lanes, 
 and orchards, and woods where can one find a greater 
 variety of resources for enjoyment, dear sistei-, than right 
 in a spot like this ? I shall live two lives now where I 
 lived but one before. And we must be so much the 
 happier, too, all the time !" 
 
 Mary stood with folded arms, attentive to what her 
 more contented sister was saying, and watching with a 
 gloomy and unsatisfied countenance the drizzle and drip 
 ping of the spring rain. She said nothing more, however, 
 perhaps not altogether sure that Martha had not really 
 got the right of it. And at that moment Mr. Rivers him 
 self came out where they were, and stood beside them. 
 
 " What a rain !" said he. 
 
 Sure enough what a rain ! A real, old fashioned, four- 
 days, country rain ! A soaking, sopping, drowning rain ! 
 A rain that all the time rained at least just so much, and 
 a good part of the time a great deal more ! A rain that 
 suggested an odd fancy of a saturated sponge being held 
 over your head, and of a million minute cells being 
 squeezed but never squeezed dry of the contents of 
 their little buckets of water ! 
 
 House and hedge, garden and field, sky and earth 
 every thing wore about the same cast of expression ; dull, 
 leaden, and dead. A hypochondriac would have wel 
 comed it as warmly as a starved man welcomes the hour 
 of dinner. It was such a " spell of weather" as would 
 please the whole army of blue-devils exactly. They 
 would dance and skip, and squirm in the brain now, as
 
 TEN-ACKE ELYSIUM. 63 
 
 they never would know how at any other time. The best 
 balanced minds could not, without an effort, repel the 
 influence ; and even the most romantic natures would be 
 sure to get a little sapped and bedraggled in their golden 
 plumage, by the somber fancies that brooded every where 
 over them like a thick mist. 

 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OUT OF THE BUSHES. 
 
 
 
 THE hired man had saddled the horse and brought him 
 into the yard, where he stood proudly pawing up the dirt 
 with his hoof. He was a new horse that Mr. Rivers had 
 bought but a short time before of one of the farmers 
 somewhere in the neigborhood ; and being young, spirit 
 ed, and handsome, he was just such a pretty creature as 
 Martha would be most likely to pet. So as the man led 
 him round to the back door, and the two sisters stood 
 talking about him, Martha declared she would give him a 
 name : " and Button it shall be," she added, holding out 
 her hand to receive a caress she fancied he would be 
 ready to give her for the compliment. 
 
 " Now be very careful that your Button does n't run 
 away with you, Mat," said the elder sister, assisting her 
 into the saddle with her hand and shoulder. 
 
 " I wish you had consented to ride first," returned 
 Martha. " I 'm sure, I had much rather you would." 
 
 " Ah, that indeed, now ! When you are thinking that 
 somebody's neck is likely to be broken, you feel a little 
 more willing that it should be mine than your own ! No, 
 I thank you : I must positively decline your kind offer. 
 Pray, let me insist on your making the first experiment 
 yourself." 
 
 Martha turned upon her a face of innocent surprise, nd 
 exclaimed, " Why, sister ! You know I meant no
 
 OUT OF THE BUSHES. 65 
 
 thing ! How cruel !" The man could not refrain from 
 laughing aloud at the manner in which the elder sister 
 turned back the invitation of the other upon herself. 
 
 " Well, well, Mat," broke out Mary, endeavoring to 
 smooth down the wrinkles caused by her speech, "it will 
 be soon enough for me to ride out, after your return. 
 I 'm in no particular worry to view the country to-day, 
 and will obligingly believe every word you may feel dis 
 posed to report to me of the state of things. So cut up 
 your little Button, and away with you !" 
 
 The horse laid his ears back close to his head, not wick 
 edly so much as playfully, and commenced' switching his 
 long tail hither and thither, while Martha self-possessedly 
 kept her seat and began to stroke his glossy neck with 
 her hand. On his back, she looked like a picture of 
 health and beauty. The blood freshly mantled her cheeks, 
 from merely the inspiriting thoughts that danger raised 
 in her brain; and her eyes glowed and sparkled with 
 pleasure, in expectation of nothing but the beautiful even 
 ing ride she was going to have. 
 
 It was just at the close of a charming spring day, 
 the sun still playing about the summits of the hills, gild 
 ing the Avood-spires that shot up in serred rows from 
 their soil, and throwing back over the lowland and the 
 plain the reflection of its dying brilliancy. The evening 
 air was bland and soft; just strong enough, thought the 
 fair horseman, to be a little invigorating, and not go 
 much heated as to become oppressive or enervating. It 
 would heighten still more the color of the rider's cheeks, 
 and excite to a yet pleasanter pitch the tone of her sym 
 pathizing spirits. She could hardly have chosen a finer 
 time for her short excursion on horseback, and gave 
 out that she was going to learn how to go about for 
 the future unattended ; " for," added she, gayly, " unless
 
 66 OUT OF THE BUSHES. 
 
 I do learn it, I am afraid I shall never be able to go at 
 all!" 
 
 " Attendants are so very scarce," added her sister, " in 
 this most charming retirement !" 
 
 " Ah, but you will come over to my opinion before a 
 great while, Mary. You can't hold out very long. All 
 you want is a horseback ride or two." 
 
 " Well, come," was the reply, " let us see you take 
 your horseback ride ! I 'm very patiently waiting to see 
 you get off." 
 
 " Anxious to get rid of me, possibly ! Very well ; here 
 we go, then. Come, my little Button ! Come up, But 
 ton !" And gracefully, but firmly, reigning him in, she 
 started out of the yard on a slow and very agreeable 
 canter. 
 
 The girl was a good horseman, and entertained not 
 the first fear for her ability to keep her seat, in any emerg 
 ency. The horse was a new one, to be sure, and she 
 was quite unused to him ; but she had unbounded confi 
 dence in herself, and that is the first and last requisite of 
 good horsemanship. She carried a light riding whip in 
 her hand, with the silky end of which she patted ever so 
 gently the little horse's mane, while she talked continu 
 ally to him almost as she would to a child. As her steed 
 carried her away, she turned her face around just as she 
 was going into the arched avenue of a wooded lane, and 
 beheld her sister still standing in the yard, looking after 
 her with an appearance of deep interest. Martha hastily 
 waved her hand, spoke encouragingly to Button, and was 
 in a moment lost in the winding aisle of the forest by-road. 
 
 As she got on, and as she felt her confidence in the 
 horse and herself every moment more and more estab 
 lished, her interest in the natural objects around her en 
 grossed nearly all her attention, and she fell into her
 
 OUT OP THE BUSHES. 67 
 
 wonted habit of admiration and reverie immediately. 
 Her eyes ran quickly up and down the moss-spotted stems 
 of the trees, and lodged their arrowy glances in the thick 
 clusters of the green leaves ; or swept away with a single, 
 far-reaching gaze over meadows and hillsides ; scouring 
 the whole country for objects of beauty. 
 
 She suffered her horse to walk after a while ; and she 
 thought he held down his head upon his breast, and arch 
 ed his neck with such a proud prettiness, that he was per 
 fectly satisfied with the character both of his companion 
 and the excursion. The cool air in the glades fell refresh 
 ingly on her forehead and cheeks, and her spirits passed 
 insensibly from a state of exhilaration to one of compar 
 ative repose. 
 
 The pictures such as her imagination had hitherto 
 painted for her Avere now around her on every side ; and 
 she felt that the mere paintings had never yet, in truth, 
 equaled the realities. It seemed to do her eyes good to 
 get unbounded views of such beautiful landscapes. The 
 little horse walked slowly on ; the bridle rein hung loosely 
 about his neck ; the air was enticing ; and the girl was in 
 a dream and a dream, too, on horseback ! 
 
 She could not help thinking as, indeed, all think who 
 know any thing about it that views from the saddle are 
 brighter views, and fresher views, and broader, and far 
 more beautiful than from almost any other situation ; and 
 the heightened spirits never fail to flush them with the 
 warmth of their own coloring, and to impart to them the 
 glowing life with which they are themselves overflowingly 
 full. Her enjoyment was as perfect as it was possible for 
 any one's to be ; indeed, she questioned if ever in her life 
 she had been happier than she was at this moment. If 
 Mary would but look at things as she did ! if Mary 
 would only widen her sympatkies a little it would alj
 
 68 OUT OF THE BUSHES. 
 
 be as well for herself! And how very much more com 
 plete then would be her own happiness ! 
 
 Down into a beautiful dell she slowly trotted, her face 
 turned first to one side of the road and then to the other. 
 It was a spot she thought to herself quiet enough for 
 the fairies to hold their midnight revels in. The broad 
 bands of green turf striped the road, and Button trotted 
 evenly between them. She had gathered up the reins a 
 little, though they still hung rather loosely over his neck, 
 as if she would say to him in all candor and friendship 
 " Now you must n't play me false, Button. I put full 
 confidence in you, you understand ; be sure and do your 
 very best for me this time, and you will find in me the 
 truest of friends hereafter ! You hear me, Button, don't 
 you ?" 
 
 As if he really did hear her, he laid his small ears back 
 close upon his head, switched the air briskly with his tail, 
 and fell forthwith from a trot into quite a lively canter. 
 
 "Not too fast, Button ! not too fast, sir ! I want time 
 to look about me a little, you know !" said she, reining 
 him in somewhat. " Button, I like the s,cenery here 
 abouts, and I 'm going to try to make you like it, too !" 
 
 Out from the forest path she emerged upon the broad 
 and open plain, where the fading sunlight lay with a dy 
 ing glory, gilding leaves, and grass, and rocks. The little 
 brooks went singing along by the roadside, gurgling and 
 gushing with a perfect joy. Squirrels began to chirp and 
 chatter upon the gray stone walls, now racing along on 
 the tops, and now hiding themselves for a moment over 
 the other side, whisking their bushy tails in the fullness 
 of delight. Birds were putting up their grateful evening 
 chorals, their feathered throats swelling and rufiling with 
 song. 
 
 If ever beauty was to be found anywhere, thought
 
 OUT OF THE BUSHES. 69 
 
 Martha, surely here it was all around her. If nature 
 anywhere was perfectly charming throwing out her 
 arras for one, as it were, smiling broadly and benignantly, 
 blessing her children and asking to be blessed in return 
 surely it was now. 
 
 The girl watched as closely the changing hues of the 
 clouds as she did the manifold pictures the landscape of 
 fered her ; and her soul seemed to have put on ethereal 
 wings, that bore her far, far beyond the atmosphere of 
 sordid realities, and bathed itself in the resplendent colors 
 that floated over the dome of the heavens. What poetry 
 her nature possessed was excited now to its extreme limit 
 of passionateness. What dreams had ever dawned on her 
 soul's sight before, at this time seemed to clothe them 
 selves with the attributes of a living and glowing reality. 
 Oh, those evening clouds ! those evening clouds ! Grand, 
 massy, and glorious ! piled up as they were in battlements 
 of gorgeous colors, with streamers sailing and swimming 
 away from them all rolling slowly hither and thither, 
 like great billows, in the sea of cloudless ether afar 
 showing mysterious cliffs and suggesting unfathomed 
 deeps beyond, where only brightness and unbroken blue 
 stretched away forever and forever how they wrought 
 in the soul of the enthusiastic girl, kindling her emotions 
 to a warmth that was little less than a living ecstasy ! 
 
 She spoke to herself, soliloquizing in such .syllables as 
 chanced to come to her lips, and all the time of the beau 
 ties that so' charmed her. Forgetful of her situation, and 
 thinking only of the scenes that enraptured her vision, 
 the had thoughtlessly suffered the bridle to lie loosely 
 over Button's neck again, leaving him to pursue the 
 course that best pleased himself. It was a moderate gait, 
 and such an one as assisted her much in her tranquil en 
 joyment. But the sudden report of a gun from very
 
 70 OUT OF THE BUSHES. 
 
 near the roadside, in a small patch of chestnut wood, ac 
 companied, too, with a vivid flash of fire, so started the 
 little steed from his pleasant equanimity that he sprang 
 with a wild and terrific bound from the road, almost 
 throwing his rider from the saddle. Giving a loud snort, 
 that betokened his intense affright, he switched his tail 
 very swiftly two or three times, and set out the next 
 instant on a dead and desperate run. 
 
 " Whoa, Button ! steady, Button !" spake she, in as 
 firm a voice as she could command, while she grasped 
 the reins and drew them upon his mouth with all her 
 might. 
 
 But every second that he ran he seemed to grow more 
 and more unmanageable, as if his fright increased upon 
 him continually. He tore away like the very wind. All 
 that she could do, all she could say, had no more influ 
 ence over him than the whistling of the air in his ears. 
 Faster and faster he flew each moment, till the walls, and 
 rocks, and trees all seemed running in one smooth line 
 together. His hoofs rattled upon the turf and the gravel 
 as if he scarcely allowed them time to strike the ground 
 beneath him at all. His long and abundant mane streamed 
 away from his neck, and his nostrils dilated frightfully. 
 Like a wild horse of the prairies, he felt for once the full 
 strength and freedom of his limbs. 
 
 As good a horseman as Martha knew herself to be, she 
 nevertheless experienced the overwhelming and paralyz 
 ing sensations of fear. They crept coldly over her, in 
 spite of her utmost exertions to keep them down. She 
 tried to be calm and self-possessed ; but there was some 
 thing that shook her nerves, till she began to think she 
 had no power more over them. 
 
 Her grasp on the bridle was firm and tight, but it 
 seemed as if her hand had not strength left to check his
 
 OUT OF THE BUSHES. 71 
 
 impetuous career. She could not even guide him. He 
 had his head, and threw out his fore feet with a swift 
 stretch that told the observer at a glance that the horse 
 was a desperate runaway. 
 
 One moment the cheeks of the girl would be flushed 
 with color, red and burning ; and the next, they were as 
 pale as whiteness itself. As she swept swiftly through 
 the air, the wind shrieking even frightfully in her ears, 
 cold chills crept over her, the dampness stood in the 
 palms of her hands, and the strength slowly left her limbs. 
 She knew too well how fearful a ride she was taking, and 
 could clearly calculate the very few chances there were of 
 her final escape in safety. Her heart almost ceased to 
 beat ; her pulses Avere still ; and the blood quite curdled' 
 within her for terror. Still on dashed the frightened 
 animal, heedless -of bridle and bit, as if he were bent on 
 rushing forward to his own destruction on, on, on ! 
 
 Her sensations now began to be indescribable. There 
 was a swimming in her eyes and giddiness in her brain 
 that, as she was borne along past walls and trees so 
 swiftly, seemed almost to overwhelm her. To cry out 
 would be worse than useless : for it could hardly be pos 
 sible that any assistance would be near, and to frighten 
 the animal still more would be the height of iosane folly. 
 So she merely held on firmly, though as for speaking a 
 word to the horse then it was entirely out of her power. 
 It was as if her blood was all on fire. It seemed to her 
 that her nerves were every one wrought up to its highest 
 tension, and that they tingled like very stings to the ends 
 of her fingers. Her eyes rested on nothing, but all ob 
 jects ran into one confused and continuous blur. She 
 felt as if she were flying swimming sailing through 
 the air, and her respiration every moment became more 
 difficult. Oh, if she could but touch her foot to the
 
 72 OUT OF TIIE BUSHES. 
 
 ground! If she could just break the monotony of this 
 swift and continuous line of objects ! She thought rapidly 
 of her sister of her father of all her friends. She tried 
 to think of herself of where she was, and of what might 
 be the ending of this fearful ride ; but her mind was going 
 round and round in the vortex of a whirlpool of fears ; 
 her thoughts were too swift even to be thoughts, or to 
 take any distinct shape and direction. And the horse 
 still bore her, with clatter of hoofs and recklessness of 
 motion on, on, on ! 
 
 She finally reached a spot where the country road 
 forked. If she could get him to the left he would be 
 obliged to climb a long and precipitous hill ; that much 
 she could sufficiently collect her thoughts to understand. 
 And she pulled with all her failing strength of hand upon 
 the rein. But she might as well have pulled at a rope 
 around an oak, so little heeded he the power that ought 
 to have directed him. He tore along by the other road, 
 and now Martha knew nothing of what was next to come. 
 Her heart quite sunk within her. 
 
 Hardly had she gone on ten rods when the figure of 
 something she could not tell what sprang forward 
 from a clump of bushes near the roadside, and in a mo 
 ment seemed to her to be hanging and dangling from the 
 neck of her horse. For the first time since the beginning 
 of her terrific race she uttered a low cry. The person who 
 had managed with such success to catch at her horse's 
 bridle now shouted to him with all the power of his lungs, 
 dragging and pulling his head perseveringly downward 
 to the earth. The horse shook, became irregular in his 
 motions, trembled convulsively, and tried to rear on his 
 hind feet. But the grasp of the stranger's hand upon the 
 bit was like the hold of a vice. It could not be shaken 
 off at all. It finally succeeded in breaking down the im-
 
 OTTTOFTHEBUSHES. 73 
 
 petuosity of the runaway and bringing him to a perfect 
 stand-still. Martha almost fell into his arms, while with 
 out proffering a syllable, he offered to help her from her 
 dizzy seat in the saddle. She leaned heavily on his 
 shoulder as he assisted her, and immediately sank down 
 upon a rock that stood by the side of the road. So sud 
 den a release from her fears took all her remaining 
 strength away. The reaction from excessive fear to the 
 calmness of perfect safety was too overwhelming. 
 
 Securing the horse to a tree at hand the stranger 
 hastened to lend his assistance to the fainting girl ; and, 
 lifting her from her seat, he conducted her to a little run 
 of water that fortunately was but a few paces off. There 
 he bathed her temples with the cooling fluid, dipping it 
 up in the palm of his hand, and supporting her still with 
 his arm. It was with a feeling of profound joy, therefore, 
 that he heard her exclaim at length in a low voice " I 
 am better now! Oh, what an escape !" 
 
 He thought that upon so fair and expressive a face his 
 eyes had not for a long, long time feasted themselves. 

 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. HOLLIDAY. 
 
 As soon as Martha declared herself sufficiently re 
 covered of her strength to return, she rose and thanked 
 the stranger for his kindness in words few but full of 
 meaning, and looked at her horse as if she yet labored in 
 some great perplexity. Understanding, at a glance al 
 most, what the cause of her trouble was, her companion 
 asked her if she could venture to ride back again. She 
 was much too weak to walk, that she felt in reality ; but 
 it would be a thousand times easier to walk even twice 
 the distance than to think of riding the excited runaway 
 back again. Accordingly she proceeded sloxvly along the 
 roadside, while her brave and gallant rescuer led the horse 
 beside her, alternately talking to her of the frightful risk 
 she had run, and trying to soothe the unquiet of the animal. 
 
 Now and then she sat down upon a rock or a tree- 
 stump to refresh herself again, and gather additional 
 strength to go on ; when he stood by her and said all he 
 could to revive her spirits until she got up and went on 
 again. 
 
 The stranger was quite a young looking man, not too 
 tall, rather slender, and with a countenance that, though 
 by no means pale, Avas nevertheless marked with the 
 lineaments of habitual thoughtfulness. The vitality and 
 the repose were just closely enough allied in his appearance
 
 MK. HOLLIDAY. 75 
 
 to bespeak a perfect and well-balanced character. He 
 had a large and very dark gray eye, full of expression, 
 and glancing quick rays of intelligence around him. His 
 forehead was broad and ample, and covered with a per 
 spiration that had broken out profusely upon his exertions 
 to check the horse's headlong career ; and wiping it 
 away continually with his handkerchief while he took his 
 hat from his head, he seemed, in the eyes of the grateful 
 girl, to be veritably handsome ; a term not often applied 
 with either taste or propriety to those of the male sex, 
 but in this individual case most certainly deserved and 
 in nowise misemployed. 
 
 As they walked on, their conversation branched off 
 from accidents to pleasanter topics. Martha's self-pos 
 session visibly increased, and her spirits went up at once ; 
 and thereupon she fell into a rapid and sketchy narration 
 of her inner experience on first removing from the heart 
 of town-life to the seclusion of the country. She gave up, 
 with an innocency of manner that to the young man was 
 indescribably captivating, all the feelings that had marked 
 the epoch of her removal hither, and naively expressed 
 her present desire to make herself and all around her 
 besides perfectly happy. She spoke charmingly, too, of 
 the scenery, alluding to each individual item that went 
 to make up its beautiful aggregate, and asked him with a 
 countenance flushed with nothing but earnestness, if he 
 were not as great an admirer as herself. 
 
 When it became apparent to both of them how much 
 in accord their deeper and finer sympathies were, and that 
 neither need hunger for companionship in the neighbor 
 hood of the other, a fine electrical thrill seemed to shoot 
 simultaneously through their hearts, and they secretly 
 felt that a real and lasting acquaintance had begun. So 
 mysterious and so subtle oftentimes are the influences
 
 76 ME. HOLLIDAY. 
 
 that lead spirit to spirit, and link soul with soul in bonds 
 that promise nothing less than bliss. 
 
 The stranger gentleman announced his name to be Mr. 
 HoUiday. He lived in a small house perhaps a half mile 
 from the humble little seat of Mr. Rivers, at the end of a 
 short lane that conducted you back from the road a little 
 way, in a nest that was hedged about with lilacs and 
 climbing roses. 
 
 Mr. Holliday was an exceedingly quiet man, for so 
 young an one, following along his own course in the 
 world without questioning or interruption. He had been 
 a resident near Draggledew Plain but about three years, 
 during which time it would be difficult for any one of all 
 the people roundabout to say that they were really ac 
 quainted with him, or knew aught of the real elements 
 and shades of his nature. They would tell you, to be 
 sure, that such a man as Mr. HoUiday lived a little out of 
 the village, in a house by himself, with only a house 
 keeper ; and they would be pretty sure to tell you be 
 side, that he was a young man of very retired habits, 
 much given to writing and reading, but still more to fish 
 ing ; and still further, that they perfectly knew all there 
 was Avorth knowing, or to be known by any one, about 
 him, and that he was what some people called an author. 
 
 Yos, an author ! A young writer, who, with small 
 means but an iron resolution, and with a love for nature 
 and the beautiful that colored and shaped all the other 
 feelings of his heart, struggles bravely for years with for. 
 tune, and is finally admitted to share the sweet and satis 
 factory pleasure of her broadest smiles. Such there are, 
 and such labor in the midst of those who know them not. 
 They live, as it were, in a world of their own, in the at 
 mosphere of which they who pretend to deride them 
 those 'coarser natures that can laugh only because they
 
 MB. HOLLIDAY. 77 
 
 can not understand could never so much as exist. Sup 
 porting himself and his small establishment by means of 
 his pen alone, of course he was but one of the humble 
 ones in life, at least for the present, who do not trust 
 themselves to the current and the uproar, but half hide 
 in quiet nooks and are content with the little fame their 
 unbroken labors may happen to bring them. He felt that 
 as yet his career was hardly begun. What he had hither 
 to produced was put forth without the open authority of 
 his own name, and so he suffered himself still to remain 
 in obscurity, though not a whit the less contented on 
 that account. 
 
 Mr. Arthur Holliday was a man of some twenty-five 
 years, or in that neighborhood, and had thus far helped 
 himself along in the world. His talent, whatever in popu 
 lar estimation it might be, was ah 1 native to him ; the edu 
 cation of it had been the steady work of his own industry 
 and resolution. Setting his face as a flint sternly against 
 the seductiveness of fleeting and unsatisfactory pleasures, 
 such as captivate almost at first view the unsteady hearts 
 of young men of promise generally, he looked to one single 
 object in life, toward which he bent his steps with a stead 
 fastness of purpose that could never know total, even if 
 partial, defeat. 
 
 So he sat in his quiet and humble little cot in the lilacs 
 and rose-bushes, and day after day, and night upon night, 
 studied the few authors that were his favorites, or toiled 
 in the continuous and exhausting efforts of composition. 
 Not a day was suffered to pass but it brought along with - 
 it new accessions either to his stores or his discipline. 
 He toiled with a perseverance that would be satisfied 
 with nothing short of success. His soul itself was in his 
 purpose, and he could not fail to reach some point at 
 last that must satisfy him. He was at his table often-
 
 78 MR. HOLLIDAY. 
 
 times, in summer weather, before others were to be heard 
 stirring anywhere around him, scratching away at his 
 manuscripts, and adding sheet to sheet for the rigid re 
 vision of a future day. Sometimes he sat over his books 
 the day through, buried in the studies and the reading 
 that helped to furnish him with the means to go onward. 
 
 Or when a good warm wind drew up into the little 
 valley, and so over the plain, from the southern gateway 
 in the hills, he shouldered his rod, furnished his pocket 
 with provisions for the excursion, and went hunting the 
 brooks clear to their fountains, or back again to the place 
 where he started, for the largest trout that would suffer 
 themselves to be insnared by him. His success in these 
 charming little forays into the sweetest recesses and hid 
 ing places of nature was proverbial throughout the neigh 
 borhood ; as a fisherman, or rather, as an angler, he bore 
 a reputation though in all likelihood he knew it not 
 second to none the country round. 
 
 Talking of this thing and that, and trying to make his 
 fair companion forget as far as possible the frightful scene 
 through which she had just gone, he walked on by her 
 side, every moment growing more and more interested in 
 her, and more and more confirmed in the esteem he had 
 at the first moment of speaking with her conceived. Yet 
 there stole now and then a dull shadow over his feelings, 
 that made itself plain even upon his countenance also. 
 Once or twice he arrested himself in the act of casting 
 suspicious, if not fearful glances upon her, as if he were 
 anxious about some revelation that might suddenly be 
 made. There was a mystery in his manner, when it was 
 such, that none could have possibly fathomed ; unless, per 
 haps, it had been either Martha or some other of her 
 family friends. He was chiefly fearful lest an untoward 
 revelation might occur. It seemed to be this as much as
 
 MK. HOLLIDAT. 79 
 
 any thing ; and if not this, then there is no telling what 
 it was. 
 
 Coming along to where the lane first began to track 
 into the wood, they met Mary, who had become some 
 what alarmed for the safety of her sister, and walked on 
 to see if she could meet her returning home. Her face 
 expressed the deepest surprise, on seeing her on foot, and 
 especially on seeing a stranger walking beside her and 
 leading her horse. Instinctively she put up both hands. 
 
 "Don't be too much alarmed, sister," called out 
 Martha to her; "it wasn't exactly an accident, but it 
 came very near being one." . 
 
 " Thrown ?" asked Mary, her eyes wide open with sur 
 prise. 
 
 " Oh r no, indeed ! Only a runaway. You see Button 
 and I hav'n't become sufficiently acquainted with one an 
 other yet. But I hope this state of things won't continue 
 long." 
 
 "Runaway!" exclaimed Mary. "Did he run with 
 you ?" 
 
 "Yes; and hadn't it been for the courageous and very 
 timely interference of this gentleman here, you would 
 hardly have got the account as you now do from my own 
 lips." 
 
 Her sister now gained her side, and, making her lean 
 on her arm for support, begged her to narrate how it all 
 happened, and how she was rescued safe and alive. 
 
 " It was only by stopping the horse," reph'ed the young 
 man, quite modestly. 
 
 " That indeed, sir," said Mary. " But I should hardly 
 imagine it to be such a very easy task to check the course 
 of a furious runaway." 
 
 " Nor is it, either," added Martha, bestowing a look of 
 gratitude on her deliverer. "I was going on, I knew
 
 80 MR. HOLLIDAY. 
 
 nothing where. Control over rity horse I had utterly 
 lost. He heeded my pulling on his bit as little as he did 
 the words I tried to speak to him. Such a mad race I 
 never rode before, and I am confident I do not wish 
 to ride again. Just at the moment when I thought I 
 must certainly fall from my horse, and when the strength 
 seemed to have failed me altogether, I saw some one 
 spring suddenly from the roadside, and the next I knew 
 was that my headlong career was brought to a stop ! My 
 horse plunged and reared to get away, but the grasp that 
 was upon him would not permit that. And to this gen 
 tleman alone, dear sister, am I indebted for my life to 
 day." 
 
 Mary gave him a look of pure gladness. 
 
 " I am sure, sir," said she, " we do not know how to 
 thank you enough. You have touched, beside the feeling 
 of gratefulness within us, that of deep and real joy. Let 
 me thank you again and again, sir, for your courageous 
 service. And now" they had finally reached the gate 
 at the yard " let us insist on your coming in with us." 
 
 He excused himself at once in a few words, promising 
 to call very soon again and learn how speedy was Martha's 
 recovery from her fright; and lifting his hat to them 
 both with a grace that was inborn to him, he turned and 
 pursued his solitary way down the road homeward. 
 
 On that road what strange fancies entered his head, 
 while faces, equally strange crept slowly into his heart ! 
 The face of that beautiful girl so full of innocence, so 
 fresh, so glowing, so animated with her perfectly frank 
 and free expression quite captivated his feelings, and 
 broke down the barriers of his judgment altogether. On 
 his pages would that sweet face live again. In his 
 thoughts he knew it would dance till they could gather 
 themselves around no other objects than that. What
 
 ME. IIOLLIDAY. 81 
 
 might come of it all what might be the result to himself, 
 to his plans, and purposes, and pursuits he dared not 
 once stop to think. It was in a dream almost that he 
 wandered now ; all brought to him. so suddenly that he 
 could have foreseen nothing of it a short time before. 
 
 The father of the girls was greatly surprised when he 
 learned of the escape of his younger child from a cruel 
 death, and declared many times that he would never for 
 get the one who had rendered him so signal a service, at 
 the risk, too, of his own life. His gratitude overflowed, 
 seeming to be even more abundant than that of either of 
 his daughters ; albeit, it is certainly due to Martha, at 
 least, to say that her feeling was far too deep for any 
 thing like a fair, outward expression. 
 
 Mr. Rivers had never heard of Mr. Holliday before. 
 Was he a young man ? And what was his employment ? 
 Was he poor, like the rest of us around here ? Martha 
 answered his questions only the best way she could. She 
 told him just what Mr. Holliday had himself communicated, 
 and there was obliged to stop. Mr. Rivers promised 
 forthwith to find out more without farther delay ; and in- 
 forjped his daughters that they had made at least one 
 acquaintance, since their arrival in the country, that de 
 served to be carefully perpetuated to the end of their 
 days. Their father was at times an enthusiastic man , 
 and where he liked, he liked as few other men could. 
 And sitting that evening in his slippers, the little country 
 parlor being pleasantly lighted, he made his children once 
 more the happy children they had been long before pe 
 cuniary misfortunes if they really were such had over 
 taken them. 
 
 The little seat where lived the Rivers family was not 
 on that night any more enviable in its appearance than 
 the snug nest where was dreaming the young student and 
 
 4*
 
 82 ME. HOLLIDAY. 
 
 author. With his head on his hand, and his elbow leaned 
 upon the table, he sat in the pleasant web of his dream, 
 blowing fanciful bubbles of every kind through the hours 
 of the spring evening. 
 
 Had not his exertion in checking the horse been too 
 much for him ?
 
 . CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 IN good season the next morning Arthur Holliday set 
 out for the house of the one he had rescued, eager to 
 know what effect her fright might have produced on her. 
 He thought, as he followed the winding and narrow road 
 along, that the day had an unusual promise, and that the 
 sun shone forth with a new brilliancy. The woods and 
 the fields wore liveries that seemed hitherto unobserved 
 by him. Life was every where present, and birds, beasts, 
 and insects were awake with the dawn of a fresh joy. 
 
 When he came in sight of the low house and broad 
 piazza of Mr. Rivers his heart half misgave him, and un 
 consciously the old fears stole over him ; but making a 
 desperate effort to control them, he walked with a quick 
 and firm tread across the yard, and pulled at the bell. 
 Martha had espied him coming up, and therefore went to 
 wait upon him ; possibly to let him see at the first glance 
 that she had quite recovered from the shock given her 
 nerves the evening before. 
 
 " Good-morning," he saluted, as she opened the door. 
 "I was anxious to know that you were well this morning, 
 and have done myself the pleasure of calling on you for 
 that purpose." 
 
 Martha blushed, thanked him, and told him that she 
 thought no more of the accident at all than of the great
 
 84 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 risk run by the one who so courageously rescued her ; 
 and asked him into the parlor. He complied with her 
 wish ; and immediately he found himself seated in a long 
 room, or rather in two rooms thrown together in one, 
 with a low ceiling, and the walls hung with a few charm 
 ing pictures, chiefly engravings ; while opposite him was 
 that same sweet face that had looked out in aty his dreams 
 of the night before. 
 
 They chatted a few minutes together, when Martha 
 excused herself to call her sister, and her father and 
 mother. Mary entered, renewing to the stranger her 
 thanks of the previous evening, but adding little more. 
 Aside from this particular circumstance, she could think 
 of associating no other one with him that would be likely 
 at all to interest her. 
 
 When Martha introduced her parents they betrayed 
 their pleasure at making the young man's acquaintance in 
 every way possible. Mr. Rivers apologized for not hav 
 ing first called on him, and expressed to him over and 
 over the gratitude that moved him. The single act that 
 saved to him his daughter's life, he considered one for 
 which he could never make adequate return. He char 
 acterized it as an act of the truest courage and heroism. 
 And in all that he said his wife concurred most heartily. 
 
 " It was no more than what the common feelings of hu 
 manity would prompt," he modestly explained. Still 
 that view of it made the hearts of the family none the less 
 grateful. 
 
 Mr. Rivers at length fell to conversing with his visitor 
 of the scenery and the country round about, asking him 
 his opinion or his fancy on matters of taste, or comparing 
 his experience with him respecting life and labor in that 
 particular locality. 
 
 " You have resided here some time, I suppose," said
 
 A MORNING CALL. 85 
 
 Mr. Rivers. " At least, long enough to know what 's 
 going on around you." 
 
 " Three years and upward," was the reply ; " yet in 
 all that time I confess, sir, that my personal acquaintance 
 here has amounted to but little. I spend a great many 
 hours in the day, and a great many days in the month, 
 out of doors, and there I manage to get a peep at about 
 all the out-door life there is to be seen. Every body 
 seems to know me ; so of course I am supposed to know 
 every body. As for the rest, I can only say that I li ve a 
 quiet and secluded life here, and that my good old house 
 keeper in all likelihood knows as little of me as the rest." 
 
 "The country is well adapted to your pursuits, you 
 find,' 1 Mr. Rivers went on, his interest increasing natur 
 ally. 
 
 " No spot can be better for me than this one right here. 
 Its many influences have seemed to grow into my mind. 
 When I labor, my thoughts all get their shape, their 
 coloring, or their vividness and warmth from the asso- 
 ciations that are linked in with my residence here. These 
 influences are silent and secret, every one of them ; but 
 they are no less powerful on that account. The mind is 
 a something over which we after all have but little con 
 trol. It possesses us, and not we it. That idea is a fal 
 lacy at best that teaches us that we have only to furnish 
 food for our intellectual nature, and then suffer our 
 thoughts to go a-grazing upon it. It is not so ; and it is 
 just because it is not so that I feel my thoughts often 
 times led whither other powers may wish to lead them, 
 and colored by processes that, to say the least, seem ut 
 terly unaccountable." 
 
 " I should much admire to peruse one of your books, 
 sir," said Mr. Rivers. "If you will have the kindness to 
 send one over to us, we warrant you full justice shall be
 
 86 A. MORNING CALL. 
 
 done its pages ; and when I next go into town, I will ob 
 tain such of yours as you may have published. We must 
 manage to keep up, somehow, with what is being done in 
 the world, even if we do live so far back here." 
 
 The young man smiled only, acknowledging the com 
 pliment by a low and graceful bow. 
 
 " There are enough objects around us here," he ob 
 served, " to interest if not to instruct one, if one has but 
 a wish to be interested and instructed. People are more 
 homely to be sure ; but homeliness of manners is by no 
 means to be confounded with rudeness ; they are quite 
 different things. Because all can not lodge under 
 crowded city roofs, it does not follow that those who go 
 into country cottages are necessarily the inferior ones. 
 Or if but a few out of the entire mass rush to the close 
 alleys of the town, it is by no means certain that the vast 
 remainder would go if they had but the opportunity. In 
 fact, country people may possess all the amenities and 
 intelligence, and refinement of those who possess the 
 most. Why not, pray ?" 
 
 " That 's true ! that 's true !" exclaimed Martha, in one 
 of her irresistible impulses. "Mary, I want you to hear 
 this !" 
 
 " Mr. Holliday is not projecting a lecture particularly 
 for me, I trust ?" said her sister, in a voice much too lan 
 guid to stand up under the charge of affectation. 
 
 " Why, Mary," returned her sister, " how you talk !" 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed, said the young man ; " I had no such 
 thoughts as that, nor in truth/ do I see how the subject in 
 hand could trouble any one, if treated in a truthful and 
 candid manner. Excuse me if I have " 
 
 " You have not, sir, you have not," interrupted Mary. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ?" asked Martha, looking a 
 little confused, and gazing straight in her sister's face.
 
 A MOKNING CALL. 87 
 
 " Fol-de-rol ! Fol-de-rol !" exclaimed Mr. Rivers him, 
 self, eager to engage his guest in conversation again. 
 " As you were saying, Mr. Holliday : um ! um ! a " 
 
 " Yes, sir, as I was saying it is not of necessity a dis 
 paragement to a person to live among country scenes, or 
 even in the midst of country people." 
 
 " No no no ; that it is n't," broke forth Mr. Rivers. 
 
 " I speak not from any special experience of my own, 
 that can exactly be laid down by the side of that of 
 others," he continued ; " I know what I do simply from a 
 habit I have of analyzing my own feelings and thoughts 
 on such a subject. I understand that the human heart 
 is susceptible to some of the subtlest influences, and that 
 they reach it not less from objects and scenes in the midst 
 of rustic quietudes, than from those beheld within corpo 
 ration limits. In fact, refining influences are by no means 
 local or exclusive. They are to be found every where ; as 
 much in a place like this, and more to some natures here, 
 as in a city's borders. Towns concentrate what lies more 
 widely scattered beyond their reach. Yet there is as 
 much downright happiness to be had outside of them as 
 in them, for me I confess a great deal more ; and I have 
 tried both." 
 
 " And for me, too," added Martha. " The open, sunny 
 country's the place for rational enjoyment." 
 
 " Then I fancy you must have enjoyed yourself very 
 highly," said her sister, " while taking your horseback 
 airing last evening ; for upon my word you had the whole 
 open country before you to go whither you would !" and 
 upon this she laughed as if she were making a real good 
 time of it. 
 
 " Not to go whither I would, exactly," pleasantly re 
 turned Martha. "If I had had that liberty, I should cer 
 tainly have chosen a different route from the one I took "
 
 88 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 
 
 "And so not fallen in accidentally with Mr. Holliday ? 
 added her father. 
 
 Mary looked at her sister, and had half a mind naught 
 ily to say, " Mat, what are you blushing so for ?" 
 
 ".It's a happy accident," said Mr. Holliday, meaning 
 nothing but a compliment by it, " that brought my humble 
 self within the circle of your acquaintance." 
 
 " A country acquaintance, too !" added Mrs. Rivers, 
 with a smile. 
 
 After further conversation in this way, Mr. Rivers 
 asked his guest if he would not like to go over his humble 
 grounds with him ; to be sure there was little else there 
 but nature, and there would be likely to be little else for 
 a long time to come ; yet he would be glad to show him 
 how he meant finally to content himself here. So they 
 strolled out on the piazza, and through the gate, and over 
 the garden, and into the orchard, and so on down the 
 little lane that divided the kitchen-garden and the house 
 from the farm. 
 
 All the way, Mr. Rivers told of his own plans for slowly 
 improving and beautifying his rustic place, and of the 
 hopes and happiness that he cherished so ardently there. 
 In few words he sketched the outline of his life to his 
 young auditor, and closed by narrating that he was left 
 just where he had begun the world thirty years before. 
 " Out ofkall I ever could boast of possessing, and I never 
 did boast overmuch, I think," said he, "I saved just 
 nothing." 
 
 " Nothing !" instinctively exclaimed Mr. Holliday. 
 
 " Nothing at all. You wonder, then, how I have the 
 moderate possessions I do ; let me tell you that I hold 
 them simply as a sort of certificate of character from my 
 creditors. They have generously provided, when I other 
 wise should have been on the 'world ; and for their pro-
 
 AMOKNINGCALL. 89 
 
 vision, whatever it might be, I am by all considerations 
 bound to be grateful. I believe in gratitude, Mr. Holli- 
 day I believe in gratitude, sir ; and let me stop to thank 
 you over again for your noble conduct in releasing my 
 dear daughter from her danger yesterday." 
 
 " Oh, sir" 
 
 " I know you don't want me to say any thing about it ; 
 so I won't. Yet I feel no less grateful for it all, you un 
 derstand. It 's a debt I can't seem to discharge, as I feel 
 that I have done by my other debts. But as I was going 
 to tell you, Mr. Holliday : I try to feel as happy here as I 
 ever did any where ; and I really believe I 've got hold 
 of the true feeling." 
 
 " Indeed, I do not doubt it, sir. Such a thing is not so 
 very difficult to attain, if one but puts himself at first in 
 the right position." 
 
 " That 's it that 's it. The fact is, Mr. Holliday, since 
 f I first began to put down my resolution seriously on this 
 subject, as a man should do, I 've become quite a philos 
 opher. I find myself busy with subjects that never 
 troubled me before. You will say that the country is a 
 good place for philosophizing ?" 
 
 " Grand. The very best. It 's quite my own experi 
 ence, sir." 
 
 " Well, then, as I get deeper into my system, I shall 
 without doubt understand every thing the better. My 
 philosophy is, just at this time, contentment. That single 
 word, I believe, will comprise it all. There's the real 
 happiness to be got in that ; and what more are we 
 all after? What more are we after, I should like to 
 know ?" 
 
 " Nothing more," ventured to answer the young man. 
 
 " I know that it 's not the life my family have been ac 
 customed to lead ; but does that go to show that it 's not
 
 90 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 a life in which they may find the wholest and most whole 
 some enjoyment ? I think not. I took you round this 
 way, just to show you the little place I call my farm. It 's 
 about large enough to make a man determined to be con 
 tented perfectly contented ; and that 's just enough. 
 Here I shall try and reap my harvests, and enjoy myself 
 with the passing year. Perplexities of business will never 
 interrupt my quietude, nor threaten the happiness of my 
 little family. I hope to find my neighbors as well disposed 
 as I think I am myself, and, above all, Mr. Holliday, I 
 shall expect as much of your company as you can possibly 
 give us. We will try and make you enjoy yourself in our 
 circle, if you 're not hard to be suited." 
 
 The young man assured him that that was his last fail 
 ing, and responded to his invitation with much cordiality. 
 
 When they entered the front yard again Mr. Holliday 
 was struck with the simple beauty that characterized the 
 place ; perhaps it seemed far more charming to him, now 
 that he was in possession of the golden key that unlocked 
 the secret of the charm. He felt that here was a family 
 with whom he might have many a pure sympathy in com 
 mon ; where he might come and not find all he said and 
 did misinterpreted ; around whose circle, although even 
 unconsciously to themselves, he might fling associations 
 of the most endearing and delightful character. 
 
 The young ladies, as well as their mother, presented 
 urgent requests to the author to call on them often, hop 
 ing he might find it agreeable for him to do so. He prom 
 ised all that his tongue allowed him, and took his leave at 
 that. Time might ripen their acquaintance. New ideas 
 might sprout in the garden of theif sociality. Matters 
 might change a good deal. Hearts might finally open. 
 He knew not but he might be the missionary who was to 
 change the direction of Mary's thoughts regarding rural
 
 A MORNING CALL. 91 
 
 
 
 life, and bring her out bright at last on the side of her fair 
 sister, Martha. 
 
 And Martha's face again came directly before his eyea 
 while he walked slowly over the shaded country road. 
 She seemed to smile to speak. He smiled in return. 
 And then the shadow of that fear that strange and inde 
 scribable fear dragged its slow length across his heart, 
 and the sweet illusion face and features, smile and syl 
 lables was utterly gone. It was like a cloud coming be 
 tween the eai'th and the sun. It would soon be gone ; 
 yet it had been there. And even the recollection of that 
 troubled him. 
 
 As soon as he reached his little cot he entered his 
 study, anti. there buried himself in the thoughts that 
 crowded upon him. His housekeeper had called him 
 thrice already, and still he seemed to know nothing what 
 she meant by her assiduity, nor what it was all for.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 KIT AND HIS CROW. 
 
 GABRIEL stole out into the yard one pleasant morning, 
 and began to amuse himself with the poultry that kept 
 company with Mr. Martin Nubbles's family. In the 
 feathered crowd were to be found geese, duc*ks, hens, 
 and turkeys, besides a few of those very disagreeable 
 creatures (to many persons) called guinea-hens. 
 
 While he was busily engaged in counting them all over, 
 and looking about the premises and wondering if every 
 body else kept their fowls in no better a "place than that 
 used by Mr. Nubbles, he saw a tame crow hobbling along 
 up to him that began to cry out with wide-open mouth, 
 as if for something to eat. Gabriel of course gave this 
 black personage all his attention. 
 
 " Here, Jack," called he, stooping down and reaching 
 out his hand. " Jack, come here !" 
 
 The crow seemed to understand at a glance that the 
 boy was not his master, and after he had advanced a few 
 steps farther he cocked up his head and winked slyly 
 with a single eye, as much as to say to him, " Where 's 
 Kit ? You 're not Kit ! Don't think to fool me so easy !" 
 
 Gabriel kept talking to the sable bird, and the bird 
 stood on one leg and listened to him patiently. If ever 
 the manner of a crow expressed any thing, -that of this 
 crow most plainly indicated that he had no special objec-
 
 KIT AND HIS CEOW. 93 
 
 tion that he was aware of to making the acquaintance of 
 Gabriel, and that he would stand on one leg ^ awhile and 
 hear what he had got to say for himself. Now and then 
 hWdropped his head, perhaps reflectively, and picked up 
 a chip with his long bill ; or he turned over the other 
 side of his head to the boy, and winked with a fresh en 
 ergy with the other eye. 
 
 At length Gabriel reached forward to catch him ; he 
 thought within himself that even the sympathy of a tame 
 crow was better than no sympathy at all, and that there 
 might be such a thing as his winning it to himself. The 
 crow took fright at this sudden movement, and giving a 
 hoarse " caw, caw, caw," flapped his broad black wings, 
 and sailed up to the top of a post that helped hold up the 
 yard fence. 
 
 " Here ! what 're ye doin' to my crow ? What do ye 
 want of Jack, ye little pauper ?" instantly cried out a 
 voice that too vividly suggested the approaching figure 
 of Kit. "Jest let that crow alone!" said he, no\v appear 
 ing in sight, and brandishing his arm theateningly. 
 
 "I hav'n't touched him," murmured Gabriel, rising 
 slowly to his feet, and regarding his tormentor with in 
 expressible disgust. 
 
 " Had n't touched him !" repeated Kit, sullenly, while 
 his round moony face grew redder and redder. " Then 
 what did he fly away for ? what made him holler so, 
 then ?" 
 
 Gabriel would not answer. He hardly thought it re 
 quired of him that he should enter into ornithological 
 science so deeply as to attempt an explanation of the 
 bird's motive for crying out " caw caw" just when he 
 wished to. 
 
 " Come, now," said Kit, moving up to him, " you hit 
 him !"
 
 94 KIT AND HIS CROW. 
 
 " I did no such tiling," replied Gabriel. 
 
 " Don't tell me you did n't, now, for I ain't a-goin' to 
 be contradicted! You hit him, I tell ye; an' I '11 hit 
 you ! Take that !" 
 
 Thereupon the calfy boy struck Gabriel a heavy blow 
 across his stomach that nearly knocked the breath out of 
 his body. As soon as he had successfully accomplished 
 this feat he turned and ran valiantly for the house, calling 
 out to his mother for assistance all the way. Gabriel 
 caught hold of a bush at hand to prevent his falling to 
 the ground, and gave a long and deep groan. 
 
 When Kit reached the house he narrated to his mother 
 how that Gabriel that miserable little pauper had tried 
 to kill his crow by striking him with a stick, and how 
 he had fallen afoul of him when told that he must let the 
 bird alone, and would, in all probability, have killed him 
 but for his precipitate retreat to the house ; and he be 
 sought his mother to go out and take up the cudgels in 
 his defense immediately. 
 
 She happened to be standing at the long wooden sink 
 washing the dishes ; but at once dropping what she had in 
 her hands, and stripping down the greasy dishwater from 
 her arms, she muttered something about their family's being 
 overrun and turned inside-out by paupers, and rushed out, 
 like the Amazon she was, to the scene of the difficulty. 
 
 Gabriel was sitting down upon a log, as she came up, 
 breathing heavily and moaning for assistance. His face 
 was veiy pale, and the tears were running down his 
 cheeks. He cast up a look of patient supplication to his 
 mistress, and would have said something to her had she 
 allowed him ; but rushing upon him with the ferocity of 
 an infuriated bear whose single cub has been slaughtered 
 before her eyes, she grabbed him by the narrow collar of 
 his jacket, just in the back of his neck, and dragged him,
 
 KITANDHISCEOW. 95 
 
 unresisting and uncomplaining, over chips, logs, stones, 
 and brush-heaps, straight across the yard into the house. 
 
 When she found she had him securely there, she set 
 about her usual pastime of boxing his ears, shaking him 
 roughly up and down in his chair, and " hitting him a 
 clew" now and then as she quite elegantly expressed it 
 over his diminutive legs. She went at it this time like 
 a real fury. She acted as if she meant to make a final 
 job of it, if she could, and so get the poor little wretch 
 ;ut of her way altogether. 
 
 And where was Kit? what was he doing all this time? 
 Ah ! there he stood just behind the outer door, peering 
 round the edge of it to see if his mother " gave it to the 
 young rebel good," and occasionally exclaiming in a loud 
 whisper " That 's it, mother ! that 's it ! I 'd lick him if 
 I was in your place !" The face of the valorous youth had 
 become, through his continued excitement, of the color 
 of a bed of pinks. He swelled up at his fat throat like a 
 frog beginning to whirr. His eyes protruded, and glared 
 about on every object that was within the range of his 
 vision. As the blows fell thick and fast on the persecuted 
 boy, he kept chuckling and laughing, and growing redder 
 continually. 
 
 Mr. Nubbles had gone away. It was well, perhaps, 
 that he had, else Gabriel's position might have been even 
 less endurable, if that were possible, than it was. 
 
 When Mrs. Nubbles thought that the boy might have 
 got enough, although she had no means of judging ex 
 cept by the subsidence of her hasty passion, she left off 
 beating, and took to scolding him. This was her usual 
 method of completing her administrations of punishment ; 
 what, in the graphic language of her son Christopher, 
 was termed " topping off." 
 
 At him, therefore, with her tongue she went, hammer
 
 96 KIT AND HIS CROW. 
 
 and t6ngs, as they say. It seemed as if she could scarcely 
 keep her hands off of him, either. Now she walked close 
 to the chair in which she had seated him, brandishing her 
 fist in his face; and now she clutched and grabbed at 
 imaginary objects of hatred in the air, as if she would 
 like to tear out every spear of hair that grew in his head. 
 
 " My Christopher !" was what she said, but only a small 
 part of it, however. " To think on it ! Beating my own 
 boy till he can't hardly stan' ! Trying to kill him, yes, 
 to commit a murder on him, and would have done it, too, 
 if I had n't come and saved him jest as I did ! A pretty 
 state of things, I really think! A fine kind of a prospect, 
 when I must be a lookin' out all the time to see my own 
 son layin' dead right before me. A fine kind of prospect, 
 I sh'd really think !" and here she stopped a moment to 
 get her breath again. 
 
 Kit walked proudly across the floor once or twice, ex 
 actly before Gabriel, making much exertion to insult and 
 bully him once more in this time of his mental and bodily 
 distress. Gabriel had done shedding tears, and looked 
 only sadly upon the floor, not even daring to meet the 
 eyes of his enemies. There was a great deal on his 
 heart that he would have been so thankful to relieve him 
 self of; but had there been any one there to reach out 
 his tenderer sympathies to his own, he would have been 
 sure to burst into a fit of weeping that would have choked 
 articulation. Poor Gabriel ! not so much as one friend in 
 the midst of such a grievous suffering ! 
 
 " You '11 have to go away from here, young man," 
 went on Mrs. Nubbles, coming down gradually from pas 
 sion to protestation simply, "for I ain't a-goin' to live so 
 there ! Mr. Nubbles 'd no sort o' business to bring 
 you here in the fust place ; but as long 's he has, why 
 you must git along with rne the best way you can. I 've
 
 KIT AXD HIS CROW. 97 
 
 got no words to waste on sich sort of bein's, and f t ain't at 
 all likely that I shall waste 'em on you. A word and a 
 blow, and a blow fust is what' you '11 git here ; you' 11 git 
 it of me, I can tell you !" 
 
 Gabriel continued to look down on the floor with the 
 same sad expression as before. A more thoroughly 
 friendless person, as far as looks went, it would be diffi 
 cult to find. He thought of his mother, and of her last 
 words to him ; when he stood at her bedside in the old 
 poor-house she holding his hand within her own thin 
 hand and looked upon his pale and wasted features, and 
 heard her syllables of deep and undying affection for 
 him. He ran over once more in his thoughts her oft-re 
 peated injunctions that bade him ever be gentle, and 
 truthful, and noble ; and to scorn the meannesses of those 
 who behaved from motives lower than these. And then 
 as he brought his mind forward to the realities that 
 hemmed him in on every side, his heart almost sank 
 within him, and the tears stole unbidden from his eyes. 
 
 He was suddenly started from his melancholy reverie 
 again by the shrill voice of his cruel mistress. 
 
 " Now 't you 're here," said she, " you shall make your 
 self useful, at any rate. Do you know where 'bouts them 
 new folks live that moved into town a few weeks ago ?" 
 
 Gabriel hesitated. 
 
 " Over acrost them lots yender, and then on that other 
 road to the village," she added. " I want you to go over 
 there. Their names is Rivers. You (fan inquire for Mr. 
 Riverses folks ; and when you see 'em, ask 'em if they 've 
 engaged all their butter for this summer. Can you do 
 that arrant, think ?" 
 
 He meekly answered that he would try, and right glad 
 too would he be to try any thing, so that he could be 
 respited even for an hour from his present state of suffering.
 
 98 KIT AND HIS CROW. 
 
 " Wai, git your cap on your head, then," said she, 
 " and let 's see you try ! Start yourself oft' as fast as ye 
 can. And mind another thing, now ; jest keep your eyes 
 about you, will ye, when you git there, and see what sort 
 o' folks they air, and what they live like. I want to know 
 if they 've got very han'sum furniture ; and how the 
 kitchen looks, and all the other places ; and I want you 
 to see all you can and tell me of it when you come back. 
 Now jest see how good a story you can bring. Off with 
 ye ! But be careful not to say to 'em what I wanted to 
 know so badly : it 's the summer butter that I 'm anxious 
 to git word on so particular !" 
 
 Receiving such dubious and puzzling instructions, he 
 put on his hat, told her in answer to her question whether 
 he knew what he was going after, that he believed he 
 did, and hurried across the yard to the road. He heard 
 Kit's disagreeable voice, as he reached the gate, calling 
 out insultingly to him, " Had to ketch it, old feller, did n't 
 ye ? Mother give it to ye good that time, did n't she ? 
 Next time then, try to kill my crow !" 
 
 Gabriel did not demean himself by answering his taunts. 
 If he had any feeling that he thoroughly kncnv to be at 
 the bottom of all the others, it was a feeling of the pro- 
 foundest pity for the poor creature, more body than soul, 
 that took such a delight in destroying the peace of one 
 weaker than himself. 
 
 The air on the old road did good service for the boy, 
 for it fanned his temples and cooled his heated lips ; and 
 its invigorating and renovating spirit stole through his 
 senses into his heart. The boughs of the trees that huno- 
 
 o O 
 
 over the chestnut rail fences, threw down pleasant patches 
 of shadow on the ground, making a sort of mosaic pave 
 ment beside the road, and inviting him further within the 
 dim. recesses of their shelter.
 
 KITANDHISCKOW. 99 
 
 After walking and wandering about for some time, he 
 descried, on another road, the house he thought must be 
 the one to which he had been sprit. It looked so lovely 
 to him in that situation, its chimneys rose so modestly 
 from its cottage roof, the piazza and the shrubbery were 
 so inviting to his wearied and lacerated feelings, that he 
 hailed the sight with a heartfelt joy. Oh, if he could but 
 live in such a spot himself, and be forever quit of the en 
 tire Nubbles family ! 
 
 He walked across the yard to the side door, and found 
 it open. Martha happened to be near, and espied him. 
 So small a boy, so pitiful an one in his whole appearance, 
 and a boy so sad-faced, if not sad-hearted, excited her 
 sympathy at once. She approached and kindly accosted 
 him, asking him who he was, and where he came from. 
 
 While he was telling his story, Mary joined her sister 
 at the door, and together they began to ply him with 
 their questions. To their inquiry where he lived, he had 
 answered " with Mr. Nubbles ;" and when they asked him 
 where he lived, he told them " over on Worrywiteh Hill." 
 
 " But where was Worrywitch Hill ?" They had never 
 heard of that place before. 
 
 He described the locality as well as he could, and the 
 kind of characters that dwelt there, human and inhuman. 
 
 " Mr. Nubbles !" said Mary,, laughingly, " What an 
 odd name !" 
 
 " And Kit Nubbles !" added Martha. " That is the 
 best of all." 
 
 Gabriel wondered what they were laughing at. 
 
 " But have you always lived there ?" said Martha, see 
 ing at a glance that there must be a story about it, some 
 where. " You are not Mr. Nubbles's boy, are you ?" 
 
 It was a very modest " No, ma'am," that he answered. 
 
 There was that in the face of the sad -hearted boy, that 

 
 100 KIT AND HIS CKOW. 
 
 appealed to her sympathies directly. She read in the 
 lines of his features a tale that only those quick and living 
 in their sympathies, like herself, can read in such hurried 
 glances. 
 
 " Then whose boy are you ?" she continued. Her sister 
 with folded arms, looked with manifest interest on the 
 scene. 
 
 "My mother is dead," said he, dropping his eyes to 
 the ground. " She died in the Epping poor-house ; and 
 I went to live with Mr. Nubbles." 
 
 The silence of the girls betrayed their emotion. 
 
 " And how long have you been there ?" finally put 
 Martha again. 
 
 " Only a few weeks, ma'am," said Gabriel. 
 
 " Do you like to live over there on that hill with such 
 a frightful name ?" pursued she. 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " Why, Mat !" exclaimed her sister. " You should n't 
 ask the child such questions. Perhaps he would n't like 
 to tell you." 
 
 " Oh, well then ; he need n't, certainly, if he does n't 
 wish to. I do not mean to wound his feelings at all, 
 sister." 
 
 " I 'd rather not tell," said he, and looked up into his 
 interrogator's face with an expression of such innocent 
 intelligence as was absolutely charming. Martha saw it 
 all in that single look, and forbore to pursue her inquiries 
 any further. 
 
 After a while Gabriel mustered courage to perform his 
 ostensible errand ; the real one he had absolutely suffered 
 to pass out of his mind. 
 
 The sisters made him come in and sit down in the littlo 
 breakfast-room ; and while Martha kindly gave him a 
 good, generous slice of her best cake, Mary had gone
 
 KIT AND HIS CROW. 101 
 
 to make due inquiries in reference to the supplies of sum 
 mer butter. 
 
 Gabriel could not well avoid noticing the various marks 
 of partiality that Martha showed him, nor the compas 
 sionate attention she manifested. He loved he,r already, 
 if only for her sweet face, that seemed to radiate hap 
 piness all around her. He felt, in only this momentary 
 acquaintance, that in her heart he might find a refuge. 
 Oh, that he might be permitted at some time to pour out 
 all his griefs to her, and feel himself secure in the warm 
 embrace of her sympathies ! 
 
 Mary returned with her mother, who, after sundry 
 precautionary inquiries of a general charactei', sent word 
 back to the boy's mistress that a sample of her butter, 
 together with her terms, might be returned as soon as 
 convenient. Mrs. Rivers herself likewise took much no 
 tice of Gabriel, putting him sundry questions, which was 
 her mode of expressing sympathy for one in so destitute 
 and friendless a condition. 
 
 Martha, kind and thoughtful Martha, followed him to 
 the gate, plucking two or three early garden flowers for 
 him as she went along, and telling him in a low voice 
 that he must not cry any more. He looked up at her as 
 if to ask how she knew he had been crying ; and instantly 
 so strong and so subtle was the magnetism of her pity 
 ing look, the tears stole into his eyes again. 
 
 The reader will be no wise astonished or disappointed 
 to learn that Mrs. Nubbles threw the flowers Gabriel 
 brought with him into the fire forthwith, and that after 
 getting the butter returns she got no other she set 
 Gabriel about his old avocations near herself, with stirnu 
 lated energy of purpose.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE WOKTH OF A RELATION". 
 
 IF you are perfectly willing, dear reader, I would like 
 to carry you back about five years. 
 
 At that time a young man from the country some 
 where, Duncan Morrow by name, was sauntering thought 
 fully along the streets of the city, feasting his hungry eyes 
 on the great variety of sights that greeted him on every 
 hand some of the time talking aloud to himself in broken 
 sentences, and appearing to be enmeshed in the network 
 of a dream. 
 
 Young as he was and he could not have been more 
 than eighteen he already was possessed of a very fine 
 face, and a handsome, well-knit figure. Now he stepped 
 over the pavement with a light and buoyant step, as if his 
 thoughts bounded with a sudden elasticity ; and now he 
 almost dragged his feet behind him, as if he were really 
 loth to pursue any further the purpose on Avhich he had 
 determined. 
 
 Yet there was that in his countenance that indicated a 
 high aim and a resolute will. Even when his gait changed 
 so suddenly he did not seem to betray any serious symp 
 toms of vacillation. His eye was open, full of vivacity, 
 and expressive of the most perfect frankness. A cloud 
 of thoughtfulness threw its dull shadow across his brow ; 
 but it indicated 'nothing like confusedness, or perplexity,
 
 THE WOETH OP A RELATION. lOtf 
 
 or a lack of complete reliance on his own power. Pie car 
 ried himself erectly, regarding what was around him. 
 without the least degree of bewilderment, albeit with 
 some considerable curiosity. 
 
 Had any one been sufficiently inquisitive to have fol 
 lowed after this individual wherever he went, he would 
 have necessarily been seduced into a walk that he other 
 wise might never have taken. Up one street, and down 
 another ; now doubling upon his own course, and now 
 making no headway at all ; around one corner at first, 
 and then coming presently pat on that very same corner 
 again : forward and backward thus he went in quest of 
 the object for which he had originally come to the city. 
 
 Now and then he drew a little card from his pocket, 
 which he paused to consult ; and then nervously thrust 
 ing it back into its place of secretion, he went on again. 
 
 Presently he drew in sight of the wharves. A view of 
 the vessels threw him into better spirits immediately. He 
 pushed on directly for their vicinity, and by dint of judi 
 cious inquiry, soon found himself on the particular street 
 he sought. It remained now only for him to walk along 
 till he came to the number designated on his card. 
 
 Arriving before a certain dingy building, he looked up 
 along the door ; and to the side of it he saw secured a 
 small, narrow strip of tin, on which was painted in 
 capitals : 
 
 JACOB DOLLAE. 
 
 "Yes," said he, aloud, "I've found it finally." So 
 making a spring and a bound, he landed half way up the 
 stairs at once.
 
 104 THE WORTH OF A RELATION. 
 
 From the head of the flight he pushed his way along 
 to the little half-glass door of an office or counting-room, 
 in which was seated an individual alone. At a single 
 glance through the window the young man observed that 
 he was intently engaged over the morning paper. His 
 back being tui'ned toward the door, Duncan likewise ob 
 served that his head was rather gray, and on its crown 
 decidedly bald. Before venturing to open the door and 
 enter, an inconceivable whim possessed him to look around 
 the gloomy apartment from which this miniature room 
 had been cornered off. 
 
 It was a low, dark, and dirty room, with a great va 
 riety of articles of different degrees of value and usefulness 
 stowed away back in its rear, and seemed rather to be a 
 loft for the lodgment of lumber boards, boxes, casks and 
 staves than a place for the regular transaction of a 
 respectable business. 
 
 Dust was every where, upon every thing piled thick 
 and high ; a wine-cellar itself could not have asked for 
 more. And cobwebs hung plentifully around, swinging 
 and sailing on the draughts of air that entered, and cur 
 taining windows, chinks, crevices and holes with a gro- 
 tesqueness that many might have mistaken for grace. 
 The floor was stained and filthy, and the dirt had been 
 pressed and matted down by continual stepping upon it. 
 In any view and every view it was a thoroughly dun- 
 geony and uninviting place. 
 
 The young man turned the latch and went in. As the 
 door opened the elderly gentleman crushed his paper to 
 gether in his lap and looked round over his shoulders to 
 see who it was. And the youth walked forward until he 
 stood before his face. 
 
 " Ah !" said the master of the premises, when his first 
 glance assured him that he had a stranger in his web ;
 
 THE WORTH OF A EELATION. 105 
 
 " good-morning, sir !" and he pulled along a vacant chair 
 with his foot for his visitor to sit down upon. 
 
 Duncan sat down in obedience to the hint thus deli 
 cately conveyed, and took off his hat with the design of 
 making both himself and his errand better known. 
 
 " My name is Morrow," said the young man, without 
 further preface ; " Duncan Morrow." 
 
 "Um!" responded the other, rather pleasantly than 
 unpleasantly, as if he did not as yet see exactly what that 
 fact had to do with him. Yet his gray, greedy eyes did 
 brighten the least degree in the world when the sound of 
 that name first greeted his ears. 
 
 " I suppose you are my uncle," said Duncan, expecting 
 his relative to do nothing less now than rise from his 
 chair and embrace him. 
 
 " Eh ?" asked the man. " Humph ! what did you say 
 just now ?" 
 
 " I believe I am your nephew," returned Duncan, this 
 time quite modestly. 
 
 " My nephew, hey ? Well, and how do you go to work 
 to make that out ?" 
 
 The cold-blooded man of money threw his arm over a 
 neighboring chair, still holding the newspaper between 
 his thumb and forefinger, and tilted himself backward in 
 an attitude that was the perfection of lazy ease and com 
 fort. Looking Duncan fixedly in the face with his cold, 
 dull, unfeeling eye, he repeated his interrogatory, " How 
 do you make that out ?" 
 
 " Is not your name, then, Mr. Dollar ?" asked the 
 young man. 
 
 " Well, it is. Nobody was ever disposed to call that 
 in question that I know of. What then ?" 
 
 " Is it not Mr. Jacob Dollar ?" 
 
 " Most assuredly, sir." 
 
 5*
 
 106 THE WORTH O.F A RELATION. 
 
 " Then you are certainly my xmcle." 
 
 " Humph ! I don't see that yet !" 
 
 " If you will permit me to explain," pursued the young 
 man. 
 
 " Oh ! as for that, I 'm not so very particular as you 
 may think me ; but go on if you 've got any thing of any 
 importance to say. Go on, sir, if you wish. It 's all 
 nothing to me, I 'm sure." 
 
 " My mother's maiden name," said Duncan, " was Dol 
 lar. She was your own sister. Though I do not remem 
 ber ever to have seen you " 
 
 " No, I guess you never did," interrupted Mr. Dollar. 
 
 " Yet I do remember very well what she has told me, 
 on the subject, from my earliest days." 
 
 " Urn !" chimed in the merchant, flapping his paper to 
 and fro rather uneasily in his hand. 
 
 " She is dead," said the nephew. 
 
 " I suppose she is," returned the merchant, without the 
 least betrayal of regard for her. 
 
 " And left some property, somewhere though it was 
 but a little." 
 
 " Where did she leave it ? Do you know ?" asked the 
 merchant, fixing his cold eyes steadily on those of his 
 nephew. 
 
 " I believe it was intrusted to your management," said 
 Duncan. " Was it not ?" 
 
 " To my management ! To my um ! No. I know 
 nothing at all about it ! I never knew that she owned a 
 single dollar in the world ! How should I know of such 
 things, pray ? To my management, truly ! Umph !" 
 
 " Yet I really do not understand why she should say 
 so, if such was not the fact." 
 
 " Young man," returned his uncle, increasing, if pos 
 sible, the searching severity of his look toward him.
 
 I * 
 
 THE WORTH OF A RELATION. 107 
 
 "young man, I fear you've got into the wrong shop 
 here! Before you set about your work, whatever it is, 
 let me just, advise you to understand your ground. 
 Please to remember what I tell you, as long as you live. 
 It will do you a great deal of good, and save you much 
 trouble before you get through !" 
 
 "But it was for nothing of this kind that I ventured to call 
 in on you," said Duncan, in a style of coolness and steadi 
 ness that surprised even so collected a man as his uncle. 
 
 " Um !" again exclaimed the latter, forcing up the 
 sound from a great way down his throat. 
 
 Just then the office door opened, and a young man en 
 tered. He was overmuch dressed, and seemed to feel 
 quite satisfied with the impression he must make upon 
 every one. Going straight to the desk, he filled out the 
 blank form of a check, and stepped to his father to ask 
 him to sign it. The latter glanced at the figures, by 
 which the amount was specified, and immediately thrust 
 his hand into his pocket. Drawing forth a huge pocket- 
 book, he opened it with great care, and took from it a 
 number of bank notes, and of not the smallest denomina 
 tion, either. 
 
 " Take these, my son," said the father. " Give me the 
 check. I'd rather you wouldn't go to the bank. Come 
 always to me. Only be prudent, Henry. You know 
 what I've often told you." 
 
 And upon this, Mr. Dollar took the check from his son, 
 and laid it on the little fire of coals. 
 
 The last comer threw a hasty glance at his cousin, not 
 once dreaming that he was such, and went out, gayly 
 humming and whistling together a snatch from one of the 
 newest operatic solos, while he employed his hands with 
 readjusting the little diamond pin that glittered against 
 the rich ground of his satin neckerchief.
 
 108 THE WORTH OF A RELATION. 
 
 Duncan thought he could take into his comprehension 
 the young man's character at once ; and if he knew how 
 he felt, he thought that he felt really disgusted. 
 
 " What I took the liberty to come in for this mom- 
 ing," said he, returning to the topic that chiefly interested 
 him, " was to ask of you a little assistance. I am not 
 very well supplied with money, and feel anxious to secure 
 some regular business for myself, in which I may have a 
 chance of advancement. I thought that possibly you 
 could help me a little." 
 
 Mr. Dollar preserved silence, though he shook his head 
 negatively and very, very slowly. Now he fixed his eyes 
 on the deadened fire. 
 
 " Perhaps you would be willing to assist me in getting 
 such a place as I want ?" said Duncan. 
 
 " No, I know of none," he answered, still intent on the 
 fire, and trying to look even when he spoke as if no 
 second person was in the room. 
 
 " Could you not give me a place with yourself?" asked 
 the young man. 
 
 " No, sir ; I don't want a clerk. My son Henry is all 
 the clerk I need." 
 
 A pause of a minute or two. 
 
 " Do you know of any firm that would like assistance, 
 sir ?" pursued Duncan. 
 
 Mr. Dollar turned on him now with a highly sardonic 
 smile ; and asked him how he thought he was going to 
 be of assistance to any one, when he was the very person 
 most in need of that article ! There was an uncalled for 
 rancor in the tone of the remark that did not escape the 
 just appreciation of the nephew. But unmindful of the 
 sneering reproof, the young man ventured another ap 
 peal. 
 
 " May I ask you then, sir, if you will lend me a small
 
 I I 
 
 THE WORTH OF A RELATION. 109 
 
 sum of money, until I can repay you. I can then have 
 more time to look about for myself." 
 
 " I 'm not in the habit of making permanent invest 
 ments," was the sarcastic reply. 
 
 " But I will pledge you my honor that every cent shall 
 be returned, with full interest added !" 
 
 " Honor, as you call it, don't pass for security, exactly, 
 among business men." 
 
 " Then if I can find abundant security, you are willing 
 to oblige me with a loan ?" said Duncan, trying to make 
 the best of it. 
 
 "I don't know about that, either," answered Mr. Dollar. 
 
 The young man looked straight into his uncle's face. 
 For aliJoment and but for a moment the blood man 
 tled his cheeks, his forehead, and flew into his eyes with 
 its rapid flush ; and then he was suddenly calmer than 
 the man who so coldly and sneeringly repelled him. 
 
 At once a lofty resolve took possession of his soul. It 
 seemed to fill him with a new and unwonted strength. 
 He immediately rose from his seat, and abruptly wished 
 his uncle good-morning. 
 
 " Good-morning, sir," returned the latter with all his 
 former cold civility. 
 
 And long, long after the door shut again, that icy- 
 hearted man sat in the same position, gazing with a rapt 
 silence into the fire. Occasionally he gave utterance to 
 some exclamation, as if he might not be clear of ah 1 fears ; 
 but that was all. And even these ejaculations echoed 
 with a dull and leaden voice against the walls of his low 
 and dingy counting-room. 
 
 For once in his life, the astute man of trade had made 
 a great mistake hi his maneuvering. Possibly, in good 
 time, he would be allowed to see it more plainly for 
 himself.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 
 
 MRS. NUBBLES could hardly bring herself to it; but 
 she did yield in time. How she came to give in, and 
 give in to her husband, too that is a point that, if ex 
 plained at all, will be done as completely in six wp.rds as 
 in sixty. 
 
 The fact was, when warm weather was settled Ga 
 briel's life having been providentially prolonged through 
 his many sufferings until that period a traveling me 
 nagerie happened to stray away through the country in 
 the neighborhood of Draggledew Plain, and pitched its 
 soiled canvas tents just within the little manufacturing 
 village of Spindleville. 
 
 Now Mr. Nubbles was going over himself. He never 
 failed to go to such places. And Kit was going too. 
 Should Gabriel go ? That was the question. 
 
 Mrs. Nubbles said no. Mr. Nubbles said yes. And 
 between them both what was likely to be done ? 
 
 But Kit for a wonder chanced to feel in a decent 
 mood just at the crisis of this parental dispute, and 
 bawled out to them both 
 
 " Thunder ! Let him go ! What 's the use, mother ?" 
 
 And so Gabriel went. And that was the way he came 
 to go. 
 
 It would have made even Mr. Nubbles's old mare her 
 self laugh, if she could have been allowed to stand some-
 
 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. Ill 
 
 where by the side of the road and see the turnout that 
 day achieved by the male portion of the family. Or if the 
 same animal could only have stolen a furtive glance over 
 her shoulder, and noted the various and ludicrous pecu 
 liarities of the picturesque group behind her, she must 
 certainly have plodded on to the end of her journey 
 showing her horse-teeth all the way ! 
 
 There sat Mr. Nubbles, exactly in the middle of the 
 great, deep-backed, high-shouldered seat ; with one hand 
 pulling by the reins as earnestly as if his steed were capa 
 ble of making the time of a Highflyer, in the place of 
 being the broken-spirited, cob-meal eating jade she was 
 and with the other steadying the hickory stalk of his 
 whip over his right shoulder; while from beneath the 
 narrow rim of his enormous bell-shaped hat seedy as 
 the very hat itself floated out upon the light wind the 
 mahogany-hued locks that neighbored upon his long ears ; 
 his knees set up sharply, and together ; and his eyes 
 fixed like the eyes of a pilot in a gale in the forward 
 direction he was so anxious for his mare to take him. 
 
 Kit was jammed and squeezed into the seat on one side 
 of his father, for comfort's sake rather rolled up on his 
 side, his chubby cheeks pressed in against his eyes nearly 
 as hard as his father was pressing upon him, and one fat 
 hand grasping the seat as if for speedy deliverance from 
 the operation that was being performed on him. As 
 the old wagon jolted over the stones and down into the 
 pitches, and as Kit labored only the harder to hold on, 
 his reddened cheeks vibrated like two solid molds of 
 jelly freshly formed. 
 
 Gabriel sat in the bottom of the wagon right in front 
 of them both, now preserving his equilibrium by hugging 
 fondly the long leg of Mr. Nubbles, and now by quickly 
 throwing an arm over the high, old-style dasher.
 
 112 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 
 
 Grotesque and fanciful as this party of travelers looked, 
 the fact that they were themselves least conscious of any 
 thing of the kind served but to make them still more so. 
 Now the dust rose up in a cloud in their faces. Now Mr. 
 Nubbles took down the hickory whip-stalk from over his 
 right shoulder, and belabored the poor beast till she 
 would fain have turned round and asked him what on 
 earth he wanted. In truth, Mr. Nubbles wanted nothing ; 
 he did not even know that he wanted her to go faster. 
 But he had refreshed himself just before leaving home 
 that morning with a plentiful supply of spirits and water, 
 and his ideas now began very naturally to quicken a little 
 under its influence ; so that by means of his whip he was 
 simply giving proof of his awakening feelings. Perhaps, 
 by long acquaintance, the mare knew this very well ; and 
 that might be the reason why she jogged along in just 
 the same slow and steady trot, taking up her feet not a 
 bit faster for her master's urgency. 
 
 The moment they came in sight of the village of Spin- 
 dleville, with the many factory buildings holding their 
 heads high up in the sun, their roofs turreted, and bel- 
 fried, and balconied Kit instinctively gave utterance to 
 a cry of joy ; and upon Gabriel's looking round in his 
 face, he discovered that the gross creature was opening 
 and shutting his eyes Avith the delight that had taken pos 
 session of him. Gabriel continued to gaze at him, for in 
 his innocence he thought him a phenomenon quite as 
 noticeable as any he would see that day in cage and under 
 canvas. 
 
 Suddenly a great change came over Kit's countenance. 
 
 " What 're you starin' at, gawky ?" said he to Gabriel, 
 who had become so much interested in him that he foi 
 got he Avas looking steadily in his face. 
 
 The latter immediately turned his head in the other
 
 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 113 
 
 direction. And then Kit reached forth his foot and 
 kicked him. 
 
 " Now learn to look to home, will ye !" said he, in a 
 low tone, gritting his teeth. 
 
 " What ye 'bout, Kit ?" sounded up his father, waking 
 out of a half reverie and looking down on his son. 
 
 " Oh, father !" exclaimed he, playing well his part of 
 the petty hypocrite "oh, I want ter see that cage o' 
 monkeys so much ! Wonder if I can't buy one ! Thun 
 der ! what d' ye s'pose they 'd take, father ?" 
 
 " Guess they won't sell 'em," said his father, looking 
 remarkably wise, and giving the mare another cut with 
 the lash. 
 
 The creature, justly offended at last, whisked her tail 
 around into Gabriel's face and eyes, bringing tears. Kit 
 laughed aloud " Ho ! ho ! ho !" 
 
 Another exciting moment was it for them when they 
 came to a convenient place by the road side on the vil 
 lage outskirts, and took out the mare from the wagon, 
 throwing down to her the bundle of hay Mr. Nubbles 
 had brought stowed in behind the seat ; and a still more 
 exciting one when they went from this spot, sauntering 
 over to the mammoth tents in which were concealed the 
 day's curiosities. 
 
 Mr. Nubbles walked ahead, Kit directly behind him, 
 while Gabriel meekly brought up the rear. Mr. Nubbles 
 kept his right hand stuck just in the edge of his breeches 
 pocket, and went blundering and stumbling along, half 
 speaking to every one he met, and now and then stop 
 ping to inquire if things were all right over there at the 
 tent, and pretty nearly as they were advertised. After 
 he had received abundant assurances on the subject, 
 without further preliminaries he made directly for the 
 scene of his day's operations.
 
 114 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 
 
 In their way were strung along several little booths, 
 and many cake and cooky stands, the sights and savors 
 around which at once impressed Mr. Nubbles's attention ; 
 but not a whit quicker than they had that of his only 
 son Kit. 
 
 " Father !" called out his offspring " cakes ! and beer ! 
 Father !' 
 
 So his parent very deliberately drew up before one of 
 the gingerbread stalls that consisted of nothing more 
 than a rough pine board laid across the heads of a couple 
 of empty flour-barrels ; upon it were a dozen bottles or 
 so of spruce beer, a pile of cheap varnished gingerbread, 
 and four or five small plates of opened oysters, that must, 
 in a consumptive state, have bade farewell to existence, 
 lying dead there in their own slime, and trying to cook 
 in the broad heat of the sun that shone down upon them. 
 
 Mr. Nubbles regarded his boy as he called out to him. 
 
 " What '11 ye have, Kit ?" said he, his right hand still 
 in rest at the edge of his pocket. 
 
 " Gingerbread !" said the son. 
 
 " Yis," remarked Mr. Nubbles to the salesman, taking 
 his hand from his pocket, and gesticulating in the direc 
 tion of the sweetened sheets. " Yis, le 's have !" 
 
 " Beer, too," said Kit, his cheeks distended with the 
 large circular piece he had ravenously abstracted from 
 the gingerbread. 
 
 " Beer !" ordered Mr. Nubbles of the man, who was 
 regarding the gormandizing youth with a merry twinkle 
 of his eye. " Have some, Gabriel ?" the factor offering a 
 third thin glass tumbler. 
 
 " No, sir," answered Gabriel. " I don't wish for any." 
 
 " What, nor no gingerbread, neither ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; I thank you." 
 
 " Let him go without then, father," said Kit, nearly
 
 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 116 
 
 choking himself to get the kind injunction out of his 
 mouth as quick as he wanted. " He don't know nothin' 
 how good 'tis ! He '11 learn, tnebby, one o' these days 
 though ! 
 
 And thereupon Kit bolted his full glass of beer at a 
 draught, and began to wipe his mouth with the cuff of 
 his sleeve, saying to himself 
 
 " Gracious ! That s good ! Good !" 
 
 Mr. Nubbles eat gingerbread, as he always did at such 
 places ; and the alternate bite of the sweet card and 
 draught of bubbling beer seemed to him to taste all the 
 better, flavored as they were with the delicious strains of 
 a squeaking fiddle from a neighboring booth, and the 
 riotous " toroddle-torol" of a party of tipsy singers who 
 were strolling arm in arm over the ground. 
 
 Mr. Nubbles's little party continued standing at the 
 fourpenny stall for some time longer, enjoying it quite 
 all they could, and forming objects of downright gratifi 
 cation to those not altogether as unique in appearance as 
 themselves. 
 
 The inside of the tents or pavilions afforded them a 
 treat for which even they were hardly prepared. Every 
 thing looked so magnificent, so bewildering. They gazed 
 and gazed, till their sense of vision must certainly have 
 been the acutest sense of all the five. And as they wan 
 dered, so they wondered. 
 
 Here were cages of leopards, spotted all so beautifully 
 and looking sleeker and softer than any cats. And here 
 were cages of tigers, and cages of panthers and hyenas, 
 snarling and growling continually at the visitors and at 
 each other ; and of zebras, striped as regularly as if some 
 human hand, armed with paint and brush, had done it all ; 
 and of horned horses, looking like nothing at all either 
 on the earth itself, or in the waters under the earth ; and
 
 116 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 
 
 of huge human-visage^ apes and baboons, great serious- 
 looking creatures, around whom people gathered with a 
 feeling of half-stupid wonder ; and another cage, with va 
 rious subdivisions, full of monkeys, great and small, whose 
 motions seemed perpetual, and whose antics provoked 
 peal upon peal of laughter from those who, for some rea 
 son, thought themselves wiser than they. 
 
 And there were high and long coops of birds, from land 
 and sea, such as Kit Nubbles had never seen or heard of 
 before, even if his father had, that kept up a ceaseless din 
 of screams and screeches ; and boxes of serpents, hideous 
 and frightful, a sight of which made the very flesh creep ; 
 and stuffed specimens of one thing and another ; wax 
 figures and other curiosities, as like as horse-chestnuts are 
 to chesnut horses, and marvelously interesting those who 
 had never regaled their eyes on such articles of virtu be- 
 foro. 
 
 Kit seemed determined to stick by the cage of mon 
 keys ; and feeling that he was perfectly safe in that place, 
 his father concluded to leave him for a little time and go 
 round and pick up a few old friends of his own. At first 
 Gabriel kept near Kit, and listened to what that youth 
 had to say to himself of course of his friends on the 
 other side of the bars ; but he found very soon that he 
 was growing tired of this, and thought there could be no 
 possible harm in his looking round a little elsewhere for 
 himself. 
 
 So that when the never-omitted pony performance came 
 on, the grotesque group that Mr. Nubbles's mare had that 
 morning brought over to the place of entertainment were 
 scattered and divided, neither knowing where the other 
 was. 
 
 Not long before the exhibition performances were over, 
 a man with a queer expression of face, whom Gabriel had
 
 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 117 
 
 observed eyeing him pretty closely for some time, finally 
 reached down to take the boy's hand in his own, and 
 asked him where he belonged. 
 
 Gabriel told him ; and told him the whole story. 
 
 " Humph !" said the man, in an enticing manner ; 
 " that 's no place at all !" 
 
 Gabriel's eyes suddenly opened. Perhaps this man 
 could show him a better ! 
 
 " Go with me now," said the stranger, bestowing on 
 him a very pleasant look. " Come ! I '11 take care of you 
 better care than you get now. See if I don't. Come !" 
 
 " Where ?" asked the boy. 
 
 His mind was in exactly that state that rendered him 
 susceptible to the slightest influences, especially if they 
 happened to be in his favor, and at all soothing to his 
 feelings. 
 
 " Oh, away from here, my little fellow," said his new 
 friend, gently enticing him away from the crowd. 
 
 " Away from Kit ? and away from his mother, too ?" 
 asked Gabriel. 
 
 Yes, he should certainly have an asylum far beyond 
 their tyrannous reach. 
 
 And so, half joyful and half hesitating, he went out 
 through the door of the pavilion, leaving the remnant of 
 the Nubbles family behind him, and secretly wishing them 
 ah 1 " good riddance" at that. 
 
 Around the outside of the tent this man carefully 
 guided him, bidding him keep close at his heels, and not 
 for a moment to lose sight of him. And Gabriel thought 
 fully did as he was requested. 
 
 Pretty soon the crowds within the tent began to move 
 out. They poured forth in black masses and columns, 
 so that one who looked might well wonder how it was 
 the tent could hold them ah 1 . Here and there over the
 
 118 THE TRAVELING MENAGERIE. 
 
 ground they began to scatter themselves, some crowding 
 around the gingerbread and oyster stands, and there dis 
 cussing in loud voices the character and worth of the 
 amusement for which they had parted with their silver ; 
 some strolling about with scarce any purpose at all, ex 
 cept simply to see and hear what was going forward ; and 
 some few others the restless and turbulent spirits that 
 always gather at such places seeking for the many 
 slight causes that might, in their skillful hands, be dis 
 torted into either a private fight or a row general. 
 
 It was not long, either, before there was such a gather 
 ing. People began to flock to the spot from all quarters, 
 crowding and squeezing their way among those who 
 were already stationary spectators. And Mr. Nubbles, 
 too now quite alone in the field was drawn into the 
 circling influence of the excitement, and moved along in 
 haste with the rest. 
 
 "A fight!' a fight T" was the cry that saluted him on all 
 sides. 
 
 " Stand back ! Fair chance, all ! Make a ring !" 
 
 " Yes ; give 'em room ! Clear the ring fur 'em !" Avere 
 the next exciting calls he caught. 
 
 The moment Mr. Nubbles could bring his eyes into a 
 range with the heads of the combatants, he saw that 
 they were two boys ; and on taking the trouble to pursue 
 his investigations still further, he made the unpleasant 
 discovery that at least one of the parties in action 
 was no other individual than his own beloved son 
 Christopher ! 
 
 "Hit him agin !" " Chubb '11 git licked !"" Go it, 
 cotton-bug !" " Hit -a leetle lower, Chubby !" cried the 
 inside of the ring. 
 
 The remainder merely huzzaed and clapped their hands 
 as the fortunes of the battle vacillated either this way or
 
 THE TRAVELING MENAGEKIE. 119 
 
 that ; enjoying it with as hearty a relish as a Spanish 
 amphitheater ever enjoyed an imperial bull-fight. 
 
 There was Kit the petty tyrant, Kit his hair all 
 pulled and twisted away his face completely streaked 
 with scratches and covered with blood his eyes nearly 
 shut together for bruises still kicking, and biting, and 
 scratching, and fisting. Alas ! alas ! for his home-made 
 reputation a picture of woe indeed ! 
 
 Mr. Nubbles could not stand that. He jammed his 
 way through the crowd by exertions worthy of Hercules 
 himself; and, pouncing frantically upon his only child and 
 heir, drew him by main force out of the circle, amid the 
 cheers and jeers, the laughter and sneers of the excited 
 throng ! 
 
 Kit for once had been fortunate enough to get his 
 share. The probability was that he would return home 
 perfectly satisfied with the striking lesson he had that day 
 learned. 
 
 But Gabriel ? Gabriel ? 
 
 No ; Mr. Nubbles could find him nowhere around ; and 
 in the midst of his double chagrin he started sullenly for 
 Worry witch Hill again, one half mad and the other half 
 tipsy, \jnthout him.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TUB BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 
 
 MARTHA accosted her sister one pleasant afternoon and 
 proposed a walk. 
 
 " Fudge !" said Mary. 
 
 " But you will feel all the better for it ! It will do you 
 good. Come ; I want to stroll over in the neighborhood 
 of the village. Why will you not go with me ?" 
 
 " Oh, but this country life is so insufferably tedious. I 
 wish I was back in town again !" 
 
 " But that 's foolish, Mary. You know it is !" 
 
 " Foolish ? Why foolish, pray ? Am I in fault for my 
 tastes?" 
 
 " No ; but I mean that when we are so circumstanced 
 as not to be able to live as comfortably and as happily in 
 town as here, it is wrong for us to complain of our life 
 here. Now what could be pleasanter than this ? Come, 
 put on your hat and come along with me !" 
 
 Mary hesitated. " Where are you going ?" at last 
 asked she. 
 
 " We will take a walk through the village, if you like." 
 
 " What ! and be stared at so by all of those great 
 green men, and their wives and children ! That 's a 
 pleasure as I suppose you would call it that I can't en- 
 dnre. If you like it, at least I must say that I don't !" 
 
 " Nonsense, Mary. You can't expect to get through
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 121 
 
 such a world as this is without being looked at. People 
 will be at the pains to distinguish you from me, if they 
 can. You 're getting too sensitive, I fear." 
 
 " But to be stared at till you feel that you are being 
 fairly perforated !" 
 
 " Oh, well, Mary, that 's only a whim. These people, 
 some of them, probably, never saw such as we are before ; 
 so do let 's give them an opportunity to gratify their curi 
 osity. And it's not at all unlikely, either, that we may 
 be the innocent means by our example, for instance 
 of teaching them something. Come, Mary ! come, now !" 
 
 " If I go, Martha, you must understand that it is only 
 for your sake." 
 
 "Well, I'll take it so, and thank you for it accord 
 ingly." 
 
 The sisters therefore were soon on their way along the 
 winding road that conducted down to the village on the 
 plain ; and Martha's .tongue was going faster by far than 
 her feet. There was not a single scene of beauty that her 
 quick eye did not detect ; there was not an object of 
 natural interest, whether tree, or rock, or shrub, or bird, 
 that she did not stop short to comment upon and admire- 
 Mary, of course, thought the most of what she said nothing 
 but sheer nonsense, and affected to care but a trifle for it. 
 
 " I don't see any particular reason," said she, " for go 
 ing mad over the view of such a rough and rocky country 
 as this is." 
 
 "There!" exclaimed Martha; "look down below us 
 now!" 
 
 They had reached the place on the hillside from which 
 a beautiful view was to be had of the entire village. Lap 
 ped in the circuit of the quiet plain, it seemed to be sleep 
 ing in the embrace of the loving hills around. It called 
 up in the mind at once thoughts of retirement from the
 
 121 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 
 
 bustle and hurly-burly of crowds, of peace from the daily 
 strife of commercial marts, and of repose from all the 
 wearing and worrying fatigues of busy life. Martha felt 
 her soul refreshed with so delightful a view, and stood 
 drinking it in at her eyes. Her sister, however, was 
 pledged to herself to be dissatisfied with every thing she 
 saw. 
 
 " If you call this as pleasant as street, or as the 
 
 Common, then I must say you have very queer tastes ; 
 that 'fe all." 
 
 Descending into the plain at length, they passed slowly 
 along the street of the village, on either side of which 
 stood white and brown houses some close together, and 
 some at irregular distances from one another looking 
 this way and that, and remarking on what they saw in 
 the same spirit with which each had set out. One found 
 pleasure in every thing ; the other decided that every 
 thing was homely, and lonesome, and insufferable. 
 
 After walking the length of the village they still con 
 tinued their way, winding a little to the left, and coming 
 upon one of the sweetest home-scenes imaginable. Martha 
 proposed stopping to get some water ; and as her sister 
 offered no objections to sipping a gill or so of country 
 water herself, they went into the yard. 
 
 The house within the yard was only a wee bit of a 
 white-washed cottage but a single story high, set back 
 some distance from the grassy roadside, and more .than 
 half-hidden behind the flowering lilacs. 
 
 " Is n't this beautiful ?" exclaimed Martha. 
 
 Mary said nothing, though she must herself have 
 thought so, too. 
 
 The very smallest patch of lawn in the world was 
 stretched from the door to the road, over which were 
 rooted, here and there, shrubs and dwarf trees, that
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 128 
 
 offered to the passer, in hot summer weather, a couch as 
 inviting as green grass offered any where. 
 
 "There!" exclaimed Mary, in a whisper. "There's 
 some one in the yard. Who is it ?" 
 
 Going through the tiny wicket, they came quite un 
 expectedly on a tall, fair-faced girl, who stood picking a 
 handful of flowers from one of the many clumps of bushes. 
 As soon as she chanced to turn round and see the strang 
 ers, she started, and involuntarily put up both hands. 
 
 " We are very warm and tired," said Martha to her, 
 " Can you give us a glass of water ?" 
 
 The girl made her no answer, but continued looking 
 straight in her face. Even Mary thought she had never 
 seen so beautiful an expression on a human face, in all her 
 life. 
 
 " We will thank you for a little water," said Martha 
 again, raising her voice. 
 
 Still no answer, and still the girl kept gazing at her in 
 that same interesting way. 
 
 " She must be deaf," said Mary, in a low voice. 
 
 Martha carne nearer still to her, and was about to 
 speak louder yet. But the girl, seeing what she would 
 do, and now for the first time breaking away from the in 
 fluence of the stranger's eyes, took hold gently of the 
 hand of Martha with one of her own, while she carried 
 the other to her mouth, shaking her head as she did so 
 with a mournful smile. 
 
 A voice was heard at- that instant in the front door, 
 informing them that the girl was not only deaf, but 
 dumb beside ! The sisters looked round to see who had 
 spoken, and observed a middle-aged, kind-looking wo 
 man standing before them, who appeared to take a deep 
 interest in the happiness of the mute, though neither of 
 them suspected her of being her mother.
 
 124 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 
 
 At once the unfortunate girl led Martha to the woman, 
 and made signs to her that no one but themselves could 
 understand. 
 
 " We would like some cold water, if you please," said 
 Martha. 
 
 The woman asked them to come in, and promised to 
 wait on them immediately. So they followed her in ; 
 and while they waited for her to draw the water freshly 
 from the well at the back of the house, their eyes were 
 occupied with a quick survey of the very limited premises. 
 
 The interior of this petite mansion was rather a curi 
 osity, than otherwise. Every thing had been constructed, 
 and every thing was conducted on such a very minute, 
 but pretty scale. It looked more like a child's playhouse 
 than any thing else one could think of, with the same 
 child's broken bits of crockery and jammed tin- ware ar 
 ranged in obedience to the trifling fancies of youth, ancJ 
 all the furniture made in perfect adaptation to the re 
 quirements of such a miniature household. 
 
 Such a little parlor! the like was. never seen before, 
 even in such a nest of a country box! And such low 
 windows, whose panes were hardly larger than the bare 
 palm of your hand. And such a snug little entry, into 
 which the front-door opened, and in which they some 
 times sat during the long afternoon of summer, when the 
 hot sun had got round behind the house and the trees ! 
 
 The fireplace must certainly have been made for a mere 
 plaything, too. And the square carpet had such a very 
 queer, but very neat little figure. And the casements 
 were all so clean, rubbed and scrubbed until they glis 
 tened as with a new coat of varnish. And the row of 
 smooth sea-shells, with specked backs and red lips, stood 
 ranged so tastefully on the little mantle. And in the 
 summer-time, too, it looked so cool as they sat there
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 125 
 
 that mixed bunch of asparagus and evergreens stuck 
 tidily up in the fireplace, and the polished hearth washed 
 so scrupulously clean!" 
 
 This woman, as it seemed, and this deaf and dumb girl, 
 were the only inmates of the dwelling. The name of the 
 former as she herself narrated it to the girls was Mrs. 
 Polly ; and the girl herself was called Alice. She was 
 the only sister and near relative of the same Duncan Mor 
 row, whose first experiments in town life, a few years be 
 fore, the reader is already somewhat acquainted with. 
 
 A purer, sweeter, more patient and true-hearted girl 
 than Alice Morrow, could nowhere be found. United 
 with such an uncommonly gentle disposition, too, was a 
 person of almost faultless symmetry and of surpassing 
 beauty. Pier countenance was superlatively lovely ; and 
 her smile seemed to light the h'ttle parlor with radiant 
 sunshine. But it was chiefly to that mute look of inter 
 ested, yet of modest inquisitiveness, that a stranger was 
 generally drawn ; as if she silently craved your sympa 
 thies for her isolated condition, and at the same moment 
 asked you if by some means you could not do something 
 to relieve her, or say some word that would pierce the 
 gloom of her entombed existence. Mutes always have 
 highly interesting countenances, for the invariable ex 
 pression of them is that of an appeal to your inmost pity; 
 and Alice was nowise an exception to the truth of the 
 remark. 
 
 There was no one that knew her and every body 
 thereabouts did know her that did not secretly love her. ' 
 Her very name was as a sweet savor to the simple-hearted 
 people, far and near. If people ever had occasion to 
 speak of what the village was, or of what it contained, or 
 how pleasant and agreeable was any single one of its ac 
 cessories, Alice Morrow the beautiful mute was never
 
 126 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 
 
 forgotten. They spoke of her, too, with almost as much 
 pride as affection. Humble as was her life among only 
 humble people, it was perhaps even more remarked upon 
 than that of all the rest of them together. 
 
 Mrs. Polly was a woman with an exceedingly kind 
 heart, and a bosom filled with charity and love. In her 
 hands, as an old acquaintance of his mother, Duncan 
 Morrow had placed his unfortunate sister, satisfied that 
 she would here not want for even the most trifling atten 
 tion. He saved regularly a certain sum of money each 
 month from what he was able to earn, making it a relig 
 ious duty out of this to provide for her as long as she 
 might live. A courageous brother, and as generous as 
 courageous. 
 
 If the reader will pardon the digression. For the few 
 years that the devoted brother had now lived away from 
 her in town, he had remitted her with strict punctuality 
 large savings from his salary. First securing for himself 
 a situation, and that, too, without the assistance of a 
 single human being, he made the resolve to become so 
 useful to his employers that they should feel his continu 
 ance with them an absolute necessity. Then he went on 
 step by step, slowly but surely, earning his good name as 
 he advanced, until he saw that his end had finally been 
 accomplished, and that he had become a fixture in the 
 establishment. 
 
 He could not help the feeling that for his position he 
 owed nothing at all to the influence of his uncle. On the 
 contrary he was very certain that in divers ways he had 
 frequently run against the direct- efforts of that same 
 uncle, who had exerted himself not very lovingly to blast 
 the young man's reputation with his employers. This 
 was all done indirectly, to be sure ; but it troubled Dun 
 can not in the least ; for he felt the assurance that with
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 127 
 
 common fortune, he would be able in good time to de 
 stroy the. bud of such an influence altogether. 
 
 Yet the very nature of such an opposition did awaken 
 him to a new and more thorough study of that uncle's 
 character, and led him to investigate with a close and 
 watchful scrutiny the probable motive that lay concealed 
 beneath his conduct. What could be the meaniilg of 
 this? Why should a man reputedly rich like Jacob 
 Dollar fear for a single moment either the influence or 
 the neighborhood of one as humble as himself? Why 
 this hot haste to procure his disgraceful expulsion from 
 his place, after it had been secured only by years of in 
 tegrity and faithful labor, unless for the reason that there 
 was some ugly secret hidden beneath, that the rich man 
 feared might some day be revealed ? 
 
 Might not this be the real fact ? 
 
 Duncan kept it revolving in his thoughts nearly all the 
 time. 
 
 Many and many an evening in the quiet summer-time, 
 would Alice and her protector sit at the door of their 
 pretty little dwelling, while the dim shadows were group 
 ing slowly on the lawn and beneath the distant elms, and 
 recall to their own hearts the multiplied sources of hap 
 piness that lay right in their humble path, thinking in si 
 lence of the calm lives they led there in the remote 
 country, that seemed, like brooks, to swim pleasantly 
 through scenes of sequestered peace and beauty ; and of 
 the friends they felt were every where around them ; and 
 of the absent one who was so kind, and his hopes for him 
 self in the undisclosed future. And there at the evening 
 hour they felt wholly happy in the peace that distilled 
 like the dew all around them. 
 
 Sometimes a neighbor passed, coming from the village, 
 and sometimes, too, Mrs. Polly would receive a letter for
 
 128 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 
 
 Alice from her brother. It was with the liveliest joy 
 that she broke them open, while her fair countenance, al 
 ternately smiling and thoughtful, always expressed the 
 delightful satisfaction for which poor girl! she could 
 never find words. 
 
 Among her more recent letters from him, occurred a 
 paragraph or two that shall excuse itself for being tran 
 scribed in this place : 
 
 " I am comfortably located in all respects, dear Alice, 
 and have many valuable friends. Among others but 
 you shall know it all in time. Our uncle Jacob I hardly 
 know what to think of. lie is a strange and unaccount 
 able man, and seems to grow more and more so to me 
 daily. But what he can mean by the bold interference 
 in my affairs, of which I wrote you a few letters ago, 
 rather surpasses my present comprehension. It may all 
 come out to the light, however, in time. How is it pos 
 sible for him to fear me or you ? Why should he thus, 
 of his own choice, place himself exactly in my path, and 
 be so very sure to injure no one but himself in the end ? 
 
 " Shall I confess to you that I have serious suspicions 
 both of his honor and honesty? Shall I tell you that I 
 think I have already made discoveries respecting his dis 
 position of our dear mother's little property though so 
 little, yet quite enough, dear Alice, to make you comfort 
 able, that will blast him and his name forever, if I see fit 
 to give them to the world ? And just so surely as I am 
 interfered with in the manner in which he has begun with 
 me, I shall feel it my duty to employ even extreme meas 
 ures, to repel the assaults he has made hi secret both on 
 me and my character !" 
 
 A scene and a personage like this, the two sisters lin-
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL MUTE. 129 
 
 gered for some time to contemplate ; while good Mrs. 
 Polly, after putting sundry questions in relation to their 
 new mode of life, and their like and dislike of the coun 
 try in general, entertained them with a broken narrative 
 of the character of the deaf and dumb girl, and her sev 
 eral sources of enjoyment. 
 
 " But you shall certainly come over with her to our 
 place !" insisted Martha with earnestness, as they rose to 
 resume their walk. " We have been so agreeably sur 
 prised in coming upon you here !" 
 
 And Mrs. Polly made a promise, not less, for herself 
 than on behalf of her young friend, and the promise was 
 of a character very likely, as things go in rural life, to be 
 fulfilled. 
 
 Alice took each by the hand as they left her, and a 
 heavenly smile irradiated her face that lived for days in 
 the hearts of the sisters. 
 
 Perhaps Mary had learned a gentle lesson of true con 
 tentment already yes, even from a dumb girl ! 
 
 6*
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A WALK ACKOSS THE COUNTRY. 
 
 PROCEEDING further on, they came at length to a roaji 
 or lane, on their right hand, by following which they 
 would succeed in reaching home again by a circuitous 
 route ; Mary hesitating about extending their walk any 
 more than was necessary, and Martha, as ever, pleading 
 in her earnest and impulsive way for any course that 
 would in the least heap new views of nature in her mem 
 ory's portfolio, or add even a trifle to the ardor of her 
 enjoyment. Mary was finally over-persuaded by the warm, 
 appeals of her sister, as indeed she said she always was, 
 and consented to making the desired detour. 
 
 " Now don't you feel abundantly paid for coming out 
 this afternoon ?" said Martha. " What a surprise it was ! 
 What a sweet and charming creature ! Did you ever see 
 such a heavenly face, Mary, in all your life ?" 
 
 " Really I was not expecting an entertainment of just 
 such a nature," said her sister. " Is n't it an odd little 
 box of a house ?" 
 
 " Just the one I have many and many a time pictured 
 in my own imagination " 
 
 " I warrant you ! I warrant you !" 
 
 " As the spot where I would love to spend my days. 
 Why, such a nest is too small to let trouble in ! There 
 wouldn't be room for any thing more than ourselves,
 
 A WALK ACROSS THE COUNTRY. 131 
 
 Mary ! Did you ever see happiness in so small a compass 
 before? Really now, without any denying it, wasn't 
 you envious of the two inmates of that place, all the time 
 you sat there ? Did n't you keep saying to yourself, 
 ' Oh, if I could but own such a spot as this !' Now tell 
 me only the truth, Mary !" 
 
 " No ; I 'm sure I was saying to myself no such thing. 
 I thought .it all very pretty, and what more was to be 
 thought about it ? Pray don't go crazy over every little 
 specimen of rusticity you see, Mai-tha!" 
 
 " Of rurality, you had better have said ; I like that 
 word better. No, I hardly think I 'm going out of my 
 senses yet, Mary ; but I declare I never felt such a con 
 tinual excitement on me all the while I lived in town. 
 It 's such a feeling of pleasure, too. It does n't cloy one 
 as the scenes of city life too often do. It 's nature, Mary, 
 all nature, and there 's no unhealthiness in that." 
 
 " Oh, well ; I suppose nature is all well enough in its 
 place, but its place is n't every where !" 
 
 " No, that it is n't, Mary. You '11 find very little of it 
 in town, I think ! either in society or in the streets !" 
 
 A prattling brook crept down through a patch of 
 green grass in the meadow, and came glistening out 
 from beneath the old stone wall, exactly across the road. 
 A miniature bridge had leaped its boundaries, and upon 
 this bridge the girls instinctively stopped to watch the 
 gui'gling flow of the water. Its bed of pebbles was worn 
 smooth, so that the pavement shone and glistened beneath 
 the blotches of the changing shadows till it looked like 
 a beautiful mosaic. Martha only wished to take off" her 
 shoes and stockings and walk with her bare feet through 
 the dimpling current. 
 
 "Now, do be as foolish as you can," protested her 
 companion. " I declare, I begin to think you are quite
 
 132 A WALK ACROSS THE COUNTRY. 
 
 beside yourself. Always wanting to do what no person 
 in their senses would ever dream of!" 
 
 " Why, Mary, you 're much too censorious. Just look 
 here a moment. Did you never read in poetry of just 
 such pictures as those made by the white feet of girls on 
 beds of smooth brook-pebbles, and the limpid water run 
 ning over them ? Don't you remember " 
 
 "Don't I remember? Fudge, Martha! Fudge, I 
 say ! Don't go to trying now to be poetic in such a 
 place as this !" 
 
 "In such a place as this? Why, any one would be 
 likely to think this was just the place ! Here is this most 
 charming little brook; here is this rustic bridge, over 
 whose old rail you can lean and almost see your face in 
 the running water : what more could one wish, Mary ?" 
 
 " You 're much too sentimental for my taste. I aim to 
 be practical. And besides, I can't see much hereabouts 
 that is any thing but the sternest sort of reality. Where 's 
 the sentiment that you find in these old country walls ? 
 or in this narrow road, all dust'and dirt " 
 
 " And grass !" interrupted Martha. 
 
 " Or in these whining little water-gullies that go 
 washing the dirt before them through every place where 
 a free passage is allowed them ?" 
 
 " There is sentiment, Mary, in pavements ; and in 
 walls of brick; and straight rows of straight houses; and 
 stacks of crowded chimneys ! There is some sort of sen 
 timent in these, Mary eh ? Oh, Mary ! what a per 
 verted taste you 've got ! Don't you know that it 's old 
 Dame Nature that 's the mother not only of every living 
 object, but of ourselves besides ? Don't you know that 
 she supplies us, and always has supplied us, with the very 
 alphabet of our feelings ? That from her we learn all our 
 language in which we express our feelings and thoughts ?
 
 A WALK ACROSS THE COUNTRY. 133 
 
 Fie, Mary! What a perverse sister I have got, sure 
 enough !" 
 
 To what extent this sisterly dispute might have been 
 carried it can not be presumed to be knoAvn, had not the 
 attention of the elder of the two been unexpectedly di 
 rected to a man in the distance, who had just climbed 
 over the wall, and was now gazing at them as if he 
 hardly knew what he was about. 
 
 " There !" exclaimed Mary, seizing her sister by the 
 arm ; " who 's that ?" 
 
 Martha looked at the person, and immediately her face 
 colored deeply, " Why," said she, " it 's Mr. Holliday !" 
 
 " Sure enough ! But see, Mat, he 'd like to get back 
 over that wall again, if he could, and hide himself in the 
 bushes ; or perhaps he 's thinking that he could run 
 straight home, and not be seen by us at all." 
 
 Martha was still more confused, and the feeling was 
 not at all allayed by the consciousness that her face was 
 burning like a fire. 
 
 Mr. Holliday, who had at first sat perched on the top 
 of the wall as in the , act of getting over, proceeded to 
 jump to the ground as he saw and recognized the girls, 
 and to be all ready to offer them a cordial greeting when 
 they came up. He expressed no little surprise at meeting 
 them on so long and lonely a walk though he would 
 think it any thing but lonely for himself and put them 
 several earnest inquiries respecting their opinion of the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 The youthful author himself was dressed in a highly pic 
 turesque style, and the admiration of both the girls was 
 at once enlisted. He had been out nearly all day on a 
 fishing excursion, whipping the brooks for trout. Accord 
 ingly he wore a suit adapted to his rustic vocation, made 
 of some coarse and durable stuff, with long boots drawn
 
 134 A WALK ACKOSS THE COUNTRY. 
 
 high from his feet, and a cap of dark gray upon his head. 
 In his hand he carried his unjointed rod, which he had 
 laced together again for convenience' sake, and over his 
 left shoulder was thrown the wicker creel that held his 
 spoils of the day. 
 
 Martha, of course, wanted to know what success he 
 had had, whether her sister cared any thing about it or 
 not. So he flung off the strap from his shoulder and 
 opened the basket. Two pair of bright eyes were looking 
 intently within at the same moment. Where the young 
 man's eyes were I need not pretend to say. 
 
 In a bed of long green grass, still shining and wet, lay 
 nestled a handful of plump and glossy fish, that looked so 
 inviting, Martha must needs pull one out of the basket. 
 The moist grass had been sprinkled over and under them 
 to keep them perfectly fresh and full ; and as the girl 
 drew out only a single one, Mr. Holliday fished nearly all 
 the rest up from the very bottom, and spread them out 
 upon the border of grass at their feet. 
 
 How beautifully they looked there against the deep 
 green of the grass, themselves all spotted with gold, and 
 decked with broad iridescent streaks and changing hues 
 of violet and purple! "Speckled beauties," Martha 
 called them at once ; and the fisherman assured her 
 that that was the pet name they sometimes went by 
 among the lovers of the angle. Their forms were fault 
 less ; and the absence of rough scales on them, and the 
 substitution for them of these beautiful spots of purple 
 and gold, made the finny creatures as tempting to their 
 eyes as they are every where known to be to the palate. 
 
 " These all came from up the meadows," said the young 
 man. "Fknow nearly all their haunts and holes, I be 
 lieve at least on this brook, and ah 1 I have to do is tc 
 catch them ; that is, if I can !"
 
 A WALK ACROSS THE COUNTRY. 135 
 
 Martha thought it must be a most delightful recreation. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Rivers, it really is ! To a tired man whose 
 brain gets overtaxed, and whose nerves are quite unstrung, 
 there is nothing in the world like it ; unless it is riding on 
 horseback, and that you know, one can not follow as long 
 at a time as he can fishing. I sometimes tell people, who 
 fancy they see no great profit in the occupation, that I 
 don't follow the brook for fish altogether ; half my divi 
 dend I take out in the form of healthy excitement and 
 downright enjoyment. The fish are not muchj, and one 
 can catch but a very few of them at best ; but it 'a the 
 sweet scenery through the heart of which the employ 
 ment entices you, and the many fine bits of landscape 
 your eye takes in, and the gushing songs of the birds in 
 the jungles of birch and hazel. That's what throws 
 around this sport such a charm." 
 
 " So it must," enthusiastically assented Martha. " Oh, 
 I wish I could but go a-fishing myself!" 
 
 " Why, Martha !" exclaimed her sister. 
 
 "Yes, go a-fishing myself!" repeated she, still more 
 emphatically. " Don't you wish you could go ? What 
 sport there must be in it !" 
 
 " You 're simply an enthusiast," chided Mary. 
 
 " And that 's simply what all true and devoted fisher 
 men are," returned Mr. Holliday ; " at least I sp'eak only 
 of those who haunt brooks and lonely solitudes. Why, 
 Miss Rivers, did you ever see a trout jump one of those 
 great fat fellows such as lie at your feet ?" 
 
 Mary -was obliged to confess that she never did. 
 
 " Ah ! then you know nothing what the excitement is ! 
 It is enough to make one's heart flutter in his very 
 mouth. Even the oldest brethren in the pursuit never 
 get wholly over the strangely electrical feeling. The fish 
 is a wary creature, you know, and will not touch your
 
 136 A Vf &.LK ACROSS THE COUNTRY. 
 
 lure if he happens to see you ; so that if you take him at 
 all, it is to be done by pure skill. These big fellows, now, 
 reason exactly as we reason. If they have the least cause 
 to suspect that some snare is set for them, or that danger 
 is somehow connected with the little false fly that pretends 
 to swim so daintily over their heads, they just wriggle 
 their fins a trifle, and quietly decline the bribe. But if 
 they are blind to danger, the moment they spy the float 
 they dart with the velocity of thought straight upon it 
 sometimes^jumping clear out of the water in their greedy 
 haste ; and that is the time when the angler's heart 
 jumps up, too!" 
 
 Mr. Holliday began to gather his fish and deposit them 
 in his little creel again, strewing the grass over them as 
 he had done before ; and shutting down the cover tightly, 
 offered his escort to the girls as far as they were going. 
 Glad to accept it, they walked on in company, renewing 
 the subject of following brooks for recreation. 
 
 "I was going to add," observed the author-angler, 
 " that none but those who are wedded to this most 
 quiet and reflective pursuit know a fraction of its pleas 
 ant temptations. The sudden surprises you experience, 
 on coming unexpectedly out of a boggy shade into a 
 little amphitheater of natural beauty, or on being seduced 
 insensibly almost, into the dreamiest nooks it is possible to 
 conceive of, or climbing a knoll, and finding stretched 
 just below you a pool of water whose still surface is 
 blotched all over with white and yellow lilies, unfoldod 
 gaudily to the sun nobody can know the worth of them 
 to a sensitive and sympathetic heart, unless he has enjoyed 
 them again and again for himself. It is at these times 
 and in these places that the blaze of worldly ambition dies 
 down in the breast, and the feelings warm with a more 
 gentle and genial heat. These are the times when real
 
 A WALK ACROSS THE COUNTRY. 137 
 
 love of all mankind spreads in the heart, as the circles 
 themselves spread in the water." 
 
 " Martha is such a great admirer of nature," said her 
 sister, " that I think she must appreciate all this most 
 highly. Indeed, I know she is enjoying it." 
 
 " B.ut are not you a lover of nature also ?" he asked, 
 not a little surprised to hear her express herself just in 
 this way. 
 
 " Well, if you call this nature no, sir ; I should say I 
 was n't." 
 
 " She likes it rather in bits in small parcels," suggest 
 ed Martha. 
 
 " As I think, and as my own nature is constituted, I 
 am free to declare to every body that nature is the very 
 best friend I have, or ever expect to have. She has 
 taught me truths that I could hardly have learned else 
 where. She has been my mother, my sister, and my 
 brother. I feel that she has the deepest possible sym 
 pathy with my heart all the deeper and closer for being 
 silent and unspoken. Like a little child I lay my head 
 upon her breast, and at once my soul becomes calm and 
 strong. Is there another source of such a universal sym 
 pathy any where in the world ?" 
 
 " I thought," observed Mai'tha, " that I knew some 
 thing of what this passion was before we came out here 
 into this quiet; but I find I did not. My sentiments 
 have had a good education ever since I have been here." 
 
 Already they had come in sight of the little hpuse of 
 Mr. Holliday, and he moved to turn down into the lane 
 that led along to it. He wished them a safe return home 
 again, and thanked them earnestly for their invitation to 
 call at their cottage as soon as agreeable. 
 
 " Quite a pleasant afternoon, Mary, take it all together," 
 said Martha. " Don't you think so ?" 

 
 138 A WALK ACROSS THE COUNTRY. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I have enjoyed myself very well." 
 
 " Better than you expected, even ?" 
 
 " Well, perhaps I have. I often do. That 's not at all 
 strange, is it ?" 
 
 " I thought it more so than I should have thought it in 
 the city. You are doing very well, sister, I must confess. 
 Let me praise you." 
 
 When they approached their own home there was that 
 in its appearance there was that air of quiet and comfort 
 around it that made the hearts of both the girls grateful 
 indeed. It was a feeling they had not exactly experienced 
 before since their removal hither ; and it stole over them 
 so gently, yet so suddenly, they quite forgot the change 
 in their situation, in the secret joy of the moment. 
 
 Of course a great deal had to be told over at the tea- 
 table of the experiences of the afternoon, and all joined in 
 the conversation together. The touching story of the 
 deaf and dumb girl enlisted the sympathies of the parents 
 immediately ; and they hoped to see her there at their 
 house themselves. Both Mr. Rivers and his wife were 
 more and more pleased with such accounts of Mr. Holli- 
 day as were brought them, especially by Martha ; and in 
 his society, despite the difference in their years, Mr. 
 Rivers promised himself a great deal of refined enjoyment 
 in the future. 
 
 Their good opinion was heightened not a little as in the 
 course of the evening a girl handed in at their kitchen a 
 platter, on which lay stretched four as, fat and luscious 
 trout as ever paddled a fin or leaped out of the water at 
 a fly. The house was filled with nothing but exclama 
 tions and thanks. 

 
 CHAPTER XIT. 
 
 AFTER, THE FEAST 
 
 AFTER every feast comes a reckoning. Pleasure alone 
 soon cloys, and then follows the reaction of sickness and 
 repentance. It was not less true in the case of Mr. 
 Nahum Nubbles, than it is in that of other people at 
 large. 
 
 As soon, therefore, as he arrived home that night, after 
 his long day of sight-seeing at the menagerie, it was quite 
 dusky and he was quite tipsy ; so much so, that, with not 
 the most distant intention or desire of slandering that 
 worthy individual, he discovered that it commanded all 
 the remaining resources of his genius to keep himself on 
 his seat. Kit, the never-to-be-forgotten Kit, sat jammed 
 up in one corner much as usual, bruised, punched and 
 thoroughly sore. As the wagon jolted under his father's 
 rather unsteady driving, he inwardly bewailed his luck, 
 and outwardly bemoaned his suiferings. 
 
 " O o oh !" cried he often, in a minimum sort of 
 tone. 
 
 
 
 " "VVh's matter, Kit ?" his father would ask, with that 
 slippery way of the lip that men in his situation very 
 frequently employ. " Wh's matter ?" 
 
 " O o !" was all the youth would reply again. 
 
 Reaching Worrywitch Hill, the two, who were left of 
 the party, drew up at the barn door, and there for a few 
 moments stood together.
 
 140 AFTER THE FEAST. 
 
 " Wait for me, Kit !" called Mr. Nubbles on his son, not 
 wanting overmuch to enter the forbidding presence of 
 his spouse alone. So the young gentleman did wait, pass 
 ing the time in groaning and grunting among the vari 
 ous articles of trumpery within the shed. How Mr. Nub 
 bles put up his horse that night, he had not the remotest 
 recollection ; and it is not probable that he ever had after 
 ward. 
 
 When, after all, the father and his son did reach the 
 kitchen door, they found the lady of the house altogether 
 prepared to receive them. " Well !" said she, quite short 
 and briskly. 
 
 "Yis!" returned her husband. 
 
 She stood and looked at him only, without a word. 
 
 " Yis, yis ; 'ee got home 'gin !" said he, thinking to 
 conciliate the temper of his wife with the blandest and 
 most seductive tone at his command. 
 
 " Got home 'gin !" she cruelly mimicked him ; " I sh'd 
 think you had ! Sure enough ! But where 's Gabriel ?" 
 
 She put the inquiry in a tone that certainly betokened 
 a little fear of his loss, much as she had pretended a desire 
 be rid of him. 
 
 " Ware 's hoo ?" asked he, in return, striking an atti 
 tude that would allow him to bring his own eyes into 
 something like a range with those of his wife. 
 
 " Gabriel, you ninny ! The boy !" 
 
 "I ha'n't seen no boy," said he, dropping his eyes 
 thoughtfully to the ground. 
 
 "The boy you took off with you this morning!" she 
 returned, elevating her voice still more. " Where is 
 he?" 
 
 "Ware's the th' boy? Eh?" Ware is he? W'y, 
 here he is, ooman !" and he clapped both hands heavily 
 upon the back and shoulders of his own endeared son.
 
 AFTER THE FEAST. 141 
 
 " O o oh !" shouted Kit, moving briskly out of his 
 reach, and sitting down in the first chair at hand. " Thun 
 der 'n lightnin' !" 
 
 "Kit, where's Gabriel?" she inquired of her son. 
 " What 's got him !" 
 
 " More 'n I can tell ye," he answered, very sullenly. 
 " What 's more, 'n I don't care !" 
 
 " Good, Kit !" cried out his father, just setting foot 
 with all possible considerateness across the threshold. 
 " Hoor-raw for you, Kit ! Who does care for that little 
 Satan, I'd like to know? All he's' good for, is jest for 
 your mother to haul 'n maul round ; 'n I guess she 's 
 had her shear o' doin' that, for this year any way !" 
 
 " Tell me this minnit, Nahum Nubbles," screamed his 
 infuriated wife, "what have you done with that boy! 
 Here he was bound out to us reg'lar as could be, right 
 from the poor-house ; an' ef he 'd but been allowed to git 
 his growth, an' 'd been fed enough to do it, he might ha' 
 got to be useful to somebody! What hev' ye done 
 with him now ? I '11 find out, depend upon 't, ef it costs 
 me ." 
 
 " Oh, wal," said he, " when you do, Mis' Nubbles, jes' 
 jes' le' me know, will ye ?" f r I 've got some lettle 
 curiosity myself about it !" and his eyes rolled, and leered, 
 and twinkled in all sorts of ways, in his head. 
 
 " Did you leave him, Kit ?" she asked her sou, thinking 
 to have better success in questioning him. 
 
 "I s'pose so," said he. "Don't know nothin' about 
 him ! Don't care !" 
 
 " Did he run away ?" she persevered. 
 
 " I hope he did ! I never want to see him agin I 
 don't ! little, good-for-nothing, ugly pauper !" 
 
 " This is a pretty kittle o' fish, now !" she bawled out, 
 just as her lord and master succeeded in seating him-
 
 142 AFTER THE FEAST. 
 
 self quite emphatically in one of the hard wooden chairs. 
 "Pretty doin's, I sh'd think!" 
 
 " Gr g guess you would think so," said Mr. Nubbles, 
 "'f 'f- you'd seen what I hev' ! Folks 't stay to home 
 ain't apt to see every thing ; be they, Kit ? eh, Kit ?" 
 
 "O o oh!" grunted he. "Don't know! Don't 
 care !" 
 
 At this juncture, for the first time since his coming in, 
 the flaring light from the tallow dip she carried in her 
 hand fell full on the face of her illustrious, but ill-used 
 son. She started with the terror so unwelcome a sight 
 gave her maternal heart. 
 
 "Why, Chris-to-pher Nubbles!" she slowly exclaimed, 
 in a higher key than any she had yet attempted. 
 " What 's the matter ? What on earth 's the matter !" 
 
 " Ooh !" he returned sharply, as if a sudden pain had 
 twinged him somewhere. 
 
 " Tell me this minnit, Christopher ! What hev' ye 
 been doin' of to-day, that 's scratched an' gouged your 
 face, so ? Christopher Nubbles if I ev-er ! Of all 
 things in this mortal world ! How d' ye do it, Chris 
 topher ?" 
 
 "Fight'n'," answered his father for him, very lacon 
 ically. 
 
 " Wai, I sh'd think it was a fight'n' ! Now you shall 
 jest tell me every single syllable about it all, exactly as it 
 happened ! Do you hear, Kit ! Tell me the whole on 't, 
 this very minnit !" 
 
 " Oh, thunder !" groaned he with pain. O o oh !" 
 and he brought down his foot on the floor in a paroxysm 
 of mixed raged and suffering. 
 
 " Yis, you 'd better tell her all about it, Kit," suggest 
 ed his father. But still the youth made no reply, mani 
 festly lacking the inclination.
 
 AFTER THE FEAST. 143 
 
 "If I ever!" exclaimed his mother again. 
 
 " 'R 'r 'r I either !" Mr. Nubbles managed to gee 
 out. 
 
 " Who did it now, Nahum ? I want to know if you 
 stood by an' see your own son mauled an' hammered in 
 that sort o' way ! Who did it, I say ?" 
 
 " He got to fight'n' with another boy," said Mr. Nub 
 bles, rather softly. 
 
 * Got to fight'n' with another boy ? But where was 
 you all this time ? Where was his own father, that took 
 him away from home to git all mauled up so ?" 
 
 " Oh, I was 'round, I s'pose," said he. 
 
 " 'Round, was ye ? Wai, and had n't you a good deal 
 better ha' been where you could have helped Christ 
 opher out of a scrape when he got imposed upon by them 
 that 's bigger than himself? Mr. Nubbles, I do declare, 
 of all the men I ever did see, I think you 're jest the 
 meanest yis, the very meanest !" 
 
 " 'Nough said, then," remarked he, in his same quiet 
 and submissive tone. " I 've got your 'pinion, hain't I ?" 
 
 " You 're nothin' better than a coward, Nahum Nub 
 bles ! a spalpeen ! a white-livered, chicken-hearted, lazy, 
 good-for-nothin' fool ! That 's what you are a perfect 
 fool !" 
 
 " Good !" he interrupted. " I rather like that, now ; I 
 feel as if I could understand ye." 
 
 " To stand by an' see your own child, and my own 
 child, too, abused in this kind o' way ! torn lim' from 
 lira.' almost ! spit on, all over ! pounded an' scratched ! 
 his eyes drove clear in, so 't I should n't wonder a mite 
 if he never sh'd see agin 's long 's he lived ! Christopher, 
 can you see this candle I 've got in my hand ?" 
 
 But Kit answered her nothing. 
 
 "Now jest look o' that boy, will ye? Did ever any
 
 144 AFTER THE FEAST. 
 
 body see such a sight ? It 's perfectly awful ? Did ever 
 a man yis, a full-grown, able-bodied man bring home 
 a son to his mother in sich an orful looking plight as this 
 is ? Oh, I wish I was only a man myself! You may be 
 pretty sure I 'd be apt to make fur fly where some folks 
 now only smooth it down with their hands ! If I was 
 only a man !" 
 
 " Wish you was," answered he, " f 'm bottom my soul !" 
 
 " Wish I was, do ye ? Wai, let me tell you what 's the 
 fust thing I 'd do : I 'd take you in hand right off! I 'd 
 learn you that your own child was n't to be abused an* 
 tore to pieces in this 'ere dreadful, shameful, wicked kind 
 of a way, and you a-lookin' on like a coward, as you are, 
 and a-seein' of it done ! That 's what I 'd learn ye ! Now 
 do you know ?" 
 
 " You 're a-layin' out a good patch o' ground to work 
 over," he suggested. 
 
 " You 'd know more the next twenty-four hours," she 
 went on, " than you ever knew in any twenty-four hours 
 in all your life ! I 'd beat it into you if you could n't 
 learn it no other way ! I 'd either make something of 
 you tfr else nothing at all !" 
 
 " Una !" said he, " I did git Christopher out o' the 
 scrape, as he knows himself. So what 're you jawin' to 
 me about it for ? If I had n't ha' done it, most likely he 'd 
 been smashed all into a pummice by this time ! I drag 
 ged him right out o' the ring, by grashus, b' th' hair o' 
 his head !" 
 
 " You did, you brute, you ? You did ?" 
 
 " Yes, I did, 'n that 's a fact, too. Could n't git him 
 out no other way. He 'd been killed dead in a minnit 
 more ! I saved his life -just saved it, an' that 's all !" 
 
 " You saved his life ! More like you did him more 
 hurt 'n good, by a long sight. You saved his life, with
 
 AFTER THE FEAST. 145 
 
 your rough old hands in his hair you brute, you! I 
 don't b'lieve he '11 ever git over it as long 's he lives ! 
 No, I don't ! I don't see how it 's any ways possible ! 
 Oh, I only wish 't was you, you fool !" 
 
 " Hi, old 'ooman. Don't ye, though ?" 
 
 " Yis, indeed, that 's what I'do from the bottom of my 
 heart ! And if nobody was by to see it, I 'd fall afoul of 
 you as you was never fell afoul of yit by man, woman, or 
 child ! I 'd shut up your eyes for you jest as his are shut 
 up ! and jam your old cheeks what there-is left of 'em 
 into a reg'lar heap ! and make you grunt a great deal 
 worse than he does this minnit ! Oh, you great fool ! . 
 lost your bound-out boy ; let your own son git half killed 
 by another man's boy ; and come home drunk as a beast 
 besides ! Oh, I wish for all the world 't I was only a 
 man !" 
 
 And upon .this the wolfish mother set about reducing 
 the hideous swellings that so disfigured the countenance 
 of her son and heir ; while Mr. Nubbles retired stealthily 
 to his well-known apartment to solace himself yet once 
 more with the virtues that lie lurking in Jamaica rum, 
 brown sugar, and a very very little water.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 WITH some, whether in town or out of town makes all 
 the difference in the world. It was scarcely a smaller 
 event in the existence of little Gabriel to have passed so 
 unexpectedly from his quiet and monotonous life at Mr. 
 Nubbles's in Worrywitch Hill into the heart of scenes to 
 which he was now introduced. 
 
 I have no wish to detain my reader a moment even in 
 rehearsing the divers stages of the boy's progress from 
 the country to the city. It is sufficient to state that, after 
 his abduction from the tent of wild beasts and birds he 
 was spirited along to the furthest outskirts of the lactory 
 village, to a spot where several gamblers with their con 
 federates were assembled, and there kept in safe conceal 
 ment until evening ; at which time he set forward again 
 with two men one of them the same who had first of 
 fered him sympathy and protection, and the other an in 
 timate friend and associate. The former's name, as Ga 
 briel subsequently learned, and as the reader may just 
 as well know now, was Isaac Crankey ; while the latter 
 rejoiced in an equally grotesque nominal Charles Fiily- 
 mug. 
 
 Hardened as both these men must certainly have been, 
 they yet seemed to little Gabriel. to discover traits vastly 
 more sympathetic and desirable than any he had yet been
 
 GABRIEL AND HIS FEIENDS. 147 
 
 able to observe in a single member of the Nubbles fam 
 ily ; and the event showed, beyond contradiction, that he 
 far preferred trusting himself in their hands to remaining 
 longer in the old ones. 
 
 It was, of course, nothing but a blind confidence on the 
 part of the boy, but just such are very often productive of 
 as much happiness as those that have been carefully stud 
 ied and shaped beforehand. Besides this, he had no one 
 now to whom to look for counsel in matters of such im 
 portance ; and the room for wonder is quite small, if, 
 under the pressure of ah 1 the circumstances, he should 
 readily yield to the earliest opportunity for relief that 
 presented. 
 
 It was up three flights of darkened and narrow stairs, 
 in an old wooden building that slunk exactly into the 
 heart of city obscurity, and around which knotty prob 
 lems of lanes and alleys and passages offered themselves 
 for the difficult solution of the bemazed traveler, that Ga 
 briel was finally taken. The room itself he lodged in was 
 capacious enough for the service to which it was put, yet 
 small, low, narrow, and in every manner contracted.' The 
 windows were dirty, and coated with dust and cobwebs; 
 but within even that precaution against espionage had 
 been carefully secured, others, in the shape of shutters, 
 with solid and heavy bars of wood running across them. 
 Oftentimes the latter were kept up through the whole of 
 the day ; at which times Gabriel came to learn that Isaac 
 Crankey kept close quarters, while he sent him out into 
 the public streets either to beg, steal, or in almost any 
 other way amuse himself. 
 
 There were but few articles of furniture in the room, 
 and a rough table, a chest, a chair or two, and a cracked 
 stove comprised them ; if to these be added further a low 
 bedstead whereon Isaac himself slept, while Gabriel was
 
 148 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 directed to make a pallet on the floor. Whatever was 
 cooked Isaac was in the habit of cooking himself. Or he 
 sometimes brought in his food from another apartment near 
 at hand, where lodged a woman that went by the name of 
 Kate Trott. Once, in a long interval, she came into the 
 apartment where Gabriel was housed, giving him an op 
 portunity of gathering some more definite impression of 
 her person and character. She kept her room pretty 
 rigidly, however, receiving visits from Isaac there. 
 
 Fillymug was another friend of Isaac's, too, and drop 
 ped in on him quite often. Much of their time was 
 passed together, especially at night ; and not unfre- 
 quently their meetings, whether for counsel or debauch, 
 were protracted until quite daylight. 
 
 Gabriel apparently became quite used to these beings, 
 for any very much more exalted had not fallen in his way, 
 even from his earliest youth : yet he was far from being 
 satisfied with the low life that only opened to him in this 
 place. He often repined for that which he had not, and 
 which he never for a moment seriously thought he could 
 have. His heart was unsteady ill at ease continually 
 hankering for the sweet and serene peace it did not 
 know. Aspirations that were his only because they were 
 born with him, and that could have belonged honestly to 
 his nature in no other way than by inheritance, now and 
 then spurred his soul till he felt uneasy and unhappy in 
 his present abode ; but what could come of them all ? 
 What could one like him do in the midst of such a press 
 ure as was upon and around him? Where could he go ? 
 How go? With whom? Where would he be likely to 
 find his next friend if he chose voluntarily to discard the 
 one who had offered him such kindness already ? 
 
 Accordingly he determined not to think of the matter 
 at all, but to try and continue as contented as he could.
 
 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 149 
 
 It was a hard task, but ho would accomplish it. And he 
 thought at the last that he had succeeded. 
 
 During the days, therefore, he made himself useful in 
 performing out-of-door errands for Isaac such, for ex 
 ample, as he was rather anxious not to be seen perform 
 ing himself, and such, too, as were necessary on those 
 days when he chose to keep himself close within doors. 
 Quite often he began, after a while, to carry verbal mes 
 sages to Kate, who always met him at her door, and who 
 bestowed trifling tokens of regard upon him that won 
 over his heart very easily. Many a time he had repeated 
 words from Isaac to others, words that his new protector 
 would have trusted on no other lips ; but then, he under 
 stood nothing of the eventful consequences with which 
 those words might be pregnant, although he received his 
 full meed of praise for doing his work as thoroughly as 
 he did. 
 
 Isaac Crankey seemed a very strange and eccentric 
 man, frequently encompassing his ends by means that 
 other men, even of miscellaneous calling, might never 
 think of. He was a hard student, in of course the lowest 
 sense of the term but his thinking fits cost him many 
 and many times over again what a life of simple honesty- 
 would have done. He Avas by no means a man with a 
 dpwnright vicious look ; on the contrary, he had an ex 
 pression that was conciliatory, if not rather captivating. 
 In and around his numerous haunts in the city his name 
 was pretty thoroughly known, yet not a whit better than 
 was his person. He meant to have an influence where- 
 ever he went ; and such as it \vas, he certainly did have 
 one. 
 
 His dress was plain, and not unfrequently a good deal 
 the worse for previous use ; but such a trifle as that was 
 not suffered to annoy him at all. His usual suit was a
 
 150 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 snuff-colored one, with a cap on his head in the place of a 
 hat, and a turn-down collar about his neck, giving him 
 quite a free-and-easy dare-devil appearance ; all of which 
 may have had something to do originally with his pass 
 age to the heart of his friend and confidant, Kate Trott. 
 He wore bushy whiskers, too, growing all the way round 
 his face, that gave him, at times, a look not a little fero 
 cious. And a sailor's tie was knotted carefully beneath 
 the fold of his collar, making his tout ensemble altogether 
 impressive and consistent. 
 
 The other Fillymug was sinister in his looks. There 
 was Little especially to a boy like Gabriel that was at 
 tractive about him. One of his eyes was partially gone, 
 but enough of the white and sightless eyeball still re 
 mained in the socket to be visible whenever he moved it 
 about. He had a long narrow face, but a very wide 
 mouth, filled with teeth that were better called tusks, 
 and that occasioned his lips to protrude in a style not at 
 all consistent with the well-understood lines of beauty. 
 When he spoke it was in a deep and coarse voice that 
 filled the apartment with its unmusical sound. He lounged 
 on the bed, or on the chest, his hat always on his head, 
 while he threw his sprawling and ungainly limbs in what 
 ever direction the whim happened to lead him. Some 
 times he kept whittling silently by the hour, occupying 
 his thoughts with his various projects. At other times 
 he seemed determined to let no one talk but himself, 
 even closing the mouth of his more astute friend and ally 
 against his will. 
 
 " We '11 see !" was the expression he was often wont to 
 wind up his long speeches with. " We '11 see !" 
 
 Isaac had brought this friendless boy into the city with 
 him, merely because he happened to take one of his odd 
 and unaccountable fancies to him. His youthful face
 
 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 151 
 
 pleased him " took his eye," as he expressed it and 
 that was all there was about it. When he had once 
 safely housed Gabriel in his mean and uncomfortable 
 quarters, he nursed a dim intention of making something 
 of him ; he had no definite idea what but something. 
 If he were to give him a thorough schooling in his own 
 iniquitous practices, he saw that it would be but a very 
 slow and gradual process, and that he could not watch 
 the growing characteristics of his young charge too nar 
 rowly. 
 
 Therefore he did not think fit to reveal to him at once 
 all that he really intended to do. Placing him right in 
 the heart of such silent influences as he thought would 
 soonest accomplish his work, he was quite content to 
 wait for the pear to ripen before he should offer to 
 pluck it. 
 
 Gabriel was threading his way along the narrow lanes 
 in the neighborhood one day, when he fell in with another 
 youngster a trifle older and bigger than himself, but with 
 a manner of perfect self-assurance, who immediately pre 
 sumed on the liberty of accosting him. 
 
 " Wai, how goes it, boy ?" inquired the precocious 
 young stranger, giving his short and ragged trowsers a 
 sailor-like hitch at the waist. 
 
 Gabriel stood and looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "Plow goes it, I say?" bawled out the sprout a second 
 time, giving Gabriel a knowing wink. 
 
 "I don't know," answered the latter, not knowing 
 what he could say. 
 
 " Wai, now, you must be a keen 'un ! Which way does 
 the wind blow for ye, my boy ? How does your money 
 jingle? Carry a ' thimble,' bub ? Picked up any ' dum 
 mies' lately, eh ? Never do such things, do ye ?" 
 
 No reply from the astonished boy.
 
 152 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 " Who air ye, any how ? Shiver ray young timbers, 
 now, an' pull out all my topsails by the roots, if I know 
 any thing about ye ! Why don't you speak, my son ?" 
 
 The idea of being pertly designated as " my son," by 
 one scarce older or larger than himself, too, seemed to 
 Gabriel the very height of the ridiculous. But for all 
 that he told the young stranger his name. 
 
 " Wai, wal, my boy, that '11 do now. Jest remember 
 in fiitur', will ye, that w'en I speak to ye, Billy Bottles is 
 a-speakin' to ye, an' you '11 find, too, that Billy Bottles 
 ain't no very common kind of a chap neither ! He 's one 
 what 's got prospects. Know wot them is ?" 
 
 Gabriel frankly confessed his ignorance. 
 
 "Wal, le' me tell ye, then," said the other. "It's 
 where a feller 's got friends, an' sees his way ahead a little ; 
 an' knows jest w'en he 'g called on to do somcthin' for him 
 self an' his country. Them 's prospects ! Now do ye 
 know ?" 
 
 It was really doubtful if he did know a whit better 
 than before. 
 
 " Don't ye never ' touch ?' " asked Billy, continuing his 
 slang allusions. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Gabriel. 
 
 " Ninny ! Don't know nothin', do ye ? Where was ye 
 brought up ? Who do you live with ?" 
 
 " With Isaac Crankey." 
 
 " Isaac !" exclaimed the all-knowing Billy ; " the very 
 deuce you do ! I know Isaac, jest as well 's I know you 
 this minnit ! Me an' Ike 's the best friends in the world. 
 Come, come down with me into my calaboose ! The old 
 woman 's out, I guess, and we '11 talk it all over there ! 
 Come !" 
 
 Gabriel scarcely knew what to do in the premises, but 
 stood and reviewed the matter a moment in his mind.
 
 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 153 
 
 " At any rate," thought he, " this new acquaintance is a 
 lively one,- and promises a little better for me than noth 
 ing. I '11 go with him and look further." So with stimu 
 lated curiosity he followed him along. 
 
 Billy Bottles was what is sometimes called a " dock- 
 boy ;" and a boy more precocious in the way of his call 
 ing, it would be a very hard matter to find any where. 
 He told Gabriel that he lived alone with his mother in 
 one of the cellars in that vicinity. So turning suddenly 
 out of the street, and plunging at once into a dark pass 
 age-way, along which he alternately groped and stumbled, 
 he at length disappeared in a dark box of a staircase, 
 down into a gloomy basement several steps below. 
 
 The place emitted a vile and fetid smell, strong enough 
 to drive away even those much stronger than itself. 
 Garbage had been flung carelessly about in a little half- 
 court, dark and inaccessible, near the alley, and there 
 sufiered to decay. The air was thoroughly poisoned with 
 the unwholesome odors, sufficient to breed contagion for 
 the whole neighborhood. 
 
 Opening the stained and dirty door, Billy stood back, 
 ushering in his friend with a very wavy motion of his 
 hand, as soon as he entered himself, and could take into 
 his view all the objects w T ithin the apartment, he made a 
 discovery that seemed to astonish even him, and that 
 called forth an exclamation from him. 
 
 " My eyes now ! What a go this is !" said he. 
 
 Gabriel peered around the room to leam the cause of 
 all the wonder. 
 
 " If here ain't the blessed ole ooman herself, now ; and 
 ole Sharkie, too ! An' little Jane, three ! Good, now ! 
 I was a-going to ' tip a bust' ye see, mother, for my young 
 friend here !" and he pointed significantly over his 
 
 7*
 
 154 GABRIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 shoulder at Gabriel ; " but you 're all round me, I see 1 
 Wat '11 a feller do ?" 
 
 " Do ! He '11 be civil, Billy," returned the woman 
 whom the youngster had familiarly addressed as Sharkie, 
 as she swallowed another large draught from the thin and 
 smutty tumbler she held in her hand. 
 
 "Aha ! That I will, ole mother Sharkie !" said he, rub 
 bing the side of his nose with his forefinger, and bestow 
 ing on her sundry winks and leers he had but lately 
 learned by dint of laborious imitation. "How's little 
 Jane, to-day ?" 
 
 " Little Jane" was a small thing that went by that 
 name alone among those who knew her, or her protector, 
 Mrs. Sharkie, and was at that moment curled up on the 
 floor, looking first at Billy's new acquaintance, and then 
 at Mrs. Sharkie, and then at Gabriel, with eyes filled with 
 w r onder. 
 
 Something about her face there was that challenged 
 sincerest sympathy ; for beneath the covering that vicious 
 associations and the foul atmosphere in which she ex 
 isted, gave her, was partially concealed the real nature 
 she had given her at birth. Manifestly there was a secret 
 history, a history of wrong and cruelty, connected with 
 the child, that perhaps some sympathizing one, at some 
 future time, might be at the pains to unravel. But, poor 
 little creature ! was she sure that that time would ever 
 come? 
 
 " Who 's your friend, Billy ?" asked his mother, already 
 half overcome with the strength and frequency of her vile 
 potations. 
 
 " Yes," said he, with a look of low cunning ; " quite 
 happy to see ye notice him ! Feel much obliged ! Fine 
 lookin' chap, eh? His name's Gabriel. Gabriel," he 
 continued, turning to the boy, " won't you be kind enough
 
 GAB El EL AND HIS FKIENDS. 155 
 
 to jest speak a word to my mother ? She 's a sufferin* 
 for somebody to talk to. Sharkie, whenever you 're 
 through with that tumbler?" 
 
 "Wai, what of it ?" she asked, as if she did not under- 
 stand him. 
 
 " Nothin'," said he, " only I '11 take it, you know." 
 
 And as soon as Mrs. Sharkie could dispose of the little 
 remnant of the mixture, she surrendered the glass to 
 Billy in due form and obediently. He took it from her, 
 and immediately set about mixing a drink, that went with 
 him by the name of " his own partic'ler best." As soon 
 as he had completed all the preparations, he deliberately 
 turned round to the company assembled. 
 
 " Ladies 'n' gen'lemen," said he, with a short scrape 
 of his little foot. 
 
 " You ha'n't got yer likker too strong, have ye, Billy ?" 
 called out his mother, interested a trifle for his internal 
 welfare. 
 
 " No, I reck'n not, ole ooman," answered he. " Any 
 how, it 's some too late to talk o' that now, as the Irish 
 man said what swallered the chicken in his egg. Gabriel, 
 my little feller, here 's your very good health to-day ! 
 May you live to be the gov'ner !" 
 
 Mrs. Sharkie laughed outright at the boy's smartness 
 as she always did. " Oh, you 're too good, Billy !" 
 screamed she, clapping her hands together. " Did ever 
 one hear the like ? Miss Bottles, but ha'n't you got a 
 smart boy there ! I wish he was mine. I do, by all I 've 
 got above ground !" 
 
 " Where do you say you got this boy from ?" inquired 
 Billy's mother. 
 
 " Picked him up, mother. He was afloat, and so I jest 
 took him in tow ; had n't got no compass, nor no rudder ;
 
 166 GABRIEL AND HIS FEIENDS. 
 
 I fetched him in here to kind o' see the place, you know. 
 You don't drink any thing ray lad, do ye ?" 
 
 Gabriel modestly assured him that he had not yet ar 
 rived at that advanced stage of manliness. 
 
 "Oh, wal," said he, turning away, "it's jest as well. 
 A feller need n't begin these things too soon, you know. 
 They 're apt to grow into bad habits, by-'n'-by !" 
 
 Again Mrs. Sharkie sereamed with delight. 
 
 "This little feller lives with with guess who, 
 mother?" said he. 
 
 " Don't know, my son. Who is it ?" 
 
 " Why, it 's Isaac Crankey, an' nobody else ! What 
 d' ye think o' that ?" 
 
 " You don't tell me, now !" and she held up a single 
 hand, tremblingly. 
 
 " Yes, I do, though ; and I guess Isaac 's got a good 
 bargain, too. What do you think about it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Bottles did not say what she thought about it ; but 
 she kept her eyes fixed on little Gabriel for a. long time, 
 wondering with herself where Isaac could have had the 
 good luck to fall in with him. 
 
 " Did n't expect to find you here, Shai-kie," said Billy, 
 strutting rather magnificently toward her, across a short 
 strip of the floor. " ISTo, nor little Jane, neither. It's 
 just as Avell, though, for all that." 
 
 " A'n't sorry we 've come, Billy ?" asked she, in an ex 
 ceedingly maudlin way. 
 
 " Wal, no, can't 'xackly say 't I am. All well enough, 
 I s'pose. What d' you think o' my friend there ?" 
 
 " He '11 do, I guess. Goin' to give him a bringin' up, 
 eh ?" 
 
 " P'raps so. I guess he '11 let me play schoolmaster a 
 little. Goin' to see Isaac about it ; this blessed night, 
 too. Guess I '11 get a job out of him."
 
 GABRIEL AND HIS FEIENDS. 157 
 
 " Will you, though ? I really hope you will now, 
 Billy. Bright boy, you !" 
 
 " Oh, mother !" he suddenly broke out. " Le' me tell 
 you a thing or two ! I '11 tell you all a sight I 've seen 
 this very day; an' it's well worth a seein', too." 
 
 "" What was it, Billy ?" both women asked at once, be 
 stowing on him their undivided attention. 
 
 "Why, it's the sleepy chap, wot eveiy body all over 
 town's goin' to look at! He's a rare one, I guess! 
 There a'n't another such a one any where round, I 
 know !" 
 
 " The sleepin' man ?" inquired his mother. 
 
 " Yis ; he 's slep' this five year, stiddy ; don't do 
 nothin' but sleep; sleeps as well a-standin' up as I do 
 a-layin' down ; ha'n't got no feelin' at all ; boys stick pins 
 into him, and needles, jest like a pin-cushion ; but the ole 
 feller don't budge an inch ! Never see such a animal 
 afore, myself. He's dreadful cold, too, all the time. 
 Don't '3at nothin', only when it 's put into his mouth, and 
 then you can't hardly see him swaller. They '11 stand him 
 up on his feet in the middle o' the floor, and there he '11 
 stan' ; he don't stir a step, nor don't offer to. He keeps 
 his eyelids a movin' jest a trifle, an' that 's all you can see 
 of it. They open his mouth for him, an' jam his wittles 
 right in like dough ; if 't wa'n't for that, he 'd never eat 
 another hooter ; no, not a single crum !" 
 
 And upon this, Master Billy looked around on his 
 audience, to see if the impression made by his brief nar 
 rative was at all general. 
 
 " You 've seen lots, in your little life, ha'n't you, 
 Billy ?" said Sharkie, quite inclined to court his friendship. 
 
 " All o' that," said the boy, in reply. " And I mean 
 this little 'un sh'll have a chance, too," pointing to Ga 
 briel, " As soon 's his guv'ner gives him over to me 1
 
 158 GABKIEL AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Can't do much till then. Want a fair field, an' no favors, 
 yon know." 
 
 When Mr. Sharlde, not long after, made signs of going, 
 Billy began to assume the part of host and entertainer ; 
 and talked quite resonantly for a boy about her stay 
 ing a while longer ; and of her visit being very short, for 
 her. But he was hardly able to dissuade her from her 
 purpose. "Any how," said he, "we'll come round, 
 some time soon, and drop in on you an' little -Jane. I 
 want my friends all of 'em to be acquainted, you know." 
 
 "Jes' so, Billy," said she. "Do, now! I wish you 
 would !" 
 
 " Won't ye take jest another lit-tle drop afore you 
 go ?" asked Billy's mother. 
 
 " Oh, now, Bottles !" she exclaimed, feigning modesty. 
 
 " Yis, yis ; might as well," urged Billy. 
 
 So she mixed herself a dram, pledging all those pres 
 ent to its sugary dregs ; Master Billy and his friend, 
 especially. Gathering her duds, and taking little Jane 
 under her wing, whose luminous eyes were fixed, as in 
 deep thought, upon Gabriel to the last moment, she asked 
 all present to " git round" as soon as they might find it 
 convenient, and went fumbling her way out through the 
 gloomy passage into the little area. 
 
 " Now we '11 go," said Billy to his new friend, a minute 
 or two afterward. And Gabriel went out with his brain 
 filled with wonder, and his youthful heart troubled with 
 what he had seen.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 A TOTING lady stood on the platform at the little rail 
 road station, some dozen or fifteen miles from Draggle- 
 dew Plain, in the middle of a very warm afternoon, and 
 seemed to be looking about her for assistance. As soon 
 as the train had whizzed off again, and disappeared 
 around the curve in the distance, a man deliberately 
 stepped before her, and asked, " Did you want to go any 
 where, ma'am ?" 
 
 He was a rough-looking character, stout and stocky, 
 and limped about on his way from the platform to the 
 little hack he kept standing just round the corner of the 
 station. It was hot and uncomfortable standing there in 
 the sand, with the boiling sun right over one ; so the 
 young lady told him that she wished to go to Draggle- 
 dew Plain, and inquired if there might be any means of 
 conveyance at hand. 
 
 " Oh, yes, ma'am ; I drive right through that place. 
 Got my stage just round the corner. If you'll come with 
 me, ma'am, I'll take your things along for you. This 
 your baggage ? Just come with me, ma'am, and we '11 
 be off as soon 's I can get my mail over 't the store yon 
 der." And he seized a trunk and a traveling bag, and 
 marched off as fast as his rheumatic twinges allowed him 
 to the stage.
 
 160 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 It was an extremely unique thing for a, stage ; however, 
 the young lady was assisted in. The easy-souled old 
 driver climbed up after her to the seat in front, between 
 which and her own there was no protecting division, 
 drove round to the post-office, hallooed many times to 
 the man and boy inside to bring out the mail-bags, took 
 them and trampled them hastily under his feet, and hur 
 ried away over a quiet country-road, shouting " Ga-lang ! 
 ga-lang!" to his pair of jaded and faded sorrel horses for 
 a long, long distance. 
 
 He thought he must make himself agreeable, as the 
 entire race of the good old fashioned stage-drivers still 
 continue to think, and as they probably will think to their 
 lives' end. So he turned half about on his seat, and asked 
 his passenger if she had "come fur in the cars?" 
 
 Well, yes ; she had come from the city, and that was 
 pretty far'. 
 
 "It's pleasant ridin' in the country now," suggested 
 he, throwing back the soiled crown of his straw-hat to the 
 view of the young lady, and throwing up his face to the 
 sky. " Especially to city folks." He should think more 
 of 'em would come out where they could get fresh water, 
 and fresh air, and fresh other things, and so on. Was 
 she acquainted with any of the people at Draggledew 
 Plain ? Yes eh ? Going a visiting, he s'posed ? Yes, 
 he had guessed it. The Riverses, eh ? Was she related 
 to them ? He had heard of them folks, over to Draggle 
 dew, and thought they must be pretty nice sort of people. 
 
 " Old and intimate friends," added the passenger. 
 
 " Ah ! Good thing to have friends ; go 'long so much 
 pleasanter through the world. Was they rich? He'd 
 heerd somethin' or other about it, he could n't exactly 
 remember what." 
 
 "Well, they had been ; but Mr. Rivers had been un
 
 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 161 
 
 fortunate, and was now living a life of retired simplic 
 ity." 
 
 The old driver recrossed his legs, took another com 
 prehensive look at the sky and over the landscape, and 
 then settled his eyes on the cushion beside him, from 
 which he could, with equal facility, throw a quick glance 
 either at the passenger on the back-seat, or toward the 
 horses before him. 
 
 So they rode along; over bare and heated plains, 
 above which wavering columns were continually dancing 
 upward to the sky ; dpAvn through dark and leafy dells, 
 still fresh with the smell of waters, where the chattering 
 squirrels were making the hollows echo with the sharp 
 ring of their voices ; up sandy and steep acclivities facing 
 the west, so that the afternoon sun came full into the 
 brown face of the companionable driver ;*and through 
 strips and patches of forest border, where the shadows 
 from tall chestnuts and beeches seemed to lay one upon 
 another, dai'k and thick, like the leaves themselves in late 
 October ; till at length there burst upon their view the 
 vision of quiet Draggledew Plain itself. 
 
 "Is this it?" she asked, in a sudden and pleasant sur 
 prise. 
 
 "Yes, jnarm ; this is the place." 
 
 The tavern, or public house, was a low and snug build 
 ing, with a roof long and sharp, and a doorway' wide and 
 ample. " Hector Hedge keeps this place," said the driver 
 just as they came in front of the door, " and he '11 get 
 you to Mr. Rivers's ; I 'd go with you myself, marm, and 
 too happy to do it at that" here he threw her a glance 
 and a smile " if I had n't got to go another way. My 
 route lays acrost yender," and he pointed in the direction 
 with his whip. 
 
 A inan of a moderate amount of flesh walked down
 
 
 162 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 from the door to the vehicle. The driver tells him what 
 was wanted, calling him all the time Mr. Hedge. Mr. 
 Hedge looks very, squarely at the lady, bows very stiffly, 
 says, " you '11 get out here, if you please, marm," and 
 puts forth one his liberal sized hands to assist her down. 
 She is conducted into the little sitting-room, into which 
 a woman and two children conduct themselves likewise, 
 the former to stare and put questions, and the latter to 
 stare and keep their mouths open. And while these pro 
 cesses are going on most successfully, Mr. Hedge himself 
 enters, announcing "All ready, marm!" 
 
 It is a ride of but a few minutes up to the residence of 
 Mr. Rivers, and when the tired traveler comes in sight 
 of the place, of which Mr. Hedge duly informs her, she 
 is greeted by the pleasant and refreshing vision of two 
 girls, dressed in pure white, sitting on the little piazza. 
 Her heart jumps w r ithin her for joy. 
 
 Before she has had time to leap from the clumsy wagon 
 to the ground both of them are at the gate, and as soon 
 as possible seize upon her with the greediness of true 
 friendship. They did not expect her to-day, else they 
 should have rode over to the village to meet her ! They 
 were so very glad she had come ! Mary knew she would 
 not forget them just because they happened to be poor! 
 and Martha knew she would not because she felt that her 
 friend's was a nature far above such trifling considerations 
 as those of mere wealth and poverty. 
 
 Hector Hedge set the luggage on the piazza and hur 
 ried home. Mrs. Hedge immediately began to worry 
 him for intelligence. He gave up what he had, and 
 there stopped. But she was feverish for more. What 
 she had got was merely an appetizer ; it made her more 
 and more hungry. She declared she must take some day 
 to go over to " Mr. Rivers's" herself.
 
 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 163 
 
 " 1 would," joined in her husband. " You '11 "be better 
 satisfied, then !" 
 
 Whether she did or not does not appear. 
 
 Ellen Worthington was an old friend and schoolmate 
 f the girls, and they had looked forward to the visit 
 promised them with a great deal of satisfaction. She was 
 herself possessed of a considerable amount of wealth, 
 having lost both her parents, and being at this day en 
 tirely alone in the world, without sister or brother. Her 
 house in town she still occupied, receiving her friends in 
 the same way she always had, and just the same gentle 
 creature she always was to every one. Her heart over 
 flowed when she met these dear friends of hers once 
 more, their circumstances so greatly changed, yet their 
 affection for her in no degree abated. She threw herself 
 into their arms, and fairly wept for joy. 
 
 A day or two's rest sufficed to give her a thorough in 
 sight into the charms of their present quiet and simple 
 mode of life. The retirement seeming almost sacred; 
 the beauty of the spot itself; the bewildering dreaminess 
 of the scenery rocks, trees, vines, and waters ; the gen 
 tle dalliance of those pleasant thoughts with the brain, 
 and of those delightful emotions with the heart, that 
 bring the sweetest happiness while they do not enervate ; 
 from all these she drew secret enjoyment many and many 
 times over again. 
 
 There was nothing left undone that could be done to 
 render the visitor's dream of happiness complete. Neither 
 parents nor daughters overlooked a single means of add 
 ing to her gratification. The country was spread before 
 her in its most winning attractiveness. Every bit of 
 scenery that was worth seeing in that vicinity she was 
 duly carried about to enjoy. Whatever her appetite 
 craved that came from garden, field, or fold, was laid be-
 
 164 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 fore her in its most tempting style of cooking or dressing. 
 She praised the air, the sun, the fields, the gardens she 
 praised every thing. She knew nothing how delightful 
 a country life could be made. She was quite tempted to 
 try a similar change herself; at least for the summer 
 months. Mary said " she would like that, she was sure ; 
 but this staying out beyond the confines of civilization all 
 the year, no change, and no relief bah !" 
 
 Martha laughed, and so did Ellen ; and between them 
 they made merry times over their discussions of the pe 
 culiar pleasures and advantages of a rustic existence. 
 
 A few days after her arrival the girls proposed to take 
 a stroll through the village. Glad enough to go, Ellen 
 made herself ready in great haste, and they set out to 
 gether. They walked slowly along the street, alternately 
 admiring and making their comments, till Martha, almost 
 without the intention of doing such a thing, had led them 
 to the gate of the deaf and dumb girl's cottage. Instinct 
 ively she stopped. 
 
 "Are you going in here?" asked Mary. 
 
 " Yes, if both of you are willing. Why not ?" 
 
 " What a sweet little place !" exclaimed Ellen. " Why, 
 it 's the very miniature of every thing I ever saw ! Who 
 lives here ?" 
 
 " A woman, and a deaf and dumb girl," answered Mar 
 tha. "Come, let's go in. They will interest you, I 
 know." 
 
 As they now accidentally caught a view of Alice Mor 
 row standing in the door, they thought they could do no 
 less than go in and sit a few miimtes ; so Martha led 
 the way. 
 
 Alice seemed delighted to greet her new friends again, 
 and stooped down and kissed Martha. Mary was rather 
 more shy with her advances, and the girl did not feel so
 
 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 165 
 
 free with her ; but it was apparent that Martha she re 
 garded already as a sister. They went in, and grouped 
 themselves in that same little parlor Mrs. Polly, Alice, 
 and all. There is no telling how snug they looked there. 
 There is no knowing how very diminutive each one 
 seemed suddenly to grow, keeping such exact proportion 
 with the dimensions of every thing around them. It was 
 something as if you should reverse your lorgnette and 
 look at people through the wrong end. 
 
 Martha put the woman many questions respecting 
 Alice, such as how she employed her time, Avhat were her 
 commoner thoughts, what was her usual frame of mind, 
 and other subjects of like character^; and it interested 
 them all very deeply to see with what intense attention 
 the mute watched the countenance, the eyes and the lips, 
 alternately of Martha and of Mrs. Polly. She looked as 
 if at moments she really must speak ; her beautiful eyes 
 did speak that silent language that long and long after- 
 A\:ard haunts the sensitive imagination, and echoes melo 
 diously along the winding passages of the memory. 
 
 Several times did Martha glance at her friend Ellen 
 during the progress of the interview, and each time she 
 could not fail to observe that her countenance wore an 
 expression of deep and strong excitement. What could 
 be the meaning of it she was unable to divine. The inter 
 est that Ellen appeared to feel in the stranger was so sud 
 den and so deep ,that to Martha it seemed unaccountable. 
 
 At length Alice went out of the room, and in a minute 
 or two returned with a paper slate. On this she pro 
 ceeded to write what she wished to communicate. But 
 her sentences were only for Martha's eyes. She seemed 
 to have fastened on her for a confidant from the begin 
 ning. 
 
 Handing the slate, therefore, to Martha, and bestowing
 
 166 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 on her a highly intelligent smile as she did so, the latter 
 took it and read : 
 
 " I love to see you here so much. Your face makes me 
 always happy. I love to have you bring all your friends 
 besides. I call you in my heart my sister. Pray come 
 and see me often, dear sister. I want some one to live near 
 me all the time. I want to walk with you some time in the 
 fields and woods, and enjoy all that you enjoy. Will you 
 come often to see me ? Will you let me call you my dear 
 sister ?" 
 
 The perfectly innocent candor that breathed in this 
 simple communication struck a chord in the heart of Mar 
 tha that had hardly vibrated so vigorously before. In a 
 single moment, by the bound, as it were, of a single un 
 controllable impulse, she felt that her love threw its arms 
 instantaneously around the object that so deeply yearned 
 for its oaressf and that she was already quite a sister to 
 the orphan, even as she had fondly wished. She there 
 upon wrote in few words sentiments fully in sympathy 
 with those of Alice, and with an indescribable look of 
 pleasure, handed her back the slate. 
 
 The agreeable talk was pursued still farther by the 
 three girls, to whose numerous inquiries Mrs. Polly re 
 turned thoughtful answers, expressive alike of her grati 
 tude for their attention arid her proper appreciation of 
 their sympathy. She let them confidentially, as it were, 
 and with an air of such simple and unaffected confidence 
 too, into the little secrets of the daily life of Alice, enter 
 taining them with relations of her manner of roaming 
 about to tend her favorite plants in the garden and yard, 
 her sitting alone with her thoughts in the shade of some 
 particular tree, and the various ways in which she was 
 accustomed to express the many-hued emotions that 
 chased each other across her soul.
 
 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 167 
 
 Unwilling still to break the charming delight of such a 
 dream, -the girls nevertheless felt that they would at some 
 time be compelled to leave, and therefore soon rose with 
 that intention. Mrs. Polly, in her plain but perfectly 
 honest way, thanked them every one for their kindness, 
 and urged them' to call again, and as often as they walked 
 that way ; while Alice, her face alive with happiness and 
 radiant with the joy that stirred in her heart, went round 
 shaking hands in silence with each, and smiling on them 
 all as they thought none but she could smile. 
 
 They withdrew with the happiest of impressions ; and 
 as they strolled back over the broad border of turf that 
 skirted the road, walking slowly through the great figures 
 of shadows that the elms and maples threw down at their 
 feet, they secretly felt that their natures had been imper 
 ceptibly elevated by the scene through which they had 
 gone, and that not the least of the lessons they had that 
 day learned was the very necessary lesson of complete 
 contentment. The humble little cottage had suddenly 
 become as a blazing beacon set on the very top of a hill. 
 
 Rambling whithersoever the inclination led them, they 
 turned away from the main street of the village, and after 
 a walk of a few minutes, discovered that they were close 
 upon the grave-yard. Martha proposed going in. Her 
 sister said No, at once. But Ellen was desirous of roam 
 ing for a little while in a place so hallowed in all her asso 
 ciations, and they accordingly went through the gateway. 
 They conned the letters that told the names and the ages 
 of many of the dead, reading in tones sympathetically low 
 and solemn. Around the humped mounds they straggled, 
 among the long grasses that made sighing harp-strings for 
 the winds, and the coarse blackberry vines that run riot 
 over many and many an unmarked grave. Ellen was sad 
 and thoughtful ; and her companions sought not to break
 
 168 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 the influence of the feeling that surrounded her. She 
 seemed to choose loneliness, wandering away by herself. 
 Martha, whose acute sympathies were wedded to percep 
 tions equally quick, thought she detected her once in the 
 act of weeping, as she bent down to spell the lettering on 
 a weigher-stained head-stone ; and struggled with her 
 own generous impulse to go and sit down beside her, and 
 mingle her tears with the tears of her orphan friend. But 
 she resisted the desire, and suffered Ellen to remain un 
 interrupted. 
 
 They finally came along to the brow of a slight decliv 
 ity, whose slope was dotted thickly with grassy hillocks. 
 Unperceived by her as yet, they saw a woman in the 
 act of kneeling over a grave with a gray stone at each of 
 its ends, and scattering wild flowers upon it profusely 
 from head to foot. She had already given the grave the 
 appearance of a bed of roses. 
 
 Neither of them would have been rude enough or 
 thoughtless enough to invade the sacred privacy of her 
 affectionate grief, but there they suddenly found them 
 selves, and found themselves equally unable to withdraw. 
 And while they still stood in doubt, their feelings wrought 
 sensibly upon by the sight that presented itself, she fin 
 ished the errand of love on which she had come, and at 
 last took the path away from them, that wound down 
 among the thick graves into the little valley. 
 
 But while she had remained, she had given them an 
 opportunity to observe enough to fix her in their memor 
 ies as long as they lived. Her face, which was but par 
 tially averted from them, was wrinkled and marked with 
 age ; while, if even that additional proof were needed, her 
 gray hair, parted with such nicety over her temples, told 
 them still more truly that her years were many. And the 
 manner in which she proceeded to strew her flowers over
 
 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 169 
 
 the ridge of that humble mound, spoke more than a 
 thousand tongues could have spoken for the depth and 
 the sanctity of her heart's consuming grief. She clasped 
 her hands above the grave, and lifted her eyes fervently 
 to heaven; and Martha felt sure that she saw glittering 
 tears drop among the scattered flowers, to exhale with the 
 fragrance of her simple offerings to the blue sky that bent 
 over her in protection. 
 
 Soon after she left the spot, the three girls went down 
 in silence, as if their movement had been sinyiltaneous, to 
 read the inscription on the gray headstone. Kneeling in 
 the long grass, while the sweet odors of the flower-offer 
 ings refreshed them, they read as follows : 
 
 "MRS. PRUDENCE FERGUSON, 
 
 BELICT OF JONATHAN FEEGU8ON, 
 
 WHO DEPABTED THIS LIFE 
 IN THE BLESSED HOPE OF A BETTEK, 
 
 June llth, 1T93, 
 
 JEt. 34." 
 
 " Oh, death ! where is thy sting? 
 Oh, grave 1 where is thy victory?" 
 
 And thus, as they afterward learned, had this woman 
 with gray hairs and stooping form regularly gone to the 
 grave of that mother who died in her earliest youth, year 
 in and year out ; her affection never dying away, but 
 rather waxing stronger and stronger, and burning brighter 
 and brighter ; the tenderness of her eai'ly grief still as 
 marked as when in the prime of her life she for the first 
 remembered time wore the little suit of sable ; her heart 
 even now far apart as this and that dear old time were 
 yearning like the heart of a sorrowing child for the 
 embrace of her sainted mother ! 
 
 The old woman, herself wailing for the final summons,
 
 170 SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 come to weep and to strew flowers upon the grave of the 
 mother long ago dead ! The weary pilgrim, sitting down 
 by the graves that line the wayside, and recalling to her 
 vision the face of the single loved one, loved even to 
 idolatry ! The child's heart still a child's in the bent 
 body ; the early love burning as it burned in the day of 
 bitterness and despair ; the innocent faith, grown greater 
 with each revolving year, reaching forward, looking up 
 ward, till it had almost come to the threshold of the Good 
 Father's ho*se itself, across which all became but mem 
 bers of one glorious household !
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 NONESUCH. 
 
 IT was not an apple, exactly, if it was a nonesuch. It 
 was quite a different species of fruit ; whether fully ripe 
 or not I am sure I can not say ; whether pleasant or not 
 to the taste is simply a matter to be left with the reader's 
 judgment ; and whether of a great amount of conse 
 quence in any way or no, a very few pages, with my kind 
 reader's favor, will be quite sufficient to show. 
 
 The girls were sitting chatting pleasantly together in 
 the parlor one afternoon, one trying to sew, another to 
 embroider some trifling article, and a third turning over 
 the leaves of a book that lay in her lap, when a shadow 
 very unexpectedly fell across the floor, and an unfamiliar 
 voice gave notice of the presence of an individual for 
 whom they had made no preparation. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! Good afternoon, ladies !" said he, holding 
 his white beaver carelessly in his hand, while he slid quite 
 as carelessly into a convenient chair. " Thought I 'd 
 take a little walk, such a pleasant day," wiping his fore 
 head with a white handkerchief shat he drew out at enor 
 mous length and with corresponding slowness ; " very 
 warm, too ; I declare I hardly ever see such changeable 
 weather. But one feels paid for his walk, when he gets 
 out here. What a beautiful place you have got here ! 
 'Tis beautiful ! None such any where else 'round here
 
 172 NONESUCH. 
 
 None sucli in any town I 've ever been in. I declare 'tis 
 beautiful ! All busy this afternoon, I see ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 Ladies always will be doing something. Never see the 
 like of them in all my life. I laugh with some ladies that 
 , I 'm acquainted with here and there about the country, 
 and tell them I don't see what they always find to do ; 
 but that don't seem to make no kind of difference with 
 'em. They always have kept busy at it and they always 
 will." 
 
 The girls at first looked up at him in blank astonish 
 ment, then at one another, and afterward at him again. 
 What to make of it passed their comprehension. What 
 to do, they none of them knew. And they held their 
 peace, from nothing but the overwhelming surprise that 
 made them dumb. 
 
 There he sat loungingly in his chair, the very personi 
 fication of nonchalance, and as perfectly at home as if he 
 had been living in the house from the day the carpenters 
 delivered up the key and carried away their tools. His 
 name was Dandelly. It was warm summer weather, and 
 he was dressed, as he was wont to dress in that season, 
 in a suit of pure white. His pantaloons and coat were 
 white, and so was his vest. About his thick and gross 
 neck he had folded a white cravat, not exactly immacu 
 late to be sure, yet tied with a skill that he evidently con 
 sidered more than a compensation for crumpling and 
 soiling together. His hair was black, and carefully curled 
 in little ringlets, which lie was at untiring pains to adjust 
 to a suitable and effective fall about his neck and over his 
 ears, and arranged with what he could not help thinking 
 a killing grace over his high and narrow temples. On 
 the top of his pear-shaped head, they were twisted and 
 tangled, wriggled around and corkscrewed about, till 
 there seemed to be nothing there but a living and thriv
 
 NONESUCH. 173 
 
 ing bed of little ringlets. He felt so completely satisfied 
 with himself, too, that even the famous Beau Brummel 
 "would have been in his eyes any thing rather than an ob 
 ject of envy. 
 
 There he sat loungingly in his chair, sticking out his 
 varnished leather shoes, and toying his black mustache 
 with his thumb and finger. His eyes, which unfortu 
 nately for their fair expression were quite small, seemed 
 to try to brighten, but they barely made out to twinkle 
 only, like very small stars in a very far-off sky. He 
 laughed and smiled, became sober or vivacious in a 
 shorter time than one would be in the telling of it ; and 
 rattled on with his own talk like the light jouncing of a 
 springless wagon over a rough and stony road. 
 
 " What beautiful flowers you 've got here, ladies ! I'd 
 heerd a good deal about them, bnt I 'd never been to 
 see them before. Perfectly beautiful, I declare ! Per 
 fectly exquisite !" and here he took an instinctive snuff, 
 as if he had a fresh bouquet right under his nose. "I've 
 been in Mr. Law's garden over at Millbrook perhaps 
 you don't know Mr. Law's folks, though ? very tine 
 family indeed, several young ladies there ; you all make 
 me think of 'em much. I 've spent a g-r-e-a-t deal o' time 
 there ; they always want me to be there when they have 
 company from abroad ; they 're folks that have a good 
 deal of company, you see ; I always arrange the tables 
 for them, when they have parties, but they hav'n't made 
 any paities lately ; got quite a pretty conservatory there ; 
 think you'd like to see it, ladies ; you 'd like to go over 
 there; should be very happy to introduce you to the 
 young ladies, as they 're particular friends of mine." 
 
 Here he came up to the surface to breathe, and all 
 three of the girls simultaneously lifted their eyes to him 
 again. Their faces had been red at first, possibly with
 
 174 -NONESUCH. 
 
 embarrassment ; now they could scarcely refrain from tit 
 tering outright in their strange visitor's presence. 
 
 " Not much acquainted about here yet, I conclude ?" 
 he went on. " Oh, well ; time enough yet. Folks here 
 abouts ain't very hard to get acquainted with, as you '11 
 find out for yourselves. But I 've heard a good many 
 say they 'd like to know you all ; they think you 're rather 
 distant, I guess ha ! ha ! ha ! But I s'pose you don't 
 care what they think ; I should n't, I am sure." 
 
 Mary assured him that they said nothing about such 
 things, and wished to say nothing. She spoke very 
 curtly. 
 
 "Oh, well," said he, not a particle daunted by her 
 pointed reproof, " then I 've nothing to say. I only 
 thought I 'd walk over and call on you, and look round and 
 see your place a little. I have so many acquaintances in 
 all the towns here and there, it 's really hard getting 
 round to them ; especially as I have to go on foot when I 
 can't catch a ride with some one else, or take the stage 
 between one town and another. I promised the Laws 
 I 'd come over there, this week ; but I don't see how I 
 can, though they 're very fine young ladies, I assure you. 
 I wish you 'd but get acquainted with 'em. I will intro 
 duce you to them, some time. I 've got to go down to 
 Bradbury as soon 's I can get there, to see Mr. Perkins's 
 folks ; I promised 'em. Perhaps you don't know Mr. 
 Perkins ? He 's member of Congress for that district, 
 and they live in good style there, I can assure you. I 've 
 visited there a great deal. His daughter Josephine and 
 me ha' always been intimate friends ; nothing more than 
 that, you understand ! ha ! ha ! She 's a sweet girl, Jo 
 sephine is. Ah, but you ought to know her ! so gentle 
 like, so so so nothing at all but goodness ! and such 
 angelic ways ! Every body is in love with her, and I 'm
 
 NONESUCH. 175 
 
 not ashamed to say I am myself! ha! ha! ha! Oh, 
 yes ; you must see her, surely. Perhaps you 'd get in 
 vited to one of her parties, by and by, for she has a good 
 many of them !" 
 
 " Really !" exclaimed Mary. " Quite a con-sid-e-ra-tion, 
 is n't it, sir ?" . 
 
 He sent his fingers a-rambling swiftly, like frightened 
 chickens, through the bed of ringlets atop of his head, 
 and let his eyes take two or three good little twinkles 
 that must have given them a vast deal of satisfaction. 
 
 Martha and Ellen could not help laughing in each 
 other's faces. 
 
 " Yes y-e-s," said he, quite slowly, stroking his glossy 
 mustache for a moment, and appearing to be a very little 
 ways gone in thought ; " little as you 'd think it Mr. Per 
 kins being a member of Congress, and all that they 're 
 not aristocratic folks at all, I can tell you ; they 're plain 
 people, high up in the world as they are. I like them all 
 the more for that. I don't want any thing to do with 
 your stuck-up people ha ! ha ! I don't make any pre 
 tensions myself, and I 'm sure it 's not very pleasant to 
 see others do it ! I wish I was going to be in town here 
 for all the summer ; but I can't, for I 've made an engage 
 ment with a friend to meet him at Saratoga pretty soon, 
 as soon as the season begins. Ever in Saratoga ? Never 
 was myself, but have heard it was such a beautiful place 
 perfectly enchanting perfectly delightful ! And the com 
 pany that flocks there ! and the parties they have at the 
 great hotels ! and the music, and the dances, and waltzes, 
 and all that ! Do any of you waltz, ladies ? I consider 
 I 'm something of a waltzer myself. Very fond of it, 
 especially if you happen to get hold of an agreeable part 
 ner, ha ! ha ! But yoxi ought to go to Saratoga, if you 'vo 
 never been. Hav' n't you never, neither of you ?"
 
 176 NONESUCH. 
 
 " We have all seen the place," answered Mary for the 
 rest, her lip curling with irony. 
 
 "Ah, you have, then! Of course I needn't say any 
 thing about it. Need n't tell you what I 've seen and 
 done there, when I get back !" He stared at them va 
 cantly, as if they had suddenly risen in his estimation by 
 a jumpbag bound of at least a hundred feet. " Hope I 
 shall have a good time there, 't any rate. Wish some 
 of you were going, or all of you. Should like to meet 
 Avith you there. Think we could have a fine time of it. 
 Not quite so lovely there as 'tis here, I guess ha ! ha ! 
 What do you think of the town, ladies ? Do you like 
 your new location ? Got used to it yet ? You 're pleas 
 antly situated here, I declare. And your garden is fine. 
 How beautiful them flowers smell out in the bed yonder ! 
 What do you call 'em ? Got a man to tend your garden, 
 or do you do it yourselves ? Garden work 's very healthy 
 work for ladies, but I think it 's none too clean for their 
 fair hands, ha ! ha !" and he carelessly spread out and 
 glanced at the backs of his own, which, by the by, hardly 
 held their own by comparison with the whiteness of his 
 linen coat. " Mr. Perkins keeps a fine garden, and so do 
 the Laws. They have gardeners, I believe. Every 
 thing always looks nice and true ; so purty !" 
 
 Martha began a conversation with Ellen about some 
 knitting she was engaged upon. 
 
 " What kind of work is that ?" said he, indefatigable as 
 ever, and reaching forward in his seat to get a better 
 view. " Oh, it 's knotting, is it ? Very beautiful work, 
 so soft and delicate for a lady's fingers. Nothing so purty 
 as knotting. A friend of mine does a good deal of that ; 
 Miss Burr a very particular friend she is, und a very fine 
 young lady, too. Wish you knew her ; yon 'd be pleased 
 with the acquaintance. What is that figure you 're work-
 
 NONESUCH. 177 
 
 ing at there ? Perhaps I can help you about it ; I know 
 something about such things; more 'n folks think. I 
 make caps, sometimes. I can make a cap as handy as 
 any woman. Do it very often, always make Mrs. Per 
 kins's, trimmin's and all. She says she don't want no 
 better hand. I guess I could astonish you with my skill 
 at such things ! And vases, and baskets of pine-burrs, 
 and melon seeds, and boxes of pasteboard and mosses, 
 and crosses, and pyramids of shells out of red putty and 
 little sea-shells you 've seen 'em ! and lounges, and ot 
 tomans, and crickets, and every thing else! There's 
 only a little, ladies, that I can't do ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " You must be a very useful person in some families," 
 suggested Mary, dryly. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Rivers ! that 's what I am ! There 's very 
 few that can well beat me ! I '11 take you into Mrs. Per 
 kins's parlors she has two parlors, you see and I '11 
 show you things that I 've made, and that I 've fixed, till 
 you '11 be hardly willing to believe me." 
 
 " I dare say," returned Mary. 
 
 He did not quite comprehend what she meant. So he 
 sent his fingers on another exploring excursion through 
 his bed of ringlets, and twinkled his eyes at her vacantly. 
 Then he resumed his rattle 
 
 " Wish the people 'round here were at ah 1 lively. Dull 
 est folks I ever did see ! just the dullest ! Why can't 
 somebody get up a picnic here, once in a while, or some 
 thing of that sort ? There 's so much fun, and all .that, 
 to be had in the woods, running 'round any where you 
 want to. Ever attend many picnics, ladies ? Grand 
 good things, ain't they, though ? Always have 'em over 
 to Millbrook, 'most every Fourth of July. Never enjoyed 
 myself so much in all my life as Tdid the last Fourth. 
 Every body was there, and they had every thing to eat,
 
 178 NONESUCH. 
 
 too. I helped set the tables ; helped ? I had charge of 
 about the whole of it! Every body admired them ; and 
 I arranged all the flowers just as tastefully as I could, 
 tulips, and daffies, and roses, and geraniums, and hya 
 cinths, and oh, such great white lilies ! I wish you could 
 have been over there ; you 'd have enjoyed it so much ! 
 
 Mary showed symptoms of increasing impatience. She 
 found that she had met with one individual whom neither 
 satire nor menace itself that is, such gentle and reprov 
 ing menace as ladies are privileged to use could drive 
 from his position. A person more perfectly at his ease, 
 and more thoroughly indifferent to satirical speeches, the 
 whole country round could not have furnished. Addicted 
 to feminine talk and feminine pursuits, he was ambitious to 
 become distinguished in no other. Nothing suited him 
 better than to take a half-hour or so for the purpose of 
 describing the dress of a particular young lady at a partic 
 ular ball, soiree, or party. In the enumeration of the 
 long list of ladies' equipments, embracing those from the 
 top of the head to the very tip of the foot, he energetic 
 ally put forth all his mental powers, and reveled in the 
 thought that his familiarity with such topics made his 
 personal presence highly desirable in every little social 
 clique that was formed. 
 
 He was a man-milliner. He was a hybrid of a creature, 
 like nothing at all that had ever before been seen. The 
 more pains you were at to show your thorough disgust for 
 him, the more determined he seemed that you should be 
 altogether delighted with him. If you spoke chastising 
 words to him words that would drive any ordinary dog 
 from your presence he simply became sycophantically 
 meek, and held himself ready to lick your hand whenever 
 you should extend it. How could such a being be shaken 
 off?
 
 NONESUCH. 179 
 
 Mary tried satire and her satire was sharp stuff, too 
 but to no purpose. Instead of feeling in the least 
 abashed or humiliated, he simply bestowed his attention 
 on the other two, as if he would leave her out of his cal 
 culation entirely. 
 
 Martha was rather better-natured about it. Perhaps 
 she had a little more tact in getting along with such 
 strangely-disagreeable beings. She was patient with him, 
 even while his presence was most offensive. The abund 
 ance of her native good-humor blessed gift to mortals ! 
 led her rather to enjoy than to dissect and criticise. 
 He offered her a fund of enjoyment. It was quite as good 
 as a raree show for her. So she sat and laughed, some 
 times replying to the hasty interrogatories of the strange 
 gentleman, and sometimes breaking out with an odd and 
 quizzical remark to Ellen, the eyes of both of them glis 
 tening with nothing in the world but pure fun alive. 
 
 Mr. Dandelly was by profession well, he was a little 
 of every thing. The peculiar requisites to success in 
 eveiy known human calling, if his own ingenuous state 
 ments were to be received without a suspicious and 
 naughty reservation, were settled and centered most 
 strangely in him. He could paint, and he could hang 
 paper. A more skillful hand with a fine cambric needle, 
 laces, ribbons, and the like of these things, was not to be 
 discovered, except with great difficulty and after travers 
 ing a large extent of territory. And he was all the time 
 traveling. How he managed to do it the wisest of people 
 did n't know. Who defrayed his expenses was a problem 
 more difficult of satisfactory solution than even the en 
 tangling and brain-perplexing hieroglyphics on the case 
 of an Egyptian mummy. There was no one that he did 
 not know, and hardly a spot that he said he had not seen, 
 He was most happy to converse on subjects of all natures,
 
 180 NONESUCH. 
 
 and not less ready and fluent on abstruse than on every 
 day topics. You could not catch him in the trap of a sur 
 prise ; not that he was " too smart" for every body, but 
 because he would not be surprised. He had no concep 
 tion of what such a feeling, with the attendant feeling 
 of humility, was. 
 
 Whatever might be the uneasiness of the girls under 
 this unlooked-for infliction, he was not at all troubled. 
 He had enjoyed nothing more for a long time. And still 
 lounging in his chair, and still holding his white beaver in 
 his hand, he regarded the persons, the language, and the 
 whole appearance of the three friends with a coolness that 
 was a full match for any effrontery ever known or record 
 ed. It was not until Mary finally left the room, and re 
 fused stubbornly to return, that he expressed himself as 
 having staid longer than he really meant to, and got up 
 to go. He assured them he should make them another 
 call sometime before he left for the spring, and repeated 
 his wish that they might become acquainted with the 
 many very fine friends to whom he always stood ready to 
 introduce them. 
 
 Bidding them good-afternoon, he hit his toe against the 
 corner of the outer door, crushed his hat shockingly 
 against the post, scattered his fallen-down ringlets over 
 his eyes, and passed out through the gate as carelessly as 
 if that were exactly the way he took his leave every 
 where he went.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 
 
 ON the corner of one of the city thoroughfares stood a 
 lean and pitiable object, the picture of a broken-hearted 
 man. He looked as if he must once have seen better 
 days, faded and thin as his garments were, and wrinkled 
 as was his countenance. His limbs were small and atten 
 uated ; his coat much mended, though it showed signs of 
 having been in the hands of a careful and experienced 
 person, who well knew how to make trifling things go the 
 furthest. The hat he wore had grown old and venerable 
 in service, much of the nap being quite gone, and a dis 
 tinct mark running round the corner of the crown. He 
 held his hands clasped together, occasionally rubbing their 
 dried and wrinkled skin, and glanced now at the little 
 stock of fruit in his stall, and now at the ceaseless throng 
 of passers, whose feet left no prints upon the pavement. 
 
 All day long he had been there before his stall, silent 
 and patient. The seal of a great sorrow was set en his 
 forehead, while he pondered and pondered over what he 
 saw. When the noonday sun fell hot across the pave 
 ment he retired within the shade of the great stone build 
 ing at hand ; and there, in his retirement, he kept close 
 counsel with his harrowing thoughts, and vainly watched 
 to see some passer stop at his stall for a few pennies' 
 worth of fruit. As the afternoon shadows began to trail
 
 182 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 
 
 thjgjr lengths along the street, he again renewed his place 
 by his stall, and appealed by his silent look alone to the 
 charitable patronage of those who went by. 
 
 Nobody, however, seemed to think of him. Nobody 
 noticed that there was such a being in the world. He 
 did not seem to count as much as one, standing there so 
 meekly. If it had been a beautiful girl now, it might 
 have been different* But an old man, in seedy garments, 
 a bad hat on his head, and wrinkles deeply furrowed over 
 his face that was another thing. Pity is a something 
 that needs a little coaxing. Charity is not always what it 
 pretends to be, either ; sometimes rooting itself in the 
 hot-bed of the passions, and taking the form of selfishness, 
 and even of crime. 
 
 The patient man looked up the street and down the 
 street. It was the time when the crowds Avere going 
 home for the night, and he knew that his prospects of 
 trade were now every moment dwindling away. And 
 hoping still for the best, he consoled his spirits with his 
 usual study of the faces and figures that time had made 
 familiar to his gaze. 
 
 That man in nankeen trowsers and glossy black frock 
 coat, striking his ivory-headed cane so heavily on the pave 
 ment, and sometimes humming snatches of old and homely 
 tunes he knew that he was a large dealer in wool. His 
 rotund form, his broad shoulders, his cheeks streaked 
 richly with red, all proved that he loved the delights of 
 the table and did not slightly pay his devotions thereto. 
 There came another ; he knew him to be an auctioneer. 
 His eyes showed it. His lips, and cheeks, and whiskers, 
 and thick double-chin showed it too. He played with 
 his massy watch-seals, appearing to look neither to the 
 right hand nor the left, but crowding his way straight 
 along home. And then a man whom he knew to be a
 
 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 183 
 
 shipper,' an extensive merchant, whose name and fame 
 had gone across the waste of the great waters. He was 
 slight and spare. His eyes were small, and blue, and 
 very expressive. His thin and colorless lips were tightly 
 shut, as if he were at that moment in the act of carrying 
 forward a bold determination. The apple dealer often 
 followed him in his thoughts for a long while, clothing 
 his character with many of the most vivid colorings an 
 active imagination could supply. 
 
 They came now in streams and torrents, and now singly 
 and in regular file. Every one had his eyes fixed ap 
 parently upon some object before him. The faces of all 
 wore the deep brand of business. None seemed to be 
 looking forward to blissful reunions in the household, to 
 pleasant summer evening gatherings on retired piazzas in 
 the rear of their dwellings, or the kiss and the embrace 
 of loving and confiding children. There was the hard 
 ness of the reality on every countenance. None went 
 smiling by. None averted their faces to glance in at the 
 windows, or to exchange pleasant looks with friends. 
 If two spoke, they did so in a hard, dry way, and pushed 
 on as if not a moment was to be lost. The only sounds 
 that fell on the poor man's ears were the rolling and rat 
 tling of the carts and omnibuses and the everlasting 
 shuffle shuffle shuffle of feet upon the pavement. He 
 threw his eyes up at the cornice of a high building on the 
 other side of the street, and there saw the sun gilding 
 every object with its own glory ; then he dropped them 
 to the ground again, and saw the darkened, hardened, 
 selfish countenances of his fellow-creatures, and he heaved 
 a deep, a long sigh, in spite of himself. 
 
 At last the throng began to diminish. The street was 
 putting on the quiet of evening, and people went by but 
 scatteringly. No one had stopped to make ever so
 
 184 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 
 
 trifling a purchase ; no being of all that great crowd had 
 thought of the wants of the poor man's heart. He was 
 about to take away his stock in trade for the night, de 
 sponding and unhappy. 
 
 " What shall I come to !" exclaimed he, half aloud, still 
 looking up and down the street, and hoping even against 
 hope itself. " I can't get along so. I must do something 
 else. But what shall I do ?" 
 
 As if she had heard his self-questioning, a girl with a 
 pale face, but bright with the pleasant feelings that nestled 
 about her heart, jogged his elbow just at that- moment, 
 saying as she did so ! 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Brindall ! you hav'n't sold quite all your 
 fruit yet, have you? Well, I am glad enough of it, for I 
 want some good nice apples, and here they are, sure 
 enough, are n't they ? Well now, how much for half a 
 dozen of these best ones ? Here 's your money for them. 
 Hav'n't had as good luck as usual, to-day, have you ? 
 Oh well, I would n't be down-hearted about it, I 'm sure. 
 Brighter days ah'ead, you know. Come, Mr. Brindall, 
 how much for these ?" 
 
 The dealer in fruit looked at her a minute out of tearful 
 eyes, and taking her gently by the arm, said, " How can 
 I ask you any thing for them ? I 've sold little enough 
 to-day, I know ; but if I never expected to receive an 
 other cent, how could I take money from you ? You 've 
 been too good to me already, Fanny !" 
 
 " Oh, well, but we '11 say nothing now about that. I 've 
 done nothing that I 'm ashamed of, and nothing that I 
 wouldn't be very glad to do again. It isn't much that's 
 worth talking about. There ; I '11 take these, Mr. Brin 
 dall, if you '11 let me ; how much ? Will that pay you ?" 
 and she handed him twenty cents in two silver pieces. 
 
 " Pay me ? Yes, Fanny. I don't want to be paid in
 
 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 185 
 
 such a way, though. I 'm not going to take your money 
 from you ; it 's hardly enough earned, Heaven knows. I 
 should feel myself almost guilty of robbery if I did such 
 a thing as that. No, Fanny ; you 're perfectly welcome 
 to them, and as many more as you like." 
 
 " But I can't take them unless you let me pay for them. 
 Is there money enough ?" said she, again taking up the 
 bright pieces she had laid down on his little stand. 
 
 " Money enough ? Yes, and a good deal more, too. 
 I can't take that, at any rate. Don't make me take any, 
 I beg of you." 
 
 But to this she would not listen. Unless he took the 
 full price for his fruit, she refused to have any thing to do 
 with the purchase. And he was obliged to yield, charg 
 ing her two cents apiece for the large last year's green 
 ings, while she finally concluded that she would take ten, 
 just her money's worth. He offered to throw in a couple 
 more, to make out a full dozen ; but she firmly declined 
 receiving them, saying that she would have to ask him to 
 help eat what she had bought already. 
 
 "And now if you 're ready," said she, pulling together 
 her little shawl, " why not go home with me ? You '11 
 hardly find much more custom to-day. It 's getting to 
 ward evening, and you look tired besides. Come, Mr. 
 Brindall, why not go now ?" 
 
 He thought of it a half minute, and then concluded that 
 he would. So he swept his little stock in trade into his 
 basket, and started along with his youthful friend and 
 sympathizer. 
 
 A fair face was the young girl's, yet pallid almost to 
 frightfulness. Her short life had had nothing of the 
 dream in it yet ; it had been full of nothing but grinding 
 and wearing realities. It had been one long continuous 
 " stitch stitch stitch ;" the needle constantly going
 
 186 THE OLD APPLE-DE ALEB. 
 
 the thread drawing steadily through the Aveary head 
 bent down to the work, as if eyes, heart, and brain must 
 all be on it at the same moment. She was tidily, but 
 cheaply clad, in a neat and tasteful print, with a plain 
 hat on her head, and a pretty shawl over her shoulders ; 
 but all the dressing and decking in the world would not 
 have helped to express that strange medley of opposite 
 feelings, that made her face little less than a speaking 
 book. Grief and joy sat on that youthful countenance 
 together, and so did anxiety and hope, and love and fear ; 
 and extreme tenderness of feeling, and high and undying 
 resolution. It was a strange face for so interesting an 
 one ; and beneath the shade of that cheap straw, it was 
 made to express what in all likelihood it would not be 
 neath silk, crape, or lawn. 
 
 They chatted, or rather she chatted, as they went along 
 the street homeward, anxious to raise her companion's 
 drooping spirits. She talked of the many objects that here 
 and there attracted her ; perhaps of no great importance 
 in themselves, but just such trifles as might suffice to fill 
 his troubled mind with other and less grievous thoughts. 
 Sometimes he replied to her, and sometimes he did not. 
 More than one person turned round to look after a couple 
 so oddly matched, and more than one person, in a mo 
 ment afterward, dismissed the vision from his mind al 
 together. So goes the world with us all. Now we go, 
 as the song says, up up up ; and now we go down 
 down down. The tips never stop long to throw away 
 pity on the downs. It makes them too dizzy, the mere 
 contemplation of their own unexpected height. 
 
 When they reached the end of their walk, the man ap 
 peared to be tired enough. He could hardly lug his 
 basket of fruit up the steps. 
 
 They came to a gloomy and darkened area, where an
 
 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 187 
 
 outside flight of wooden stairs conducted them to the 
 second story of a back building, on which floor they lived. 
 Fanny took the key from her pocket, unlocked the door, 
 and led the way in. 
 
 " Now I want you to come and get your tea just as 
 soon as you can, Mr. Brindall," said she ; " for I know 
 you must be tired, and hungry, too. So don't wait to fix 
 much ; my supper 's. all ready now." 
 
 " But I feel as if I had n't earned my supper," said he, 
 turning round upon her with his hand still on the latch of 
 his door. 
 
 " Well, if you have n't, I have, then ; and so I invite you 
 to come and sit down with me. Don't wait, now. I 'm 
 expecting you right along." And she went into the 
 apartment opposite the one he entered. 
 
 It was a snug and pretty room, if it did look out on 
 nothing but an area. She opened the windows, to let in 
 the cool air of the evening. As she moved briskly around 
 the apartment, her eyes sparkled with pleasure, while her 
 lips insisted on making melody to the joyful beating of 
 her heart. She was only a poor friendless seamstress, 
 to be sure ; simply one of these weary stitchers whose 
 stitches carry them too soon to their quiet graves ; yet 
 she was happy, and that was enough. She had many 
 a-time seen sadder female faces, young faces, too, looking 
 out into the sfreets through large and costly windows, 
 than hers had ever been when she looked out in chill 
 wintery afternoons into the cramped little court that 
 formed her prospect. 
 
 So, singing and smiling, she went on with her simple 
 preparations for supper. Mr. Brindall came in, rubbing 
 his hands slowly together, and sat down at the window. 
 Fanny did all she could to cheer him up, talking to him 
 and putting him questions ; till all things were in readi-
 
 188 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 
 
 ness at last, and they moved up to the table, taking seats 
 opposite each other. 
 
 "This cup of tea, now," said she, in a pleasant tone that 
 was quite bewitching, " is going to do you a great deal of 
 good, Mr. Brindall ; and you must n't say it is n't. I want 
 you to drink it all, and then pass your cup for more. Now 
 I'll thank you for the bread, if you please. I made this 
 bread myself; I'd got tired of baker's bread, and thought 
 you must be tired of it by this time, too. And there is 
 some nice, fresh, yellow butter ; it looks as if it had come 
 from the pleasant country this very day. Help yourself 
 now, Mr. Brindall. I sha'n't like it at all, if you don't make 
 a good hearty meal. These are long days, you know, espe 
 cially for those who are gone from morning till night." 
 
 " Ah, yes, dear Miss Fanny ! Long days indeed ! But 
 if I could but do a little better, they'd seem all the shorter. 
 Nothing seems to go right with me. The curse is not 
 off of me yet, I fear ! I can't tell any body what it is ; but 
 this strange strange feeling ; it is eating my heart away ; 
 it makes me despondent all the time ; my hopes are gone, 
 and every thing else seems to have gone with them." 
 
 " You mustn't talk so, Mr. Brindall," said Fanny ; " I 
 insist upon it, you must n't. It does you no good. It 
 does you a great deal of hurt. Now please eat your 
 supper, will you ? Look at the bright side of things. 
 You 've seen the dark side long enough." 
 
 " Bless you, Miss Fanny," he returned, feelingly, " it is 
 only yourself that bids me hope for better things. Why 
 will no one else do so ? Why is the world so closely 
 leagued together against against you know what I 
 mean, Fanny ! you know what I mean !" and the tears 
 stood in his eyes, while he took another piece of white 
 and nice bread from the plate she again passed him. 
 
 " How do you know that people are leagued against
 
 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 189 
 
 you, Mr. Brindall? How do you know it isn't all sus 
 picion ? Don't you judge the world too hard, now ?" 
 
 "And what if I really should? Could I be more un 
 charitable to others than they have been to me ? Ah, 
 Miss Fanny ! how very little you know about these 
 things, after all !" 
 
 " Well, if I know so little about matters that make one 
 so very unhappy, why, I am glad of it ; that's all. And 
 I hope I shall know less, before I do more. Now don't 
 let such things spoil your appetite, Mr. Brindall. I 
 sha'n't feel as if I was a good housekeeper, unless you do 
 more justice to my supper. Come, now, eat all you can. 
 It 's been a long day for you, you know." 
 
 "Yes, and for yourself as well, I should think," added he. 
 " What do you do here but work work work, all day 
 long, from early morning till dark again ? and work, too, 
 to support me a hearty, healthy man ! I dependent on a 
 poor girl like youi'self ! Oh, shame on me, that it is so !" 
 " It 's no such a thing, Mr. Brindall ; and you know it isn't ! 
 I don't support you. You support yourself. I only made 
 a little arrangement with you about your board ; but what 
 is that ? What is it more than what people do every day in 
 the week ? You pay your board, don't you, Mr. Brindall?" 
 
 " Well, I want to ; but I 'm afraid that '11 be about all 
 there is to it. Yes; I try to pay my board that is, when 
 I can." 
 
 " And when you can't, what is the use of having any 
 thing said about it ? If you can't, you can't ; and there 's 
 HJie end of it. But I 'm sure, Mr. Brindall, you have done 
 very well, so far." 
 
 " But I sometimes think I do wrong in accepting your 
 kindness so freely. I 'm sure, I don't know when or how 
 I can return it. It' s hardly right for me to take advan 
 tage in this way of another's generosity."
 
 190 THE OLD APPLE-DEALEK. 
 
 " When I'm not satisfied, you may depend on my let 
 ting you know it," said she. " I certainly shall then, but 
 not before. But what is the reason of so much anxiety 
 about such trifling things ? Here I live, without a single 
 friend in the world, unless it is yourself. It 's very nat 
 ural that I should like at least one friend, I think ; is n't 
 it ? And I feel toward you as if I could call you ' father. 
 Really, now, I believe I will call you father for the fu 
 ture. I wonder I had n't thought of it before ! And 
 will you call me your daughter ?" 
 
 He slowly set down the cup of tea he held in his hand, 
 looked at her across the table with grateful eyes, and said 
 nothing. He would have spoken, but his lips trembled. 
 It seemed to him that both eyes and eiirs were deceiving 
 him. He thought it could not be possible he the broken 
 and bowed man, the outcast, the scorned and neglected 
 one of mankind, voluntarily called by that endearing 
 title " father," once more, and by one from whom, of all 
 others, he would least have expected sympathy ! Ah, yes, 
 Mr. Brindall ; but it is only from those who themselves 
 have at some time suffered, that the truest and the deepest 
 sympathy flows. It takes reality itself to give to sympathy 
 its power. There is no mere theory about it ; it must be a 
 living, active, magnetic, searching feeling ; or it is nothing. 
 
 " And I am sure," she went on in her remarkably pleas 
 ant way, " that now that we have made a single family of 
 it, we shall get on all the better. You can provide what 
 you feel able, you know ; and I will supply the rest. 
 We '11 have a common stock of all our goods. Won't 
 that be a good way for us, Mr. Brindall ? You shall at 
 tend to business out of doors, and my place shall be in 
 the house here ; and you shall see what a famous house, 
 keeper I '11 make. I shall take all the more pains, now 
 I 've got a new father !"
 
 THE OLD APPLE-DEALER. 191 
 
 " You should n't work as hard as you do, dear Fanny," 
 Baid he, slowly shaking his head. " It wears on you it 
 wears on you. I see it, if you don't." 
 
 " Why, what nonsense that is, father !" She could not 
 help smiling as she spoke the word. " What perfect non 
 sense ! Work too hard ? I do no such thing. Here I 
 sit all day and do nothing but sew. Occasionally I stop 
 to take care of my cat, or to tend my two or three flower 
 pots ; and now and then I snatch a half-hour to go out for 
 a little walk through the pleasantest streets ; for poor as 
 I feel that I am myself, I do love to see the faces and the 
 dresses of beautiful ladies as they go by, though I know 
 they would n't take any notice of me, or even care 
 whether I was in the world or not. There 's many a face 
 that I 've grown familiar with already, only from meeting 
 it in the street ; and don't you think I can feel that its 
 pleasant smile is for me, if I Avish to think so ? Why 
 can't I enjoy what I see as well as those for whom such 
 things are only meant ?" 
 
 This was the gleam of a new philosophy to the fruit- 
 dealer. The pleasant dawn of optimism was streaming 
 over his soul. 
 
 " Then I have to go and get my work," she continued, 
 " and carry it back again : that gives me a little fresh ex 
 ercise, too. So that, put this and that together, I get 
 quite all the variety I nged, and I try to be happy. I 
 believe I am happy. Why can't you be, father ?" 
 
 The memory of the past rushed over him, and his 
 heart seemed pricked cruelly with a thousand thorns. 
 Oh, if he had but the freshness, and innocence, and sim 
 plicity of this poor, friendless girl, he thought that noth 
 ing in the wide world would be wanting ! And he tried 
 to see his way through the gloom that hemmed him in 
 on every side.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 TO-MORKOW. 
 
 ELLEN and the girls were on one of their frequent ram 
 bles again, scouring the country for its beauties and its 
 pleasures. No summer had seemed half so pleasant be 
 fore, even to the not altogether satisfied heart of Mary. 
 There was such a sense of freedom and freshness in their 
 daily life ; such a wild and unfettered play to their spirits ; 
 such a constant geniality in their feelings ; so little ob 
 struction to the various plans they formed for their en 
 joyment ; and so much newness and breadth in their 
 very simplest pleasures. Their hearts beat more health 
 ily, and they could not help feeling it. 
 
 They called, as usual, at the little cottage of Alice Mor 
 row for a few moments, where they severally took as 
 much interest in the dumb girl as ever : conversing with 
 her by means of her little slate ; accepting bunches of 
 simple, domestic flowers at hefyhands ; resting themselves 
 in the retreat of her cozy little parlor ; and making her 
 face alive with the deep happiness that welled up from 
 her heart. Ellen betrayed the same emotion she had be 
 fore shown in the presence of the mute ; and Martha 
 noticed and pondered secretly upon it, wondering what it 
 could all mean. And when she took her leave it was by 
 no means in the same manner that the sisters took theirs: 
 she meant much more than she expressed merely by her
 
 TO-MORROW. 193 
 
 smile, and by the tender pressure of her hand. But what 
 it was it was this that so puzzled and perplexed her 
 friend Martha. 
 
 Leaving the house they took the road off the main 
 street, down where the little brook crossed it, and Avhere 
 they stood when Mr. Holliday climbed the wall on his 
 return from his fishing excursion. " Perhaps he will be 
 here again," suggested Mary, laughing ; and Martha 
 really " hoped he would." They passed the brook, how 
 ever, without seeing him. They went forward, and began 
 to climb an ascent up which the narrow road conducted 
 them ; and gaining the top, each one immediately expressed 
 a wish to sit down in the shade somewhere till she could 
 get breath again. Martha, as usual, took the business of 
 prospecting upon herself, and looked diligently around for 
 a good broad-branching tree, with flat stones, moss and 
 grass in its shadow. This she was not very long in find 
 ing ; and calling the others to her, they sat down under 
 the leafy bows of a beautiful rock-maple, and untied 
 their hats, suffering them to hang negligently off their 
 shoulders. 
 
 " I like this," said Martha. 
 
 "What is that you like so very much ?" asked her sister, 
 spreading out her handkerchief over the dark green moss. 
 " Come, let us know before we begin, lest we some of us 
 are caught admiring the wrong thing." And she followed 
 up her pleasant banter with a laugh, that beneath the wide- 
 spreading tree sounded uncommonly musical. 
 
 " Why," said Martha, " every thing ; this shade, so cool 
 and grateful after our walk ; the landscape, reaching 
 away over the tops of these trees below us, and stretch 
 ing back back back across the far-off meadows, till it 
 melts in the deep blue of the sky. And a thousand other 
 things why, Mary, you are really getting foolish, you 
 
 9
 
 194 TO-MORKOW. 
 
 make so much nonsensical talk about my taste for nature ; 
 just as if you had none of your own ! Don't you think 
 this is pleasant ?" she asked Ellen. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," she answered ; " beautiful ; the whole 
 of it beautiful !" 
 
 "Just think how much all this wood might bring to its 
 owner," persisted Mary, " if he only had it in town ! 
 What a pretty pile of money he suffers to remain out of 
 doors here all night !" 
 
 Ellen and Martha exchanged glances, looked round in 
 Mary's face, and all three broke out in low laughter. 
 
 " Mary," said her sister, " ho.w silly you talk ! Do pray 
 try to see something besides profits and losses ! One 
 would tljink you were about' to embark in the wood and 
 coal business, or set up in your name a lumber-yard ! 
 Now here 's a pretty bit of nature " 
 
 " A pretty big bit, you should have said !" 
 
 " Yes, a beautiful landscape ; something that is calcu 
 lated to delight the eyes and feast the soul. Can't you 
 carry a little food to your soul through your eyes for 
 once ?" 
 
 " But that little stream yonder," continued Mary, 
 tantalizingly " don't you think it 's a very great waste 
 of water, especially when a good economist might put its 
 shoulder to a wheel, and set a-going a saw-mill and a 
 grist-mill? You see, Ellen, I have learned all about these 
 horrid coarse names since I have been in the country." 
 
 " I 'm sure,'* pleasantly returned Ellen, " I should wish 
 to know them all ; there 's nothing in a new place like this 
 that I should n't be trying all the time to find out." 
 
 " You 'd have your hands full then very soon, I can 
 assure you. But if you could do only one half as well in 
 that occupation as the people about yo*u do, your head 
 would be fuller of foets, and a good many things that
 
 TO-MOKROW. 195 
 
 are not facts, than any Bodleian library ! You never saw 
 people any whre that know as much as they do here 
 abouts. Sometimes, though, they engage in the pursuit 
 of knowledge under difficulties!" 
 
 " Hush, Mary," gently reproved her sister. " As long 
 as we live here, don't let 's get the ill-will of the people 
 by any hard speeches. If any one is to say hard things 
 let it be somebody else but you or me." 
 
 " Say hard things ! I can exercise my simple right of 
 criticism, I suppose ? You would n't have me " 
 
 " Good afternoon, ladies ! I hardly knew Avho you 
 were, for a time. It 's a "fine day !'^ 
 
 All sat up straight, elevated their heads, and gazed 
 around them in blank astonishment. Mary broke off ex 
 actly in the middle of her speech, and uttered a half-sup 
 pressed cry of " Mercy !" 
 
 They saw no one on any one side. They heard no 
 footsteps, listen as intently as they could. The voice 
 which was plainly that of a man, seemed to come neither 
 from the east or the west the north or the south. Yet 
 it was a voice, and a human voice ; of that there could 
 be no possible doubt. Flesh and blood were certainly re 
 lated to it, the supernatural construction being quite out 
 of the question. 
 
 " Mercy !" again cried Mary, an.d louder than before ; 
 " what 's this ? What is it ?" 
 
 "What's what?" asked Ellen. 
 
 " What ?" echoed Martha. 
 
 Hardly had they time to put the brief interrogatory 
 before both joined in the exclamation themselves ; and 
 they threw their eyes up altogether to know what was 
 the meaning of this shower of twigs, leaves, bits of bark, 
 and branches. 
 
 Six bright eyes directed" at the same moment, like a
 
 196 TO-MOKROW. 
 
 blazing battery, up into the boughs of a maple-tree! 
 And so sure of their aim, too ! 
 
 They brought down the game at the very first fire. 
 The figure of a man came lumbering down from bough 
 to bough, some of the smaller ones bending dangerously 
 beneath his weight, and finally dropped with an emphatic 
 bump on the ground at their feet. 
 
 " Good afternoon, ladies," saluted he, straightening 
 himself up again and brushing the tangled hair off his 
 forehead. ," Guess, I 've rather surprised you ; could n't 
 well help it, however ; trust you '11 excuse me for causing 
 you any alarm. As I had the* pleasure of remarking 
 above stairs just now it 's quite a fine day !" 
 
 Started to their feet with a suddenness they could not 
 have believed possible, the three girls stood confronting 
 Mr. Arthur Holliday. 
 
 There was such a curious blending of the modest and 
 the comic in the expression of the young man's counte 
 nance that it must have raised a smile whether he would 
 or not. He looked as if he felt sorry for interrupting 
 their quiet pleasure, and yet extremely glad to have 
 fallen in, thus fortunately, with their company. 
 
 " I was seated up there in one of my air-castles," said 
 he, " reading and feasting my eyes with the scenery. This 
 tree, happens to be one of my few favorites hereabouts ; 
 I have several such, and I can see one from the leafy top 
 of another. Now, Miss Mary, shall I not assist you up, 
 by the winding stairway, into the chambers of my castle ? 
 Just go up after me, and let me show you what a fine 
 look-out I have from the summit. And the air up there 
 is so fresh and pure ! Come ; I really think you will like 
 it!" 
 
 Mary wished to be excused from an ascent so perilous; 
 but it is hardly safe to assert that if he had extended the
 
 TO-MORROW. 197 
 
 same invitation to her sister Martha which he seemed to 
 know better than to do she would not have accepted it 
 on the instant, and gone straight up after him to his eyrie 
 among the lofty maple leaves. 
 
 Recovered a little from their affright, and their ordin 
 ary humor being quite restored, they started on again in 
 their walk, accepting very gladly the services of the 
 young author as an escort. They turned their steps 
 backward, over the ground they had just traversed, to 
 make their little excursion into the shade, and, at the 
 suggestion of Mr. Holliday, passed along by the road un 
 til they reached a cross-path or sort of lane, where he 
 proposed to them to turn in. It would not be a much 
 longer walk for them home by that way, as by describing 
 but a v,ery trifling circuit they could get back on the 
 road again. 
 
 They went rambling along down the lane, therefore, 
 talking and laughing, picking such wild flowers and fra 
 grant plants as grew in the shadow of the old stone walls, 
 and making them up into homely and fantastic bouquets, 
 their spirits dancing to the awakening influences and im 
 pulses of the time. Even Mary cynical as she almost 
 invariably wished herself to be considered especially in 
 matters relating to rural life and enjoyment unguardedly 
 betrayed the high and healthy tone of her feelings. 
 
 Going on, the soft turf yielding so invitingly to the 
 pressure of their feet, they came to a miserable-looking 
 brown house of but a single story. "Who lives here ?" 
 was of course the general inquiry. 
 
 "This is the residence, I believe," said Mr. Holliday, 
 "of a gentleman hereabouts known by the name of Jo 
 Humming; otherwise called in popular phrase 'Poverty 
 Jo.' He lives quite alone here, with nothing more than
 
 198 TO-MORROW. 
 
 a lean black dog for a companion. A very interesting 
 character." 
 
 Their eyes were directed to the dwelling, as they 
 passed on, long enough to observe that the small low 
 windows were tightly shut ; that no light smoke sailed 
 out of the little chimney that pierced the middle of the 
 roof; that dockweed, burdocks, and thistles spread and 
 tangled their coarse leaves in the seven by nine door-yard, 
 and that an old hat or two was wedged in here and there 
 in lieu of panes that might generally be supposed to pos 
 sess more transparency. These few glimpses gave their 
 quick perceptions an insight into the real character of the 
 solitary, and his easy, slipshod, care-for-nothing, hand-to- 
 mouth sort of a life. 
 
 Much further on they reached a pleasanter spot, where 
 stood a neat little structure whose roof was shaded by 
 protecting boughs, and whose lawn was smooth with its 
 green and grassy carpet ; the contrast between that and 
 the shell where Poverty Jo slept for he hardly staid at 
 home more than long enough to sleep was striking in 
 the extreme. 
 
 As they neared the house they observed a woman walk 
 ing quickly down the lawn from the door, bareheaded, 
 and carrying a white kerchief in her hand. Almost be 
 fore they had time to question Mr. Holliday of who she 
 was, she hud hurried along on the grassy sidewalk to 
 meet them, and came close before their faces. 
 
 She glanced round at them all with an indescribable 
 expression of countenance, made up alike of pleasantness 
 and anxiety, and finally settled her eyes on those of Mr. 
 Holliday. Laying her hand on his arm, she asked him in 
 a low and earnest tone "Has he come yet? Has he 
 come ?" 
 
 It would be next to impossible to convey to the reader
 
 TO-MORROW. 199 
 
 the effect her manner had upon the feelings of the girls. 
 They would have whispered to one another, stepping 
 back as they did so " She's crazy!" but then that at 
 tractive mildness in her eye, that sweet smile that had 
 not yet altogether died away about her mouth these 
 drowned ^ the veriest whispers of their rebellious sus 
 picions, and challenged their sincerest compassion. 
 
 " Has he come ?" a second time asked the woman, her 
 eyes kindling with a glow of expectation. 
 
 " No," answered Mr. Holliday " no, lie has not come 
 yet ; but he will come to-morrow." 
 
 The girls looked at him in amazement, wondering what 
 he could mean, and not feeling quite sure that he might 
 not be as honest a subject for pity as herself. 
 
 " Has n't come !" exclaimed the poor creature, wring 
 ing her hands. " But he told me to expect him to-day ; 
 he said truly that he would come to-day. Has n't he 
 come, really?" 
 
 " He '11 be here to-morrow," answered Mr. Holliday a 
 second time, slightly moving along under the compressing 
 hand of his interrogator. " Yes, be patient only till to 
 morrow." 
 
 " Ah ! till to-morrow ? Will he be here then ?" and 
 she gradually relaxed her grasp on his arm again, looking 
 directly up into his face. 
 
 A young woman at that instant came running out of 
 the door, and made up to them. Her face bore marks of 
 long-seated anxiety. Her head was uncovered, and her 
 hands were upraised. 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother !" called she, eager to lead her away 
 from the strangers ; " to-morrow, you know ! He '11 be 
 here to-morrow ! You remember what he told you, that 
 he would come to-morrow ? Come, mother ; let 's go in. 
 We 've only got to wait till to-morrow !"
 
 200 TO-MOKEOW. 
 
 " So we hav'n't, have we, Nancy ? Only one day 
 more, and then he '11 be here ! Did you hear that, sir? 
 Did you hear what my daughter said, ladies ? I sh'll see 
 him to-morrow, sure !" 
 
 The daughter finally took her poor mother's arm and 
 led her in again. It was a pitiful sight that of these two 
 beings the one so entirely dependent on the sympathy 
 of the other. As the little party of ramblers moved on, 
 the girls severally besought their companion to explain to 
 them what the scene meant, for he appeared to know all 
 about it ; accordingly, he went through the history from 
 the beginning. 
 
 Many years ago this poor woman had a husband, a 
 man to whom she was devotedly attached, and who, for 
 the whole course of his married life, had betrayed an equal 
 fondness for her. Years together they had toiled, early 
 and late, striving to better their condition. Possibly 
 they might have been in some little haste to get rich. 
 Things went on tolerably smooth, however ; and the 
 probability is, that they would soon spe the accomplish 
 ment of all their desires if they did not push them to an 
 unreasonable extent. 
 
 But in an evil hour the universal tempter came. Vis 
 ions of sudden wealth glittered before his eyes. The in 
 sane desire to grow rich immediately took possession of 
 his whole being. From that moment all thoughts of con 
 tentment, of domestic quiet, and happiness, of peaceful 
 occupation at home, fled from his breast. He riould be 
 rich ; and he made so foolish a plea serve as a satisfactory 
 excuse for leaving friends, home, family, and native laud, 
 to gather together a mere heap of money. But there 
 are thousands who do yearly just as he did, and his case 
 formed no such exception as to make it deserving of spe 
 cial remark.
 
 TO-MORROW. 201 
 
 One year he staid away two years three years. 
 During the lapse of the fourth he signified his intention 
 very soon to return, as he had almost relinquished every 
 hope of attaining his desires. The mirage looked pleas 
 ant and real to him at first ; but as he thought he was 
 approaching it, he discovered that it still kept itself just 
 as far off. He had more than been paid for his time and 
 his labor, to be sure, but he had not reaped the harvest 
 for which he had put in his sickle. 
 
 A letter came to his wife, making her heart and the 
 hearts of her two children glad, by the mention of the 
 day when he expected to sail for home. Then another, 
 dated at the very instant of landing on his native shores 
 in which he appointed the day when he would reach 
 home, and mentioned, with all his old affection, the very 
 hour he expected to look on his wife and children again. 
 
 The day came. The stago-coach entered the village, 
 stopped there as usual, and went on. As it passed the 
 foot of a green country lane, ^starred with buttercups and 
 daisies, a little family group were to be seen standing just 
 by the corner of the wall, waiting for it to go by. The 
 husband was expected to get out there and be received 
 into the open arms of his family. 
 
 The driver drew up. The glad mother's eyes first 
 sought his own, and then went searching through the 
 coach. A gentleman sat there ; and the wife involun 
 tarily stepped forward, an exclamation of joy upon her 
 tongue. As suddenly, however, she stepped back again, 
 her face pale as death. The expected one was not there ! 
 
 It remained with the driver to communicate the sad 
 news, which he did with all the tenderness and consider 
 ation of which his good heart was capable. The unfor 
 tunate husband had met with an accident on the very 
 wharf on which he landed, by which he lost his liie ', 
 
 9*
 
 202 TO-MOKROW. 
 
 And the stage-coach, instead of bringing him home to his 
 eagerly expectant family, brought only the burden of this 
 great and overwhelming grief. 
 
 The wife bowed under it, and lost her reason ; and 
 each day after, as she saw any one pass, she invariably 
 went to ask if her husband had come ; a question that 
 nothing could answer but the sad and ever-repeated 
 words " To-morrow ! to-morrow he will be here !" 

 
 POVERTY JO. 
 
 MR. NUBBLES walked into Hector Hedge's old tavern 
 one day, and sat down near the door. No one was about, 
 not even the landlord himself; and if his other half hap 
 pened to see this new customer enter, it is not at all likely 
 that she would pay any further attention to him than 
 simply to satisfy herself that he neither helped himself to 
 such liquors as they kept behind the little wooden bar, 
 nor crowded his hand into so narrow a crack as what 
 they were pleased to style their money-drawer. 
 
 He had sat there but a little while when who should 
 enter and very naturally, too but Mr. Jo Rummins ; 
 and not merely Mr. Rummins himself, but Mr. Rummins's 
 dog. 
 
 " Oh, ho !" said Jo, spying Mr. Nubbles, and knocking 
 his soft hat to one side of his head, that he might enjoy a 
 wider field for scratching ; " you 're here !" 
 
 " Yis, yis !" returned Mr. Nubbles, as truly laconic as 
 his friend. " Wonder where the folks be," after a pause. 
 
 " Don't know," said Jo ; " ain't they reound here 
 some'here ?" and he stepped across and reached over the 
 bar, as if possible Mr. Hedge might be crammed away un 
 derneath. 
 
 Just at that moment the landlord walked in at a side 
 door.
 
 204 POVEKTY JO. 
 
 " Hullo, there !" said he. " What do you want in 
 under there, Jo ?" 
 
 Instantly the face of the latter rose like a full moon 
 again, and quite as red from his exertion. 
 
 " Lookin' to see if I could find any body," he answered, 
 stuttering, and looking as blank-eyed as the wall itself. 
 
 " Wai now, that ain't no sort o' use, Jo Rummins," 
 said the landlord. " Jest you keep t' other side o' my 
 bar, and that 's all I 've got to say about it !" 
 
 " Oh dear !" exclaimed Jo, throwing himself loosely 
 into a flag-bottomed chair ; " don't make such a fret 
 about nothin' at all ! I hain't stole nothin', an' what 's 
 more, I don't mean tew. When you ketch Jo Rummins 
 in that sort o' business you may jest make the most on 't. 
 I give ye full leave." 
 
 " Come !" interrupted Mr. Nubbles, rising to his feet ; 
 " it 's a warm day, Mr. Hedge a terrible warm day ; and 
 I kind o' want a quart o' your very best old Santa Cruz. 
 Got any ? eh ?" 
 
 Mr. Nubbles drew out a little stone jug from the bas 
 ket he carried in his hand, properly enveloped for se 
 crecy's sake, in a ragged piece of an old tow-cloth bag, 
 and held it up before the landlord's face just as a soldier 
 would present arms. . A 
 
 "Fact! I don't know 's I. have got any," said Mr. 
 Hedge, bustling round behind the bar ; " but I '11 look 
 an' see !" 
 
 So he did look and see. Yes, he had Santa Cru^ 
 enough, and enough of all the other sorts besides. He 
 only made this pretense of doubt because it was his uni 
 versal custom. It had grown to be a professional habit 
 with him. 
 
 While the strong-scented liquid was gurgling down 
 the throat of Mr. Hedge's tin funnel into the neck of
 
 POVERTY JO. 205 
 
 Mr. Nubbles' s stone jug, Jo Rummins sat and watched 
 the process longingly. His lips seemed to be never any 
 drier. He wet them with his tongue, and made a half- 
 smacking noise with them, as if he only wished the stone 
 throat of the jug was his throat. 
 
 " Hold on !" cried Mr. Nubbles, who had stood over 
 and watched the operation thus far. " Le 's have what 's 
 in there to drink ! Have suthin', Jo ?." 
 
 Jo stepped up with alacrity, of course. Mr. Hedge 
 futnished a couple of tumblers, and the worthy pair 
 worthy certainly of each other drank down a fiery 
 draught apiece " to a better understanding" as if there 
 might, at some dim and indistinct time in the past, have 
 existed a mis-understanding between them. 
 
 They did not favor Hector Hedge long with their so 
 ciety, after this exploit, but started off for home. Jo had 
 got a taste, and all the several elements of his soul in 
 stantly resolved themselves into a committee of the 
 whole, on the best method of getting a look at the inside 
 bottom of the jug. Mr. Nubbles was going to get his 
 horse, that stood hitched but a little way off, and then 
 proposed going directly over to Worrywitch Hill. " I 'II 
 take ye as fur 's I go," said he to Jo, " an' welcome." 
 
 That was enough. Jo got in, and his dog trotted 
 along after. 
 
 Coming to the turn where Rummins should properly 
 have left his companion, each found himself in a highly 
 agreeable state of feeling, with his conversational powers 
 elevated quite a little distance above their ordinary pitch. 
 Jo proposed to his friend to turn in and ride over to his 
 house before going home. The old horse stopped short, 
 while Mr. Nubbles deliberated on it, looking down at the 
 ground. 
 
 " Oh, come," plead Jo, giving him a sudden nudge
 
 206 POVERTY JO. 
 
 
 
 with his elbow ; " you can't do no better, if you go home. 
 Come ! let 's set down, and kind o' have a good old- 
 fashioned chat. We ha'n't had sich a one this long time. 
 Come along, Nubbles ! What 's the use 't." 
 
 There wasn't any " use 't ;"-and Mr. Nubbles turned 
 in his patient beast, the dog now taking the liberty of 
 trotting before. 
 
 Arrived at the little lonely solitude of Jo, Mr. Nubbles 
 carefully hitched his horse, as was his wont, and both 
 went in through thistles, burdocks, and coarse dockweeds 
 to the door. Jo fumbled round among the crevices at 
 the underpinning for the key, which he duly fished up 
 and applied to the lock. As the door swung open, and 
 they entered the house, a dry, musty, repulsive smell sa 
 luted their olfactories, which, but for the ample protection 
 so recently afforded their stomachs, might have caused a 
 sensation in those organs not much unlike nausea. The 
 ceiling was very low, and needed whitewash badly. The 
 walls were without paper, and some of them without even 
 plaster. Each window was secured by a stick, no one 
 of which did Jo ever suffer to be opened, let him have 
 as many friends call as his little domicile could hold. 
 
 There were but two rooms that were really inhabit 
 able, one of which appeared to serve for a sitting and 
 sleeping room, and the other in the capacity of a kitchen, 
 wash-room, cellar, and so forth. Jo esteemed himself a 
 respectable housekeeper, whether people called him tidy 
 or not ; that was nothing to him, so long as he only suited 
 himself. He could cook ; he could wash ; and he could 
 do very well, so far as he was a judge, every thing that' 
 he wanted done. What more was really worthy of his 
 consideration ? 
 
 " Set down, Nubbles," said he, kicking at a chair for
 
 POVERTY JO.. 207 
 
 him. " You 've been here afore, I s'pose ? So jest try 
 to make yourself to home !" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Mr. Nubbles, with a slight lisp, " I 've 
 been here afore ; I guess I 'have he ! he ! But- hold on 
 a minnit ; le' me go out and git that basket ! You know ?" 
 and he winked his eye at Jo, as he thought, with a great 
 deal of cunning. 
 
 " Yis, yis," chimed in the perfectly satisfied solitary ; 
 " go ahead ! I '11 fetch some water an' some tumblers !" 
 
 A very brief interval of time was abundantly sufficient 
 tp enable them to conclude all the necessary prelim 
 inaries ; and forthwith they found themselves seated be 
 fore a little pine table, with a pitcher and two dirty tum 
 blers right under their noses. 
 
 " A-a-a-h ! that 's good !" cried Jo, after making the first 
 attempt at the jug, and striking his tumbler down on the 
 table with an emphasis for which no glass manufacturer 
 would be foolish enough to give a warrant. " That's the 
 raal old stuff! the reg'lar thing, Nubbles ! Have a pipe ?" 
 continued he, reaching out for one on the low mantel. 
 Mr. Nubbles did n't smoke, whatever else he did. So 
 Poverty Jo sat and whiffed away all by himself. 
 
 And while he is whiffing, let me take the liberty to just 
 touch him off with a hasty description. 
 
 There he sat, hat, pipe, shoes, and all. He had man 
 aged to pile up his two feet on the table, with the pitcher 
 of water and other things, where they were displayed to 
 the best advantage possible. His hat he had stuck tight 
 on the exact crown of his head, and his hands into the 
 edges of his trowsers' pockets. Look out for a long, 
 frowsy beard, a mouth stained at the corners with to 
 bacco juice, a pair of eyes that seemed to be going 
 asleep all the time, and face and forehead covered thickly 
 over with little fine Avrinkles, like plaits on a shirt frill ;
 
 208 POVERTY JO. 
 
 and, after you have put the short stump of a pipe iu his 
 mouth, you had the outline picture of Jo Rummins. He 
 wore 110 coat, nothing but a woolen vest that hung flab 
 bily from his shoulders, and a pair of faded blue trovvsers ; 
 and his bare ankles hardly did those perceptible strips of 
 his body any great credit, as they offered themselves in 
 contrast with even his rough and dusty shoes. 
 
 He who said that Jo was a bad man, betrayed his per 
 fect ignorance of the subject he talked about. Better 
 men there unquestionably were, for even Jo himself said 
 he made no sort of pretension or profession ; but worse 
 men, regarded especially in the matter of citizenship, and 
 quiet, uniform deportment, it would be easy to find in 
 almost any place that thought itself worth a name. Jo 
 said of himself: " I'jest mean to go 'long an' mind my 
 own business peaceably ; don't calc'late to hurt nor mo 
 lest no livin' creetur ; don't mean to keep lookiu' behind 
 me on my way home, for fear somebody's arter me to ask 
 what I 've been stealin' ; mind my own business, and let 
 other folks mind theirs." That was about a fair compi 
 lation of his creed, and it is due to him to add that he 
 was a very consistent follower of the very few principles 
 therein set forth. 
 
 Poverty Jo as one would readily conclude from his 
 popular name was not a rich man ; neither would it be 
 exactly fair to say that he was a downright poor man ; 
 that is, as things went around him. He owned this little 
 house such as it was ; and the fruits of its burdocks and 
 thistles in front, and of its few hills of corn and potatoes 
 in the rear, were all indisputably his own. So that he 
 was not really in want, nor y^t was he quite above it ; 
 but rather, as somebody has very graphically defined the 
 position of such an individual, he occupied that vague and 
 dim borderland, that formed a sort of boundary line be-
 
 POVERTY JO. 209 
 
 
 
 tween respectability and the poor-house. Jo knew every 
 body, and every body knew Jo. If lie had u't a friend 
 in the world, he could say with just as much truth that 
 he hadn't an enemy. He was a hanger-on upon the 
 skirts of rustic civilization ; quite as much a companion 
 for the squirrels and woodchucks, and other creatures 
 that found apartments under ground, as for those who 
 made it a point to associate together and attend church 
 each week in the village, above ground. 
 
 " You 've got a likely sort of a dog there, Jo," offered 
 Mr. Nubbles. " What '11 ye take for him, say ?" 
 
 Jo drew the pipe from his mouth, slowly turned his 
 head about so that he could get a look at the creature, 
 and fell into a train of deliberation. The old dog's his 
 tory spread itself out right before his eyes like a high- 
 colored map. 
 
 " What '11 1 take for him ?" repeated he, every word 
 very slowly ; " do ye think* I 'd sell that dog, Nubbles ? 
 Do ye s'pose any man 's rich enough to buy him of me ?" 
 
 Endowed with perceptions such as not every dog 
 could boast, this dog raised his head from his out 
 stretched fore paws, winked at his master first with one 
 eye and then with the other, threw a glance up at Mr. 
 Nubbles, gaped widely, and laid his head down again. 
 
 " See that, now ?" said Jo. " He knows what we 're 
 talkin' a-bout !" 
 
 " Sho ! Do you really think so ? Wai, he 's a knowin' 
 dog if he does. Worth so much the more, I s'pose eh ? 
 But what '11 ye take for him any way ?" 
 
 " Take for him ! I won't sell him, I tell you ! Do you 
 think I 'd part with the best friend I 've got in the 
 world? and jest for a little money ? No ; I hopes I 've 
 got a soul a leetle above that, if folks ain't a mind to 
 think I 've got a soul for any thing more. You can't buy
 
 210 POVERTY JO. 
 
 that dog, Nubbles ;. no, nor no other man ! Come ; 
 what say to another an-oth-er shake-up o' your jug 
 there ?" 
 
 It would n't be veritable history to say that some in 
 stinctive delicacy made Mr. Nubbles shrink from the 
 operation denominated by Jo as " another shake-up of 
 the jug," for that worthy did take hold on the stone ves 
 sel, and did take out the stopper ; and the motions that 
 were indulged in immediately after, by both individuals, 
 had much better be left to the suspicions of the reader 
 than intrusted to description. It is enough to add that 
 just as soon as the rightful proprietor of the jug could 
 get an opportunity to do so, he crowded the stopper into 
 the neck again with a rather unsteady hand, jammed the 
 jug itself into the basket, hung the- basket over his arm, 
 and appeared to set every thing and every body silently 
 at defiance. Jo saw how things stood, and inwardly fell 
 to bewailing the unpromising nature of the circumstances 
 that shadowed him. All he did, however, was to knock 
 his hat a little further back on his head, rub briskly the 
 new exposure, pull his pipe out of his mouth, and put it 
 back again. 
 
 " Nubbles," said he, biting his pipe-stem in order to 
 talk, " this is a queer world !" 
 
 " Queer enough," acquiesced the other, shaking his 
 head, and clapping his hand to his basket as if not yet 
 quite satisfied of its safety. 
 
 " Folks don't pull together as they 'd orter ; if they 
 did, every body 'd handle more money 'n they dew, an' 
 git more clo's to wear, and hev a little more to eat an' 
 drink, an' all that sort o' thing. Beats all, how the world 
 goes. I git sick on 't sometimes ; no friends no kind of 
 a home not much work, and a good deal less pay same 
 old road to travel from one year's end to t' other's no
 
 POVERTY JO. 211 
 
 change no nothin', but ray old dog here ! I git 'most 
 discouraged sometimes, Nubbles!" 
 
 The dog again looked up in his master's face, as if he 
 did not quite comprehend his meaning. 
 
 " Why, what on airth 's the matter !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Nubbles, his eyes opening with astonishment. " Why, 
 Jo ; you 're gittin' bleu ! Jes' look o' me, now," and he 
 held out both hands at arm's length that he might the 
 better look at him. " Jes' see how I 'm sitooated, now ! 
 A man with a wife, and such a wife ; and you 've got no 
 such a thing ! My boy I like well enough, and he 's a 
 great comfort, to be sure ; but then, jes' look at what I 
 have to go through to enjoy that boy ! Jo Rummins, 
 le' me tell you one thing, and do you hear me ; if you 
 should live a thousan' year don't ye never git married ! 
 It 's my advice, an' it 's my experience, too. Jes' let the 
 female sex go ! They ain't what I thought they was, 
 once ! I 've got deceived Jo Rummins ; an' when 
 man's got deceived, he's pooty shure not to want his 
 friends to ketch the disease ! So do you jest remember 
 what I say !" 
 
 And the recollection of his wife flashed so vividly over 
 his mind, blazing through his obfuscations as brightly as 
 the sun shines through a white fog, that he started to his 
 feet as if the peal of a trumpet rang in his ears, and said, 
 " He thought he must be goin'." 
 
 Jo sat and ruminated -further over the subject, and 
 over the subject of life in general; and his thoughts 
 grew more and more despondent, and his heart, like a 
 truthful barometer, sank lower and lower, till it is doubt 
 ful if he could ever have climbed up out of that well 
 of darkness again had not sleep suddenly snatched away 
 his consciousness, and changed all the heights and depths 
 of the realities into the smooth level of a pleasant dream.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A BACK-DOOR VISITOR. 
 
 
 
 ELLEN had gone back to town. The sisters were sad 
 enough, and sat talking soberly about it. 
 
 " If we could but have her here all the time," said 
 Mary, trying to disentangle a skein of light silk, " I 
 could seem to endure it ! HOAV much we shall miss her, 
 Martha, now she is gone !" 
 
 " But we can return her visit," suggested Martha, 
 catching at the slightest hope of raising their spirits. 
 
 " So we can ; so we can ; and that 's what I '11 get 
 ready to do this very winter; and we'll both go and 
 make a regular season of it, won't we ?" 
 
 " And leave father and mother here alone ?" asked the 
 thoughtful Martha. 
 
 Mary paused. That consideration had slipped her 
 mind entirely. 
 
 " They would be perfectly willing, I am sure," said she. 
 
 " That may be ; but then, I try *to ask myself some 
 times if doing so would be doing perfectly right. Is n't 
 it rather like deserting them ? How do we know that 
 they are not apt to be lonely as well as ourselves ?" 
 
 " You are always so self-sacrificing, Martha ! I declare, 
 I sometimes wish I was more like you. Every body 
 seems to think more of you than they do of me. And 
 now I believe I see the reason why."
 
 A BACK-DOCK VISITOR. 213 
 
 Martha could bo made to believe no such thinsr, 
 
 O/ 
 
 whether it was so or not. She was unwilling to claiir. 
 for herself, even secretly, any superiority over one she 
 loved as dearly as her sister ; and that very spirit of self- 
 abnegation brought out her beautiful qualities only the 
 more prominently. 
 
 "But Ellen was very urgent," plead Mary. "I don't 
 see how we 're to avoid going very well. And I know 
 that father will be perfectly willing and anxious that we 
 should, too ; especially when he comes to know how 
 much she depends upon it." 
 
 Martha might have helped on the discussion of the 
 subject still further ; but a voice they both were able to 
 recognize fell on their ear, and through the door that led 
 out into the kitchen appeared Mr. Dandelly. 
 
 " Well done !" said he, lifting up both hands. 
 
 Mary screamed outright with laughter. This time she 
 was determined to try another application. 
 
 Martha only bowed, while her face combined on its 
 surface a great variety of expressions. 
 
 He was newly dressed this time, and a little more gayly 
 than usual. White, however, was rather the predominat 
 ing color about him. His hair seemed newly curled, hi 
 mustache seemed newly furbished. His white beaver had 
 been brushed down till it was sleek as a mole's back, and 
 still he kept rubbing it with the palm of his hand. 
 
 They did not ask him to sit down ; but that was to his 
 mind no sort of reason why he should not sit down. He 
 slid into a seat, and began his comments and questions. 
 
 " Very fine young lady, that Miss Worthington. She 's 
 gone home, I 've heerd." 
 
 Both the girls happened to feel in just the mood to 
 humor him : so they told him she had. 
 
 " I only wish I'd ha' known it before," said he. " I de-
 
 214 A BACK-DOOE VISITOR. 
 
 clare, I believe I sli'd been 'most tempted to go along 
 with her, take care of her baggage and things. Strange 
 I never hear of nothin', till it 's all over with !" 
 
 "Are you really one of that unfortunate class of mor 
 tals ?" inquired Mary. 
 
 Mr. Dandelly acknowledged, with shame and confusion 
 of face, that he believed he was. " However," added he, 
 with a strong emphasis on that word, " I don't know but 
 I 'm lucky sometimes. There is such things, Miss Rivers, 
 even to the unfortunate ones." 
 
 A second time he thought it necessary for him to state 
 that he thought Miss Worthington, who he was sorry to 
 hear had just gone, was " a very tine girl ;" and he added 
 that he should like to get better acquainted with her. 
 " But I go to the city, once in a while, and I can call on 
 her ; that is, if I can only find out from you what street 
 and number she lives in." 
 
 Neither of the girls spoke. Their odd visitor scrutin 
 ized their faces with his twinkling little eyes, put his hat 
 down on the floor beside his chair, and passed his hand 
 cautiously over the bed of curls on his head, to see if all 
 things above were in perfect order. 
 
 "N"ow let me hold that skein of silk for you, Miss 
 Rivers," said he, desirous of making himself useful. 
 
 " Oh no, sir," she replied. " I would n't trouble you as 
 much as that. Pray keep your seat, Mr. Dandelly. I 
 can get along with it myself just as well." And in her 
 sudden confusion, she got along so well with it, that she 
 threw it into more snarls than she had extricated it from 
 in the last ten minutes. 
 
 "I could help you now, I know, if you 'd but let me," 
 persisted he. " Ah ! what new book have you got there 
 on the table % I guess I did not see that, the last time I 
 was here, did I ?"
 
 A BACK-DOOB VISITOR. 215 
 
 He got up and took the book from the little stand. 
 " Marry must Bridge : A Romance," said he, repeating 
 the words he read on the back. " Quite a pretty book. 
 Proper, han'some binding. Beaut'ful letters on the back, 
 all gilt so. What sort of a book is it ?" 
 
 Mary told him she thought it was quite a handsome 
 book, catching at his own idea. 
 
 " So 'tis ; I declare, 'tis so," said he, not discerning the 
 satire in her expression at all. " Give me a handsome 
 book, even if the readin' ain't quite so good !" And to 
 tally indifferent to the character of the trifling part he 
 called the "readin'," he began a flirting motion to and 
 fro with the leaves, looking critically at the top and bot 
 tom edges. 
 
 " I like to see gilt on the leaves, don't you ?" said he. 
 " Now how much purtier, how much richer so handsome 
 a book as this is, would look with gilt edges ! What a 
 pity folks don't always stop to think, before they go and 
 sp'ile a thing ! However, I don't say that 's sp'iled, by 
 no means." 
 
 " Oh, no," joined in Mary, archly, " I think that will 
 keep a long time yet." 
 
 He didn't understand it. Whenever any thing that 
 was said puzzled him, he had a habit of staring blankly for 
 a moment at the person who had done the mischief, and 
 then of feeling his head, as if something might be sud 
 denly wrong there. 
 
 " From Mr. Holliday, eh ?" he returned, after reading 
 the inscription in pencil on the fly leaf. 
 
 " Yes, from Mr. Holliday," promptly and decisively 
 answered Martha. 
 
 " I could have told you that," said her sister, " without 
 giving you the trouble to look." 
 
 " Are you very much acquainted with him ?" he asked.
 
 i 
 
 216 A BACK-DOOB VISITOR. 
 
 "Did you ever see him, or know Mm, or hear of him, be 
 fore you. came here ?" 
 
 " Yes, we feel a little acquainted with him," answered 
 Mary. " Why do you inquire ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Only I 'd seen him walkin' out round 
 with you a good deal, and I 'd heerd he was gettin' to be 
 something of a visitor out here, besides. I s'pose you 
 like him, of course ? he ! he ! he ! else he would n't 
 come out here ! he ! he !" 
 
 " What do you think of him, Mr. Dandelly ?" asked 
 Mary, quizzingly, and glancing hastily at her sister. 
 
 " Well, now," said he, dropping his voice a little, " I 
 really sh'd like to tell you, for I know 't you don't know 
 about him quite so well as I do." 
 
 " Yes," acquiesced Mary, leading him blindly on. 
 
 He drew up his chair a trifle, as if he were inclined to 
 be somewhat confidential. 
 
 " The fact is, now," said he, " I don't want exactly to 
 say any thing against a person behind their backs, though 
 of course, folks must now and then expect that something 
 will be said about them." 
 
 The girls appeared to assent to the principle contained 
 in the last clause, perfectly. 
 
 " I've known him longer than you have, both of you," 
 he went on. " He 's a clever fellow enough, I 've always 
 thought, and real good hearted; that is, for all I know 
 to the contrary." 
 
 " Yes," acquiescingly responded Mary, again. 
 
 " They say, too, he 's a fellow of some talents ; but I 
 don't know so much about that, and so I can't undertake 
 to say." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mary, " you may not consider your 
 self a good judge !" 
 
 He paused to stare at her a moment, his hand went,
 
 A BACK-DOOR VISITOR. 217 
 
 like the movement of an automaton, directly to the top of 
 i his head, and then he recovered himself again. 
 
 "He writes a good deal, I s'pose; but what it all 
 amounts to, that I can't tell. I never see much of it yet. 
 Fact is, I don't think much of those sort of things." 
 
 " Yes," again put in Mary, in a tone that to his ears 
 sounded remarkably sweet and alluring. 
 
 " Folks say that he 's this, and he 's that ; but that 
 don't seem to amount to much, after all. What a man 
 does, is what you know him by ; and that 's the whole 
 of 't. Now what is a piece of scribblin' ? Why, any body 
 can -set down and scratch off a story, or any thing o' that 
 sort, on clean foolscap that is, if he 's got the time and 
 ain't too lazy, as I am myself. I don't see why people 
 choose to make such a great fuss over a person that can 
 just write a little ; as if one could n't do it about as well 
 as another. Books are all well enough ; I like a good 
 book, if it 's got a nice sort of a story to it, or any thing 
 like that ; because it helps you so much in gettin' rid of 
 a dull spell, like an hour before dinner, or a real rainy 
 afternoon ; but these common sort o' writin's, such as 
 some of his are, perhaps why, what does any body care 
 about them ?" 
 
 " I see you have a great deal of discrimination !" said 
 Mary. 
 
 " Well, I don't know about that," he answered. " Fact 
 is, I don't have time to read very much, any way. I 'in 
 here, and there, and every where, all the while ; traveling 
 about from one part of the country to another ; and so 
 many acquaintances to visit, too ! I tell you, books are a 
 thing that 's pretty much out o' the question with me." 
 
 Mary was persevering with her quiet fun. " Have you 
 ever called on Mr. Holliday many times ?" said she. 
 
 " Called ? Oh, la, yes ! called once, and talked with 
 10
 
 218 A BACK-DOOR VISITOK. 
 
 him over the palin' while he was to work in the garding ; 
 called agin, and he jest spoke a few words to me, and said 
 finally he would like to be excused he was so busy jest 
 then ! I thought he was a good deal of a gentleman that 
 time, I did ! Fact was, I did n't like him one bitf. And 
 people all about here tell me that he won't have nothin' 
 to do with nobody at all; he's proud, an' distant, an' 
 don't speak half the time ; and I guess myself that he 's 
 got no very great reason to stick himself up so above 
 common folks." 
 
 " But perhaps he does n't," suggested Martha, speak 
 ing for the second time during this odd conversation. 
 "Perhaps people would think differently if they only 
 knew him." 
 
 " Well, then, why don't he take a little more pains to 
 get acquainted with folks ? Why ain't he willin' they 
 should get acquainted with him ? What makes him 
 carry himself so stiff, and hold his head so high, and try 
 to look down on every body that comes near him ?" 
 
 " Do you think he does ?" she asked. 
 
 " Does n't every body think he does, I should like to 
 know?" 
 
 " But perhaps this is nothing but a mistake of their 
 own. How do they know, without first finding out, that 
 his tastes are their tastes ? People can't expect one to 
 lay his whole heart open to them unless there- is some 
 very manifest reason for it ; and if his sympathies and 
 their sympathies happen to kindle when they come in 
 contact, they will get thoroughly acquainted before they 
 once think of it." 
 
 " Well, I don't see myself, I don't, why he should pre 
 tend to feel that his tastes are any better than any body's 
 else tastes ; he 's nothing different from common folks ;
 
 A BACK-DOOR VI8ITOB. 219 
 
 he walks pretty mucli as other men do, and wears his hat 
 pretty much as they do as I do myself." 
 
 " That is something in his favor, I 'm sure," said MaVy. 
 " 'Tis n't every body that docs that !" 
 
 " Well," said he, a little uneasily, "I don't know what 
 you think of him ; but I don't think much of him. I 
 can't get acquainted with him ; and when I find a man 
 like that, I begin to consider that he ain't much of a man ; 
 leastways, not much of a one for me. If a person is any 
 thing extra let him show it out ; not go hiding about in 
 the bushes, as he does, and make a great pretension that 
 he ain't to be come at by common folks ! That 's my 
 doctrine, exactly." 
 
 " Perhaps you know who the author of that book is 
 that you hold in your hand ?" said Mary. 
 
 He looked once more at the lettering on the back ; he 
 turned it over, and looked carefully at the edges ; and 
 then he fell to flirting the leaves carelessly to and fro 
 again. " No, I don't," said he. " Do you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; we know." 
 
 " Who is it ? Some city friend of yours ? I declare I 
 should like to get acquainted with him. Perhaps he 's 
 coming out here before summer 's over ; and I shall most 
 likely be gone to the Springs !" 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mary, " you can see him even if you 
 do go to the Springs. I guess that will not interfere." 
 
 " Why ? Who is he ? Will he be there when I am ? 
 What is his name ?" 
 
 " You have seen him already, I think. His name is 
 Mr. Holliday ; and he is a particular friend of ours, as 
 perhaps you didn't till this moment know!" 
 
 Martha had to laugh outright. She could not keep her 
 mirth bottled up any longer. 
 
 The evident embarrassment, if not consternation, into
 
 220 A BACK-DOOR VISITOR. 
 
 which their visitor was thrown, seemed sufficient punish 
 ment for the impudent indiscretions of which he was 
 guilty. 
 
 He stared, first at Mary, and then at Martha ; then up 
 went his hand again to the crown of his ringleted head ; 
 and finally he fell to looking over the book itself, as if he 
 might as well examine into the merits of the work before 
 he had any thing further to ofier about the author. 

 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 
 
 To go back to Gabriel again. Daring the terra of his 
 life with Crankey and his associates, he found that one 
 day varied not much from another. In the dearth and 
 the dimness of new prospects that they held out to him, 
 they were altogether alike. He ran on errands for Cran 
 key and for Kate. When not otherwise employed, he 
 was suffered to run about in the alleys and lanes that be 
 set his obscure abode, and pick up such a fund of enjoy 
 ment as might best suit his youthful inclination. He 
 liked this little enough, it is true ; he grew sick at heart 
 from seeing the shameless and repulsive sights that daily 
 greeted him ; but still, almost any thing was preferable to 
 being hived up in the hot upper room where his protector 
 lodged, sometimes with the shutters up and the stout 
 bars behind them. 
 
 "You may jest feel of what gentleman's coat pockets 
 you fall in with," said Isaac to him one day, as he sent 
 him out for air and exercise. " But mind how you do 
 it. Don't go to pullin' and twitchin' things about in 
 this way" explaining to him the style he meant " for 
 that never '11 do ; but jest let yer hand go over loosely 
 it 's a little hand, and I know you can do it and if you 
 find a nose-wiper, 'specially if it happens to be a silk one, 
 why, you know what then ? Be sharp now, boy !"
 
 222 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 
 
 " What ?" asked Gabriel, in all innocence. 
 
 " What ! you little you you are you so thick you 
 can't take ?" said he, angrily, while his eyes blazed 
 fiercely upon him for a few minutes. " If there 's a han'- 
 kercher, take it, of course ! What else do you suppose I 
 want you^o do ? And after you 've got to be a little 
 skillful at that, why, there 's a front pocket, where some 
 men carry their purses ! Do you take now ? hey ?" 
 
 " You don't want rne to steal, do you, Mr. Crankey ?" 
 asked the boy, meeting the man's wicked eye with one of 
 his own sorrowful looks. 
 
 " Steal ! Don't ye dare to speak that word ! Don't 
 never let me hear you say it again ! Steal ! No ; I 
 want you to be industr'ous, and earn your own livin' 
 work your own way along. If you see a good chance to 
 draw a silk han'kercher out of a fool's pocket, you've got 
 a right to it ; and he 's only the bigger fool for lettin' it 
 go ! So now off with you ; and don't come home agin 
 unless you fetch somethin' along with ye ! D' ye hear?" 
 
 Gabriel moved out of the room, crying and solbbing 
 bitterly. 
 
 " It is n't for this that I brought ye here, youngster," 
 added Crankey. " You 've got to get yer livin' one way 
 or another, and you might as well begin now as a year 
 hence. Stop that blubberiii' now, or I'll shut ye up 
 where you '11 blubber all day ! Put on a pleasant face, 
 and go to work and 'see how much you can bring home 
 to me !" 
 
 " I can not take any thing that don't belong to me," 
 said Gabriel, in a tone almost of despair. "My mother 
 told me never to do such wrong things as that. She 
 told me to be good always !" 
 
 " Your mother ? And who was your mother, you 
 little rninx ? What sort of a creetur was she anyhow ?
 
 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 223 
 
 Did n't you tell me that you come from a poor-house ? and 
 do you s'pose that what a poor-house woman says amounts 
 to any thing ? Do you s'pose it 's goin' to have any 
 thing to do with me ? or with any boy 't I take to bring 
 up ? Come ; away with you ! Don't have no more o' 
 this whinin' and cryin' ; that 's only for babies ; turn right 
 about an' be a man, an' forget that you ever come from 
 such a place as an old country poor-house ! Do your best 
 now, to-day, and you '11 find that I shall pay you well 
 for 't." 
 
 Gabriel went out, and wended his way to a well-known 
 retreat in a neighboring alley, where the sun never came 
 and footsteps were rarely heard during the day ; and sit 
 ting down upon a damp stone, he buried his face in his 
 hands, and wept for the memory of his mother. His 
 breast heaved ; the tears rolled through his fingers and 
 dropped on the hard pavement ; his lips fashioned ex 
 pressions of sorrow, that not even one dear, good friend 
 was left to him ; and he appeared utterly broken with his 
 grief. 
 
 When, after the expiration of a long time, he aroused 
 himself and came out upon the alley again, his eyes were 
 much swollen, and he felt dizzy and faint. What to do, 
 or where to go, was a problem for his thoughts. He 
 knew no other living friend but Isaac, and he dared not 
 go back to him yet. He could think of no one but his 
 mother. Yes, yes, through the clouds looked the sym 
 pathizing countenances of Mrs. Joy and of old Nathan 
 Grubb ; and they encouraged him. But he thought of 
 them as being themselves as friendless and as poor as he, 
 and his gleam of encouragement grew dim. And yet 
 one other face a sweet face, a kind and gentle face, so 
 radiant and so heavenly in its expression, that he yearned 
 in his heart for the deep pleasure of looking on it but
 
 224 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 
 
 even once again beamed brightly upon him, and a thrill 
 of joy darted through his heart, that quite revived him. 
 It was the face of Martha Rivers ; as it appeared to him 
 when she followed him to the gate, and offered him that 
 little bunch of garden flowers which Mrs. Nubbles was 
 thoughtful enough to throw into the fire on his return 
 home. Oh, if he could see Martha at this moment, and 
 tell her all his many, many troubles ! It seemed as if he 
 would be happy then. 
 
 While he walked thus thoughtfully along, Ire overtook 
 little Jane, who was herself roaming, about in the purlieus 
 of the place. Their eyes met, as he spoke to her. She 
 betrayed all her former interest in Gabriel, and seemed 
 to regard him with a feeling like affection. At once, 
 therefore, they fell into conversation, walking on while 
 they talked. 
 
 They chatted of what they saw, both objects and per 
 sons ; and of the people among whom their lot was 
 thrown ; and at last Gabriel's thoughts took a wide turn, 
 and he asked her if she had ever lived in the country. 
 
 " No," answered little Jane. " Where 's that ? I 
 never seed that place yet !" and her blue eyes were fixed 
 on Gabriel's. " What kind of a place is it ? Is it like 
 this here ?" 
 
 " Like this ? Oh, no ; nothing at all," he explained. 
 " It 's a beautiful place, where the trees grow up as thick 
 as you ever saw ; and the grass is just as green as can be ; 
 and the brooks run all the year! There ain't any brooks 
 here, nor any grass, and only a few trees that I could 
 count in a minute, and they are away off in the park ; 
 there 's no trees here. But all the country 's beautiful ! 
 I 'd like to go back there again," he added musingly. 
 
 " Why don't you ?" asked the girl. " I should think 
 you 'd love to stay there all the time."
 
 -LITTLE PILGKIMS. 225 
 
 " Because Isaac would n't go with me," said he. " Who 
 would take care of me, if I should go away from him ? 
 Who would show me the way back, either ?" 
 
 " Where is your mother, Gabriel ?" 
 
 A tear swam about in his eye. 
 
 " I hav'n't got any mother," said he, his lip trembling 
 with the sudden memory of her all-protecting love. 
 " She died." 
 
 Little Jane was silent a moment. 
 
 " Where did she die ?" she asked. 
 
 " We lived in a poor-house, they called it ; but 't was 
 a great deal better place than where I live now, though I 
 would n't dare to tell Isaac so, for all the world ! But I 
 loved the green spots round there so much ; and in the 
 summer time you see I could stay out doors 'most all the 
 while, and bring home as many flowers as I wanted to 
 mother ; and she always looked so pleasant, and smiled 
 on me, when I brought them to her and laid them in her 
 lap ! Oh, if only those days would come back again if 
 't was in the poor-house !" 
 
 " Did she die there ?" pursued his companion, her sym 
 pathies enlisted deeply in his story. 
 
 " Yes," said Gabriel, with an unafiected sigh. 
 
 " How long ago was it ? Was it a good many years ? 
 Do you remember all about it now ?" 
 
 " It was only last winter," answered he ; " only 9, little 
 while ago. She has n't been dead but so long." 
 
 " But hav'n't you got a father, neither ?" 
 
 "I don't know." He had a mysterious look on his 
 countenance, as he answered her. " I never saw him," 
 
 Again the girl was silent with her thoughts. " Do you 
 think I would like to live in the country ?" she afterward 
 inquired, changing the subject somewhat, as she saw it 
 troubled him. 
 
 10*
 
 226 LITTLE PILGEIMS. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," he promptly answered ; " yes, indeed. 
 I only wish you could go there with me." 
 
 " Where would you go ? Back to the poor-house 
 again-? Would they take you back there, do you s'pose ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; I should n't want to go there ; no, indeed ; 
 and I should n't like at all to live with Mr. Nubbles again ; 
 but I should be glad enough to go to such a pleasant spot 
 as Draggledew Plain, and live with somebody like beau 
 tiful Miss Rivers, out on the side hill there above the 
 village. I would n't want to stay where Kit Nubbles nor 
 his mother could see me." 
 
 Little Jane asked him how that was ; and he went 
 about explaining it all patiently to her his being bound 
 out to li ve with Mr. Nubbles's folks his sufferings while 
 he remained in that very strange family his accidental 
 acquaintance with Martha, who would always appear be 
 fore his eyes as almost an angel of light and his final es 
 cape under the peculiar circumstances that favored him. 
 
 To his whole narration the girl listened with deep at 
 tention, and apparent sympathy. Her heart bled for his 
 wrongs, and innocently went out to him with its silent 
 offers of childlike assistance. 
 
 " Could n't we go any where into the country but to 
 Draggledew Plain?" asked she. "Isn't there another 
 spot in the country as pleasant as that ?" 
 
 " Yes, plenty of 'em. I came through a good many 
 when I run away from there. Many a time I thought 
 I 'd rather stop where I was, than to go on." 
 
 " And Isaac came all the way with you, did he ?" 
 
 " Every step of it. I kept close to him for I had n't 
 got another friend in the World then." 
 
 " But do you like Isaac any better than you did those 
 cruel folks out there ?" 
 
 "He don't beat me so much as they did. I did n't
 
 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 227 
 
 like that very much, and when I did n't know what 't was 
 for." 
 
 " Did they beat you much out there ?" said she, 
 regarding him with eyes of melting tenderness and af 
 fection. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; all of 'em did. First it was Mis' Nub 
 bles, and then Mr. Nubbles, and then Kit ; all beat me as 
 if they liked to, and did n't know what else to do. I 
 could n't li ve there I should have died after a while. I 
 wanted^ to run away before I did. I'm glad enough 
 that I got so far away from 'em all, and I 'm gladder yet 
 that I know you, Jane ; but I like to live out in the 
 country a great deal better than this. It 's so grand out 
 there ; and so beautiful. Oh, I feel so homesick some 
 times if I did live in a poor-house !" 
 
 "But don't Isaac take care of you here ?" 
 
 " Isaac ? He wants me," here he lowered his voice, 
 and took hold of her shoulder to detain her while he 
 told the shameful story, "don't you think that Isaac 
 wants me to steal ! to steal ! Did you ever hear the 
 like of that?" 
 
 She was silent again, and a deep shade of sadness stole 
 over her face. 
 
 " Out there," he resumed, " I can go just where I want 
 to ; and there 's no danger of getting lost, or being run 
 over, and good many other things I could tell you about. 
 Oh, I wish Isaac would leave this and go into the country, 
 and live like a good man ! I would be so glad to work for 
 him, and do every thing I could ; but I can't steal, Jane ; 
 I can't do that !" 
 
 "Isaac couldn't live there," said she, as astute in her 
 instincts as those far older than herself. 
 
 " Why not ? Why could n't he ?" demanded Gabriel. 
 
 "Oh, because," said she; "he don't love to be by
 
 228 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 
 
 himself so much ; and you say you have to be alone out 
 there a good deal." 
 
 " Yes ; and I like that so much the more." 
 
 " And that 's why Isaac would n't. No, I don't be 
 lieve he 'd ever go there ; no, nor Mis' Sharkie, either. 
 If she only would, now !" 
 
 " Do you like Mis' Sharkie ?" asked Gabriel. 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then answered that she 
 did n't like to tell. 
 
 " Does she beat you then ?" pursued he. 
 
 "Sometimes she does; when she when she when 
 but she don't know anything about it, though. She isn't 
 so much to blame for it, you see." 
 
 " No, I don't see !" he replied, impressively. " If she 
 beats you, she 's awful ! and that 's what I think of her ! 
 I wish I could do as I want to. I wish I was a man, Jane !" 
 
 "What for, Gabriel?" 
 
 " Because then I should n't let Mis' Sharkie whip 
 you ; nor any body else either ! I 'd take care of you, 
 Jane ! That 's why I wish I was a man, Jane !" 
 
 The girl felt manifestly grateful for this evidence of his 
 regard, and was none too young, either, to understand to 
 the last syllable what it meant. She cast her eyes up to 
 the face of Gabriel, and with a silent look alone thanked 
 him. That look was eloquence itself. 
 
 Reaching a corner, they heard a voice. 
 
 " Hello, my son !" 
 
 They looked round, and there stood Billy Bottes. 
 
 "And little Jane, too !" he exclaimed, raising his voice. 
 " Where 've ye both been ? What 've ye been a doin' of?" 
 
 They explained to him that they were engaged about 
 nothing but the pursuit of their own innocent pleasures, 
 strolling wheresoever the fancy took them. 
 
 " Then let me show ye how to save yer time," said
 
 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 229 
 
 Billy. " You know 't they say 't time 's money ; an' if 
 'tis, then you '11 stan' a chance to lay up soinethin' ! 
 Come along a little with me !" 
 
 They exchanged looks of inquiry with one another, 
 and then followed silently on. The way led back through 
 the alley up which he had just come, and finally took 
 them into a labyrinth of alleys and lanes, and passages, 
 and courts, and dark doorways, that would have been 
 enough to confuse beyond recovery any head less at 
 home in such localities than that of Billy himself; but 
 through every one of which he piloted them with a dex 
 terity worthy the attainments of a secret agent of the 
 police. 
 
 " Jest come down here !" said he, pointing down a 
 dark stairway, from which arose savors strong enough to 
 breed a pestilence. 
 
 Little Jane looked at Gabriel as if she would ask "Is 
 it best to go ?" 
 
 " Come along !" again called Billy, leading the way 
 down himself. 
 
 They kept on after him. In a few steps they arrived 
 on the floor of a low cellar, over which were confusedly 
 strewn rags, filth, straw, broken pieces of old chairs and 
 of a table, and a few torn articles of cast-away clothing. 
 
 A dull light was just burning in the further side of the 
 apartment, to which he silently directed their attention. 
 They all three approached it. The sight that there 
 offered itself, accustomed as they more or less were to 
 the scenes of misery and wretchedness around them, 
 struck horror even to their hearts. They shrank back 
 aghast and fearful. 
 
 Lying there upon a pile of mere filth and uncleanness, 
 was the body of a negro-woman with an infant resting 
 across her outstretched arm. Both were dead ; and the
 
 230 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 
 
 face of the woman upturned to the wall, with its eyes 
 and mouth partially closed, sent a chill to their feelings 
 from which they could scarcely recover. 
 
 " Darkies !" exclaimed the little wretch, pointing to 
 them with a laugh. 
 
 "Oh! let's go! let's go!" said little Jane, shudder- 
 ingly. " I want to breathe fresh air again ! Come Ga 
 briel !" and they turned abruptly and went out by the 
 same way they came, their wicked little guide following 
 after, and filling their ears with the repulsive accounts he 
 had collected respecting the scene they had witnessed.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 CHOWDEK AND CHARITY. 
 
 A FEW days after, having already been furnished by 
 Isaac with forty-eight hours' imprisonment for failing to 
 obey his directions in the matter of pocket-picking, Ga 
 briel was out again, sauntering up and down the streets 
 alone. He felt more sorrowful than ever, for he saw 
 that his way was even a more cheerless one than that 
 which he was traveling under the eyes of Mr. Nubbles. 
 Nothing seemed attractive. Nothing looked hopeful. 
 The people who passed him, were a hard-faced, cold- 
 hearted set of people, caring nothing in the world whether 
 he was alive or dead. 
 
 He at length came to a narrow street in the neighbor 
 hood of the wharves, through which a throng seemed to 
 be moving. It was now one o'clock. All the city clocks 
 had successively struck the hour ; and now a single bell, 
 perched in a lofty belfry, was swinging, and tumbling, 
 and turning famous somersets, telling the weary laborers 
 of the town that their dinner hour was at hand. The 
 ringing of this bell was one of the old-time customs that 
 were still suffered to remain. 
 
 In tliis street where Gabriel was idly wandering, no 
 vehicles but carts and drays, and heavy trucks ever 
 threaded their way ; and just now the vehicles were all 
 quiet, and their drivers, smutty and heated, were elbow 
 ing their way along to dinner.
 
 232 CHOW DEE AND CHAKITY. 
 
 One man, with an open and benevolent face, belonging 
 to a troop that were hurrying along, turned around to see 
 what so frail a child as Gabriel could be doing there, 
 jostled and knocked about as he was by the crgwd, and 
 asked him kindly where he was going.. 
 
 "Nowhere," answered the boy. 
 
 " Nowhere, is it ?" said he ; " then, by George, you 
 sh'll go up to dinner with me ; for it 's a mighty few 
 sharks I 've seen in my short day, 't ever looked a half as 
 much starved as you do ! Come, my little lad," he 
 reached down and took him by the hand, "jest go up 
 them stairs with me, an' you shall have all you can eat, 
 for once ! Come !" 
 
 His manner was so persuasive, and Gabriel, by much 
 compelled abstinence during his imprisonment, was so 
 famished, that he yielded almost without a syllable, suf 
 fering the stranger to carry him along with him. The 
 man was dressed like a sailor, and soon joined his associ 
 ates again. 
 
 The dining-room was just at the head of a flight of very 
 dark and narrow stairs, and was familiarly known to all 
 who were in the daily habit of frequenting it, by the 
 euphonious name of the " Bread Basket." Thither tend 
 ed this crowd, hungry for dinner. 
 
 They came up to the meal of the day in squads and 
 squadrons ; men all sunburnt, hirsute, and swarthy. 
 Some hastily flung away their quids, preparing themselves 
 more perfectly for the approaching exercise in gastrono 
 my. Some threw their short-jackets over their shoul 
 ders, and tried to prig themselves up a little, where they 
 fancied they needed it. Others were chattering with one 
 another of the work of the day, of their wages, their 
 prospects, and the weather. 
 
 It was a very pleasant pseudonyme The Bread Basket
 
 CHOWDER AND CHARITY. 233 
 
 for a sailor's boarding-house ; and these men seemed, 
 as they pointedly expressed it, " to glory as much in the 
 name, as the vittles." Could an observer but have taken 
 his stand at the door of the long dining-room, where he 
 might see these strong men crowding up the stairs and 
 afterward filing off around the table, his feelings would 
 have been inexpressibly regaled with the picture. 
 
 Cod, haddock, and halibut were smoking on the board, 
 emitting appetizing fumes and savors in such plenty as 
 soon filled the whole apartment. Exactly in the middle 
 of the table, long as it was, was set a huge leviathan 
 vessel, in which chunks of white cod, with plump bits of 
 bread, and highly savory messes of potato, were bobbing 
 and swimming leisurely about ; a flood of rich and reek 
 ing gravy swirling every where around them. Into this 
 deep vessel was thrust a long ladle, all ready for its bail 
 ing out into the dishes of the hungry diners. 
 
 What with the continuous buzzing of conversation kept 
 up by the men, who were ranged orderly around the 
 room, and the continual bustle of Mr. Plipharpy and his 
 two* obsequious assistants, there seemed quite confusion 
 enough for any place. Yet it was all pleasant. The 
 breeze drew faintly into the room through the open win 
 dows from the water, and felt in a degree refreshing. 
 
 Mr. Hipharpy the host of the occasion wore no 
 jacket, though he had spread a little white apron before 
 him ; and being, moreover, so much taken up with getting 
 the things on the table, he scarcely took time to observe 
 whether that day had brought him any new customers 
 or not. He had a bald, and rather venerable crown, and 
 his round and protruding forehead shone like glass. A 
 beady perspiration stood on his knobby temples, the 
 legitimate effect of the exertions incident to the noon 
 day meal. When nothing else engaged him, he went
 
 234 CHOWDER AND CHARITY. 
 
 with a brisk step up and down the length of the table, 
 driving knots and herds of flies before him with a feathery 
 brush that he wielded with great dexterity. 
 
 Many an eye, that had before then looked the terrific 
 dangers of the deep right in the face, was fixed with equal 
 concern npon the movements of the landlord then. Many 
 a dry mouth watered, waiting for the expectant signal. 
 One spoke to another of his several choices in the matter 
 of fish, and fowl, and flesh ; and added random opinions 
 regarding vegetables, and the modes of cooking them ; 
 yet for no single moment was the person of Mr. Hipharpy 
 suffered to go out of their sight. 
 
 Finally the word was given. 
 
 Has the reader ever seen a herd of buffalo but no ; 
 there is little likelihood of that. Let me drop simile, and 
 come close up to the reality. Well there was hardly 
 any such thing as arranging them in particular seats ; if 
 that had ever been the custom. Had all the waiting- 
 men of one of our hotel-palaces been mustered there in 
 force, their proffered services would have been blown 
 aside like very thistle-down in a wind-gust. Nobody 
 seated them ; they seated themselves. Nobody was at 
 hand to help them, for they helped themselves. Every 
 man fixed his eye fiercely on just what he thought he 
 wanted, and his quick hand followed close after. 
 
 Gabriel's friend had secured a seat apiece for them 
 both, and they sat up at the feast with the others, the 
 sailor looking out that the boy got as good as the best, 
 and all he wanted. 
 
 How the gravy flew and spattered all around the large 
 tureen ! How the great white cod flapped their sides 
 in piecemeal, to be sure on every plate around the 
 board ! How the strong arms were crossed and recrossed 
 on their way to halibut, lobster, and flounder! And
 
 CHOWDER AND CHARITY. 235 
 
 then, if one could not help himself, he rose to his feet, 
 and, leaning far over the table, harpooned his fish with 
 his fork, and brought it up finally alongside ! 
 
 One would have been amused, too, to observe how 
 suddenly the noise had stopped. All conversation now 
 was quite at an end. Eating took precedence. The con 
 tinual clatter of knives, and forks, and plated spoons, 
 sounded like the" ring of clashing muskets and bayonets 
 in battle. No one seemed to mind his neighbor at 
 all. None thought of any thing but himself, and his 
 dinner. 
 
 Mr. Hipharpy hurried back occasionally from the lit 
 tle retreat of a closet to which he had betaken himself, 
 and glanced over the table to assure himself that nothing 
 went wrong ; and then plunged immediately into his re 
 tirement again. During the dinner-hour his face was al 
 ways redder than ever. The two assistants, however, 
 kept continually sailing at their leisure up and down 
 the long shores of the table, albeit very little demand 
 seemed to be made for their services. 
 
 The board itself furnished a conglomerated scene. To 
 enumerate the kinds and varieties of fish there were upon 
 it, or the numerous methods approved and otherwise 
 of their preparation, would necessarily lay under contri 
 bution the descriptive talents of an eminent chef du 
 cuisine himself. To tell how many said they preferred 
 clams to chowder and how many chowder to lobster 
 and how many halibut to flounders and so on to the 
 end of the lengthening chapter, would be little less than 
 a hopeless and unsatisfactory labor. 
 
 At length one pushed back. And another. 
 
 " Ain't you goin' to take any pie, Jack ?" said a friend 
 to the next at his elbow. " I did n't see it." " Nor 
 pud'n' neither ?" " Ha ! ha ! I 'm a good deal better
 
 236 CHOWDER AND CHARITY. 
 
 off 'n I thought I was ! Of course I eat pies ; an' pud'n's 
 as well ! Hand over, will ye ?" 
 
 Little Gabriel could scarcely economize his time so 
 skillfully as to allow himself leisure for seeing all that his 
 eyes fairly ached to see, and for eating his dinner too ; 
 and the few and frequent words of the friend next him, 
 who seemed quite anxious to fat up his young protege at 
 a single meal, helped to interrupt very* seriously both 
 the course of his observations and of his appetite. 
 
 At about the winding up of the several fish courses, a 
 man who sat at one of the ends of the long table rose 
 in his place, and rapped briskly two or three times with 
 his knife-handle. Instantly a double row of expressive 
 eyes was directed toward him, all the heads leaning 
 down over their plates. 
 
 " Shipmates," said a pleasant-looking man, seeming 
 half sad and half humorous " I must tell you't I didn't 
 git up to try to speechify at all, for that 's what a feller 
 like me can't pretend to do ; but I 've come across some- 
 thin' I felt as though I wanted to tell ye about. It 's a 
 piece o' misery I 've seen raal right-down wretchedness, 
 that orter be 'tended to. When a storrn 's a brewin', 
 yer know, we take in sail. I 've seen a storm a-comin' 
 on a person lately, an' the sail all took in, too. But that 's 
 no help in this case. It 's a case 't wants relievin' ; an' 
 all I want to-day is to ask if you won't lend a feller a 
 helpin' hand. Shipmates, will yer do it, now?" 
 
 He paused. The eyes of the sturdy men went from 
 the face of the speaker to the faces of one another, and 
 the inquiry went round the table, in low voices " Who 
 is it ? Who is it ?" 
 
 "It's the case of a poor widder," continued he, finally, 
 " who 's been a-sewin' her life away for a man, and 's got 
 so fur reduced that she can't sew no more , and that 's
 
 CHOW DEE AND CHARITY. 237 
 
 jest all there is to it. The man orter help her himself 
 you '11 say. An' so he had. But he won't ; he 's too on- 
 nat'ral to do it ! He hain't got any soul, and so he '11 
 manage to escape what he 'd be sure to get otherwise. 
 But that 's neither here nor there. The poor woman 
 wants help ; and she wants it now, if she ever gits it. 
 Will ye all give us a lift ?" 9 
 
 At once every hard hand found its way to a pocket. 
 They no more thought of such a thing as suspecting the 
 perfect integrity of the speech-maker than men on 'Change 
 would be guilty of omitting that performance in the case 
 of those who throng around them. 
 
 " I 've been and seen the case myself," he told them 
 again, " an' can certify it 's a reg'lar genooine ; there 's 
 no clap-trap, hocus-pocus about it at all. The woman's 
 on a bed that 's *most likely to be her death-bed. She 
 thinks so herself. All her comfort is jest one little girl, 
 her only daughter ; and she is a grief to her mother be 
 cause she can't see what 's to become of her. But I 'm a- 
 goin' to try an' look arter that myself. Only for now, 
 help me relieve the sufferin' of this poor sick woman, an' 
 it '11 come round all right." 
 
 A murmur of voices arose on every side of him. 
 
 " I don't ask only for little," he added, " an' don't ex 
 pect any body here 's got very much to give, anyhow. 
 But jest let the heart have fair play for once, an' Heav'n 
 '11 make it all right in the end in poor Jack's account, I 
 know ! Here 's my hat ; an' here 's two silver dollars. 
 Pass her round ! Pass her round !" 
 
 As he clinked his hard money in the hat he handed it 
 to his neighbor, who performed a like operation and 
 then passed it on. It made the entire circuit of the 
 table. It would have done a man's heart good to see the 
 pleasure those sunburnt, hardy men seemed to take in
 
 238 CHOWDER AND CHARITY. 
 
 heaping up a little store for the sick widow. The hat 
 came back to its starting-point again. With moisture 
 making a film in his eyes, the man thanked them the best 
 way he could in his homely words, promising to bring 
 them a full report of the effect of their benevolence at 
 no distant time. 
 
 And here was a blessed deed of charity done without 
 any of the parade of committees, or of the ostentation 
 of proud benevolence done in the purlieus of wharves, 
 and slips, and narrow alleys done in broad noon-day, in 
 the dining-room of a sailor's eating-house ! There was 
 no cold calculation in it, as if every chance was to be 
 counted off on the ends of one's fingers before the step 
 could be taken ; there was none of the politic hesitation 
 about it that chills before it warms and makes glad ; it 
 was only the spontaneousness of generous impulses flow 
 ing directly out of human and healthy hearts ! 
 
 Gabriel's friend led him along back with him as far as 
 he went, asking him all sorts of plain questions about his 
 mode of life, and exhibiting to the boy a great deal of 
 the sympathy for which he so much hungered. " At any 
 rate," said he, as they parted on the corner, " you know 
 where you can git a good^ dinner, any day you want one, 
 don't ye ? Jest whenever you feel hungry in the street, 
 my lad, if it 's about this time o' day, come over and stan' 
 in the door of the Bread Basket, and wait till you see 
 me ! Will you do that?" 
 
 Promising compliance, though he hardly knew what he 
 did do or say, he turned to see his mysterious friend swing 
 his stout arms down a hot and dirty street, and then lost 
 himself once more in the crowds and echoes that make 
 the never-ceasing, never-silent ground-swell of the life of 
 the metropolis. 
 
 He could hardly help comparing Isaac with such men
 
 CHOWDER AND CHARITY. 239 
 
 as he saw that day at dinner ; and wondered why it was 
 that he, being apparently no poorer than they, should 
 choose to follow such a strange mode of life as he did, 
 when honest labor, in honest sunshine, was as ready for 
 him as for any one of them. And pondering and wander 
 ing, the afternoon slipped wholly away, and his heart sunk 
 within him as he thought of the report he must that night 
 make to the man who mistakenly called himself the boy's, 
 protector. If vultures are protectors over lambs, then 
 was Isaac one over the lamb he had inveigled within the 
 easy reach of his terrible talons.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 
 
 WHILE Mr. Dandelly was right in the midst of his 
 search for something to say in favor of Mr. Holliday, 
 flapping the leaves of his romance to and fro without a 
 thought or an idea in his head, the latter gentleman 
 himself stepped across the piazza. Dandelly looked up. 
 "Who's that?" said he, as if he were alarmed about 
 something. But before either of the girls could make 
 him any answei', even had such been their inclination, 
 their visitor entered the room. 
 
 " There," said he, laying a fragrant bunch of wild- 
 flowers into the lap of Martha ; " you must n't quarrel 
 over them, now ! I could n't stay to divide them. You 
 must do that yourselves. Do you think you really can ?" 
 
 " This is Mr. Dandelly," said Mary, her eyes kindling 
 with a frolicsome feeling, while she pointed ever so 
 slightly in the direction of their guest. " You are well 
 acquainted with him, Mr. Holliday, I believe ? At least 
 he claims a pretty close kind of an acquaintance !" 
 
 The young author looked at the other, who was now 
 timidly advancing a step or two to meet him, and merely 
 bowed : it was a nod of the slightest degree of recogni 
 tion in the world. Dandelly, who had unfortunately half 
 thrust out his hand, saw at once the propriety of pulling 
 it in again ; which he did not without some little tremor
 
 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 241 
 
 on the part of that member, and then resumed his seat. 
 His color had suddenly changed, and his whole manner 
 become embarassed. Neither of the girls felt any partic 
 ular desire to relieve him of the troublesome topic of his 
 talk, but waited and watched to see him properly support 
 the remarks he had but a moment before been indulging 
 in with such flippancy. 
 
 " Just reading your book, Mr. Holliday," said he, quite 
 obsequiously, and trying to regain his equanimity with a 
 forced smile. 
 
 "Ah !" said the young author, looking from him to the 
 girls, while he sat down near the table, "how did you 
 know it was mine ?" 
 f " Oh, but the young ladies told me !" 
 
 " Yes," said Mary ; " and from his conversation one 
 might have been led to think he knew all about it even 
 before we gave him the information." 
 
 "Why so?" inquired Mr. Holliday, with a pleasant 
 look in his face. 
 
 " Oh, he seemed to be so perfectly acquainted with 
 you," said Macy ; " I thought of course you must have 
 let him into the secret long ago." 
 
 " I don't know," rejoined the young author ; " I think 
 our acquaintance must be very slight at the best. Really, 
 I can not say I have had the pleasure of " 
 
 " You know I called down at your place ?" broke in 
 Dandelly r eager to get out of it now. 
 
 " When was that ?" coolly inquired the other. 
 
 " Well once when you was to work in your garding, 
 you know " 
 
 " Urn !" said Mr. Holliday, trying to think of it all. 
 If truth were tp be told, the reader must know that to 
 the mind of the young man the person and the manners 
 of this brainless fop were as odious as is possible to be 
 
 11
 
 242 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 
 
 imagined. He felt there was no such thing as putting up 
 with him. His presence irispired thorough disgust, and 
 nothing less. There was such an easy impudence about 
 him, such cool effrontery,'so much of that peculiar quality 
 that never feels rebuked, simply because it hardly knows 
 what a rebuke is like the sturdy bravery of some sol 
 diers, that is never vanquished because it is so ignorant 
 of what that word means that it required quite the full 
 aid and comfort of all the cardinal virtues, with patience 
 at their head, to even so much as put up with him. This 
 idea had entered Arthur Holliday's head from the first 
 interview. 
 
 " And I come to see you, you know, Mr. Holliday," 
 went on the creature more eagerly still, " when you was 
 out" 
 
 They laughed aloud at that the idea of growing inti 
 mate with a man by calling on him when he was not at 
 home. 
 
 " And and and a good many other times," added he, 
 rather confusedly. 
 
 " Yes," returned the author, slowly and after a pause ; 
 " I think I don't remember." 
 
 The eyes of Mr. Dandelly were twinkling industriously. 
 Bold as he was, and unscrupulous as he sometimes was in 
 expedients, for once he was forcibly struck with the idea 
 that he had found his match. He felt that he had got 
 into a corner. " If I had only gone out five rninutes be 
 fore," thought he ; " but it 's too late now to think of that ! 
 I '11 make the best of 't, and get away as quick as I can !" 
 
 So putting on a countenance of more assurance, he was 
 about to venture some kind and patronizing remark about 
 the book he still kept in his hand, when he was forestalled 
 by Mary herself, who was wicked enough to say to Mr. 
 Holliday 
 
 **
 
 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 243 
 
 " Mr. Dandelly was just reruai-king, before you came 
 in, that he had n't a very high opinion of your talents ! 
 Were you aware that he was a critic, before ?" 
 
 " No, I was n't, indeed." 
 
 " Miss Rivers ! Miss Rivers, now !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Dandelly, half playfully, but a good big half petulantly. 
 
 " Sir ?" said Mary, affecting much seriousness and dig 
 nity. 
 
 " It 's hardly fair to do that ! I don't think it is, now !" 
 
 " I like to have my friends acquainted with all the just 
 and enlightened criticisms that are passed upon them," 
 added she, as relentless as Fate itself. 
 
 " It 's a good plan, I think myself," assented Martha, 
 perfectly satisfied with the merited punishment she saw 
 going on. 
 
 " I believe you said, sir, did you not," continued Mary, 
 directing her question to the victim present, " that you 
 had n't much opinion of these writers scribblers was 
 what you called them that wrote such trifling things as 
 stories ?" 
 
 He begged with his eyes that she would keep silent ; 
 but she went on : 
 
 " You said you could write as well yourself, I think, if 
 you had but pen, ink, and paper, and were not too lazy ; 
 was n't it something like that you said, eh ?" 
 
 " Yes, it was it was," answered Martha. 
 
 "Well, and I could, I really believe," he blustered, 
 hoping to take off the edge of the satire a little. 
 
 Mr. Holliday sat and enjoyed it. He said little or 
 nothing, and there was no need of it. The girls were 
 abundantly able to manage the case alone. 
 
 " How strange you do not turn your attention to liter 
 ature !" said Mary. "Do pray take the big bushel off 
 your light, and let the world have the benefit of its shine !"
 
 244 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 
 
 Ho laughed with the rest he did not know why. 
 
 " Perhaps your time is too much occupied otherwise ?" 
 suggested Martha. 
 
 " Well, I am kep' rather busy, I allow," said he, wip 
 ing the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 " Yes, but could n't you just squeeze out an hour or so 
 each day, that people might have the benefit of your pro 
 ductions in an intellectual way ?" 
 
 " An hour, Mary !" exclaimed her sister ; why, that 's 
 absolutely throwing time away ! Half of that a quarter 
 of it, you know, would be quite as much as is needed !" 
 
 " I like your book, Mr. Holliday," broke out the un 
 easy fop, directing his expressiveless eyes to the young 
 author. "That is, if it is yours; and the ladies say it 
 is!" 
 
 " But you seemed to think only a few moments ago," 
 persisted Mary, " that you did n't like Mr. Holliday's 
 writings ; nor Mr. Holliday himself, for that matter ; 
 did n't he, Mat ?" 
 
 " I 'in sure one would certainly have thought so, if 
 any thing at all was to be thought about it," replied her 
 ready sister. 
 
 " There, now, how can you say, Mr. Dandelly, that you 
 like the book ? Besides, you 've never read it at all ! 
 How can you judge of a work till you have at least paid 
 it the compliment of looking it over ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, no," said he, quickly, catching at the tiniest 
 straw that floated near him, "I don't mean that I had 
 read it ! You doia't understand me, Miss Rivers ; you 
 don't understand me, I see !" 
 
 " I 'm afraid I do not, really," said she. 
 
 " I meant, you know " 
 
 " No, I don't know." 
 
 " That I liked the looks of the book ; now you know
 
 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 245 
 
 f 
 
 that was what I meant, and all I meant ; and the title 
 struck me, too." 
 
 "Yes," suggested Martha, looking at Mr. Holliday, 
 who had buried his burning face in the bunch of wild 
 flowers that he snatched up again ; " yes, but you thought 
 that it was a waste of material, as it was; for you wondered 
 how people could fancy a book that had n't gilt edges !" 
 
 " Cornered ! Floored ! Com-plete-ly down !" whis 
 pered Mr. Dandelly's dismayed heart to itself. 
 
 "Do you know the botany names of all them wild 
 flowers you 've got in your hand, Mr. Holliday ?" asked 
 he, struggling only to change the subject, he cared noth 
 ing how abruptly. 
 
 "Well, no, I can't say that I do, sir; I can give you 
 their Yankee names, however." 
 
 " Oh, I s'pose I know them already. Be there very 
 many flowers in the woods this season ? I declare I 've 
 been so busy with myself that I ha'n't hardly had time 
 to go into the woods ! It 's ray delight though when I 
 can find good company to go with !" 
 
 " Is it ? Yes," slowly returned Mr. Holliday, again 
 plunging in among the laurels, honeysuckles, wild roses, 
 anemones, and what-nots that helped swell the bunch. 
 
 " You don't find much company hereabouts, I think 
 you said once ?" remarked Mary, determined to give him 
 no rest yet. 
 
 " Very little, very little, I assure you. Dreadful dull 
 all round here ; never got into such a place ; place pleas 
 ant enough, but nobody in it ; declare wish there was 
 more folks like you here ; soon be lively in such a w case 
 as that ! But you see I shan't stay here long. I 've got 
 one or two short visits to make round among my friends ; 
 and then, says I, away for Saratogy ! Wish you was all 
 goin' ! Why can't you ?"
 
 246 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 
 
 
 
 " If you 'd only promise to show us about there," said 
 Mary, half laughing. 
 
 " I would !" spoke he, very emphatically. " I would ! I 'd 
 show you all the lions there be there, every one of 'em !" 
 
 " You are really very kind, sir," returned Martha, " but 
 we shall unfortunately be obliged to stay among the 
 lambs out here this summer! I have no doubt your ser 
 vices would be invaluable to any one, however." 
 
 " No, nor I," added Mary. 
 
 " Oh, well," returned he, laying down the book and 
 getting up himself, " I guess I shall have to get down to 
 the village again, if I think of gettin' to the Springs ; so 
 I must bid you good day. With a wave of his hat, " Mr. 
 Holliday, I shall be very glad to call on you agin, when 
 ever you '11 be at home ; I 'd like to go into your room, 
 and look over your books, and git a little better ac 
 quainted generally, you know ; " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I think I know, sir !" shiveringly replied 
 the other, while he shrugged his shoulders as a sort of 
 signal for the girls to laugh. 
 
 " And I hope you '11 let me introduce you to my friends, 
 the Laws, some day, ladies," he added, addressing the 
 girls, who could not keep their countenances sufficiently 
 to look him in the face. " You '11 like them, I know ! 
 Good-day ! good-day !" 
 
 And he slid and slipped out .thro ugh the door. 
 
 If ever mortals were rejoiced over a welcome riddance, 
 these sisters were over the departure of their most un 
 welcome guest. 
 
 "Now I hope he'll know enough to understand that 
 he 's not wanted here," said Mary. 
 
 " He won't," said Martha. 
 
 " No, that 's what he won't," added Arthur, with earn 
 estness. "I'll venture to say that he'll be hanging
 
 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 247 
 
 around me within a week. He 's one of that class of 
 acquaintance that you can't pull off, nor shake off. He 's 
 astenacious as a very leech ; and his visits are quite as 
 exhausting to one. But let's drop that subject, I think 
 he has gone through his share already." 
 
 Chatting now on flowers and now on books, the girls 
 proposed to walk down to Mr. Holliday's little box some 
 pleasant morning, and see his garden beds, walks, flowers, 
 and so forth. It was something that they had had in 
 contemplation for a long time, and now for the first time 
 dared to mention. 
 
 . "The flower beds !" exclaimed Arthur, smiling. "The 
 garden walks ! I don't know what you '11 think of them, 
 I 'm sure. They are just to ..keep my leisure employed, 
 and to give me a little exercise. As for the beauty you '11 
 find about them, I think it 's nothing but simple nature." 
 
 " And that 's always beauty enough," chimed in Mar 
 tha. 
 
 " Yes, I like nothing as well as nature. Art can hardly 
 expect to improve upon it It may possibly set off a bit 
 of natural beauty to a little better advantage ; but that is 
 all it can do." 
 
 " And we sha'n*t be satisfied with looking at your gar 
 den only," said Mary. " We 're something of the mind 
 of your very intimate friend, Mr. Dandelly ; we shall 
 want to" look into your study, and see where you do your 
 work." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes !" assented Martha, enthusiastically. 
 
 " You certainly shall be welcome," said Arthur ; " but 
 let me warn you not to put your expectation too high. 
 I 've got nothing but a little crib down there ; a plain 
 room with two small windows, and a table and chairs. 
 You '11 not be long looking over my books, either ; I can 
 almost count them to you now on my fingers' ends. But
 
 248 HIGHLY ENTERTAINING. 
 
 if you come you may depend on my doing what I can to 
 entertain you." 
 
 " May we ? may we ?" eagerly returned Martha, her 
 eyes sparkling. " Then I shall ask to have you read 
 us some of your manuscripts !" 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes !" added her sister. " By all means !" 
 
 " I don't know about " 
 
 "Ah! ah, sir! but your promise now! We shall in 
 sist, depend upon it ! You promise to entertain us in the 
 best way you can ; and we propose to have you read 
 some of your own productions to us, as being the best 
 way we can think of. Now what else can you possibly 
 do but keep your word? We '11 hold you to it ! We '11 
 hold you to it, won't we, Mary ?" 
 
 They persisted stoutly ; and after proper protestation, 
 and entreaty even, he was obliged to yield. And they 
 looked forward to the time with eagerness when they 
 should enjoy the agreeable sight of an author reading his 
 manuscript aloud, in his own little study, surrounded with 
 an atmosphere all his own. 
 
 Perhaps but few would think it a matter of such pe 
 culiar interest, however, in these millennial days when al 
 most every other reader is an author himself!
 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 COUSINS. 
 
 IT happened to be just about this very time, too, that 
 Henry Dollar the son and idol of that miserably rich 
 man, Jacob Dollar, and cousin of Duncan Morrow, as has 
 been already narrated concluded to pay another of his 
 visits, often repeated of late, to Miss Ellen Worthington. 
 Not that it may, as a necessary consequence, be under 
 stood that he occupied a post of special favor or regard, 
 in her eyes ; for that was what very few indeed could 
 really expect 'to do 4ier favorites being rare and care 
 fully chosen. Yet thus far he had been allowed to call 
 by a sort of sufferance on her part. One of her friends 
 had introduced him into the house, rather yielding to the 
 young man's importunities- than to his own satisfied 
 judgment, and in this manner he had smuggled himself 
 into what he boasted of as being an intimate acquaintance 
 with her. 
 
 What his hopes were, he had carefully kept to himself. 
 If he was possessed of any thing like expectations in this 
 direction, no one knew it. Having effected what he had 
 by the interposition of a friend, he deemed it unnecessary 
 that he should further expose Iris purposes to any one. 
 
 " Henry," his father said to him now and then, for he 
 had got an inkling somehow of what was going on, 
 " Henry, I hope you know how to manage these matters 
 
 11*
 
 250 COUSINS. 
 
 skillfully. You need n't be in any great hurry ; but be 
 very careful, mind you, to keep any body else from get 
 ting before you ! Be on the look out for that !" 
 
 So of course the young man watched sharp and nar 
 rowly. His heart w^| not specially enlisted, but his self 
 ishness was. 
 
 Having entered on his plans, whatever they might be, 
 nothing was so deeply and thoroughly aroused as his am 
 bition. Conceited to a pitch that is not fairly describ- 
 able, he counted on nothing less than the complete reali 
 zation of his wishes. Defeat, nay, even delay, was a 
 contingency for which his mind made no provision. He 
 suffered himself to look at but a single side of the subject, 
 and that the side to which he had married his hope and 
 his selfishness. 
 
 Smartly dressed, therefore, and very highly perfumed, 
 he was on his way, in the evening, to Ellen's house. " It 's 
 not too late, I hope," said he to himself, as he reached a 
 corner not far from the locality, *and took out his gold 
 watch. The light from the gas-lamp fell on the dial, and 
 he saw the hour. 
 
 " Nine o'clock, hey ? Later than I thought ! How 
 ever, sha' n't stay very long !" and he thrust the watch 
 back into the fob, and regarded carefully all the houses 
 along the street till he reached the one he was about to 
 enter. Arriving at the foot of the flight of stone steps, 
 he descried an individual at that moment coming leisurely 
 down. His eyes widened, for he saw that the stranger 
 was a gentleman. 
 
 " Who can that be, now ?" went through his mind, quick 
 as lightning. 
 
 He waited till he came down and stood in the blaze of 
 the lamp ; and then, shading his eyes carefully with his 
 hand, he gazed exactly into the other's face. The latter
 
 COUSINS. 251 
 
 stopped likewise, undoubtedly incited to do so by the 
 perfect coolness of him who was scanning him. 
 
 " Ah ! yes ! I see now !" said young Dollar, in a tone 
 of affected contemptuousness. 
 
 "Do you?" replied the other, without any apparent need 
 of affecting the contempt he so thoroughly felt. " One 
 would think you found it rather a difficult matter to see." 
 
 " I think I 've seen you before, at all events," remarked 
 Dollar. " It 's not so very difficult to recognize you, I 
 can tell you. You 've been calling here ?" 
 
 " Suppose I have ? What follows ? Yes, as you say, 
 you have seen me before. You confess that yourself. 
 I 'm to be seen, sir, by daylight, very often. 
 
 "Morrow? Duncan? That's your name,* I think?" 
 
 " Quite at your service. I write that name, with the 
 last name first, however, very often in my hats." - 
 
 " Facetious, eh ? Demme, but who 'd have thought 
 it ? You came out of this house, I believe ?" 
 
 " Well, what of that ? You appeared to have found it 
 out before I reached the bottom step. Yes, I did come 
 out of there ! I want to know what follows !" 
 
 " You 've been in there to see Miss Worthington Miss 
 Ellen a very particular friend of mine? You have, 
 have n't you ?" 
 
 " Upon my word, I have n't fallen in with so ready a 
 guesser, this many a day ! I declare, I must confess you 
 quite surprise me !" 
 
 " Do I, though ? Demme ! but I '11 do that thing for 
 you yet in another way ! You sha' n't call this the last 
 time ! It 's nothing to what shall come !" 
 
 " Always at your service, I suppose you understand," 
 said Duncan. 
 
 " Perhaps you sometimes think of it, that you have the 
 honor of being a cousin of mine ?"
 
 252 COUSINS. 
 
 " It seems to me," returned Duncan, " that I have been 
 made aware of some such unpleasant accident of birth. 
 But what of that ? I hope you are not going to presume 
 too much on my acquaintance, just in consequence. I 
 could n't very well help it, you know ! All I can do is to 
 make the best of it !" 
 
 "Help it!" sneered the galled dandy. "Help it! 
 Demme now ! If I no ! accident of birth ! help it ! 
 Demnition blast these country upstarts, that try to creep 
 into better men's places ! They ought to be taught their 
 place !" and he turned half away, in the tempest of his 
 disgust. 
 
 " If you design to begin any educational teachings with 
 upstarts, Mr. Dollai'," returned Duncan, perfectly cool 
 and self-possessed," may I not be allowed to suggest that 
 you -inaugurate the process with yourself? That is 
 ground that you can have perfect liberty to travel over ; 
 and be assured besides, no one will molest you on it ! 
 Good-night, sir ! I really must not delay^ny longer." 
 
 And before the other could collect his scattered 
 thoughts, exploded as they all were by his blast of pas 
 sion, Duncan had left him standing there quite alone. 
 
 Excited more than he thought he could be, by an inter 
 view that had such an unsatisfactory termination for him, 
 he dashed up the flight of steps, and violently rung the 
 bell. 
 
 It so happened that Ellen herself had waited on Dun 
 can to the door, and held it a little ajar as he went down 
 the steps ; and when she unexpectedly caught the sound 
 of his voice in conversation with another person, she very 
 naturally continued to hold the door open to see who it 
 was, and what it meant. Perhaps she was a little anxious. 
 But as soon as she made the discovery that the second 
 person was only Mr. Henry Dollar knowing somewhat
 
 COUSINS. 253 
 
 by this time of the peculiar relations that subsisted be 
 tween the two cousins she continued a listener to the 
 end. And just as she saw Duncan turn abruptly away, 
 she softly shut the door, and slipped oif into the sitting- 
 room with a flushed fuse and a beating heart. 
 
 A moment after the ringing of the door-bell, Mr. Dol 
 lar, the younger, was ushered by the female servant into 
 the presence of Ellen, and accosted her with what grace 
 and self-possession he happened to be master of. Ellen 
 received him as politely as she could, though any but 
 he would have been chilled through with her indiffer 
 ence. It was not haughtiness, for that quality did not 
 legitimately belong to her nature ; it was nothing but 
 sheer indifference. She feigned nothing at all. 
 
 It naturally took the young man some time to compose 
 himself, after his late excitement ; and he talked almost 
 alone of the weather, the last opera, and himself. 
 
 Ellen regarded him with a searching look now and 
 then ; and each time the recollection of the conversation 
 just had on the walk flashed over her mind, she could 
 not keep down the rising feeling of absolute disgust that 
 sought to control her. 
 
 " I little thought it was so late, Miss Worthington," 
 said he. " It was my intention to call before ; but one 
 thing or another delayed me. The evenings at this time 
 of the year slip away so rapidly !" 
 
 "Undoubtedly you attended to what you considered 
 the most important matters first," she returned. " Some 
 persons always make it a point to do so, business people 
 especially !" 
 
 " Ah, no, Miss "Worthington ! No, indeed ! Do not 
 mistake my meaning, I beg of you." 
 
 " What could your meaning be, then, pray ? I 'm sure
 
 254 COUSINS. 
 
 you seemed to express youielf very plainly. How did 
 you mean, sir ?" 
 
 Unaccustomed to group his mental resources together 
 for any decided and energetic effort, he plunged into an 
 answer to her question entirely at random, floundering 
 along through in the best way he could. 
 
 " Oh, nothing at all, Miss Worthington ! Nothing more 
 than that I was delayed I stopped here and there with 
 a friend all very common, you know nothing at all out 
 of the way for any body to do, even when they are going 
 on highly important business certainly nothing disre 
 spectful to you, Miss Miss " 
 
 " Yes, I think I understand you," interrupted Ellen. 
 " I was sure I did before." 
 
 For a moment he felt flat. What that peculiar state 
 of feeling might have been in Mr. Dollar's breast, perhaps 
 could not be so well asserted ; but readers generally will 
 appreciate an expression conveying to their minds a 
 mixed-up idea of a sensation composed about equally of 
 being " all-over-ish" and " down." 
 
 He recovered, however, as all light bodies Avill recover 
 in good time, and began upon another topic. 
 
 " Met an individual just now," said he, " right on the 
 walk here. Rather startled me." 
 
 Waiting for Ellen to make some sign of interest in his 
 narrative, but to no effect, he added again 
 
 " In fact, he was coming right down your own steps ! 
 I stopped, and he stopped ; and we looked each other 
 straight in the face. I 'd seen him before, you must 
 know, and I happen to be pretty well informed about 
 him. I must confess, though, I was a good deal surprised 
 to see him coming from here ! Had he called on you ?" 
 
 w I am willing to answer your question, Mr. Dollar : a 
 gentleman has called here this evening."
 
 COUSINS. 255 
 
 "And just gone?" ,4 
 
 " Only a few moments ; yes." 
 
 " It was Mr. Duncan Morrow ?" he still pursued. 
 
 Ellen was vexed ; yet she kept her feelings under con 
 trol. " Yes," she finally answered ; " it was." 
 
 " You are acquainted with him, then ?" 
 
 " You might well judge so, I should think, from his 
 coming here. Yes, I am acquainted with him ; quite 
 well acquainted with him." 
 
 " Yes yes," he replied, smoothly and deliberately. " I 
 was going to say that I felt pretty well acquainted with 
 him myself!" 
 
 " So I should think you ought to be," said she. " It 
 would be a very strange thing if you were -not." 
 
 " Why would it be such a very strange thing, Miss 
 Worthington ? I think I don't exactly understand you, 
 do I?" 
 
 " You are cousins, are you not ?" asked she. 
 
 His face colored. " How should you know that, now ?" 
 said he, off his guard a little. s " I declare ! Who told 
 you, Miss Worthington ?" 
 
 '' Suppose I choose to keep all such matters to myself? 
 what then ?" 
 
 " Oh, well-; oh, nothing ! nothing, I 'm sure ! But if 
 he is my cousin" and here the black blood began to do its 
 work in his veins " even if he is my cousin, I can't say that 
 we have any personal acquaintance ! Thatj's a thing I " 
 
 " Yes ; but you just now said you knew him thor 
 oughly !" she persisted. 
 
 " And so I do ; but it 's not by personal intimacy, let 
 me tell you ! It 's only what I 've heard of him through 
 my own father, for instance !" 
 
 " Ah !" returned she ; " then there is probably some 
 good reason for this coolness between you ?"
 
 256 COUSINS. 
 
 " Of course there is !" he said, eagerly. " You must 
 have seen that in a moment, for yourself! The fact is, 
 Miss Worthington " he grew confidential " I know 
 this cousin of mine so well, that I I I can't allow my 
 self a-h ! a-h ! really, I could n't think of of hav 
 ing " and right there he stuck fast. 
 
 Ellen, however, offered no remark. She was sick of the 
 spectacle of which chance had made her an unwilling ob 
 server. 
 
 " The truth is, Miss Worthington," continued he, leap 
 ing clear out of the tangle of his former sentence, "I don't 
 myself imagine that he knows who he calls on when he 
 comes here to this house ! In fact, I know he don't ; and 
 I took it upon niyself to tell him as much, as I met him 
 but just now down at the foot of the steps! Possibly 
 you don't yet know much of him yourself, do you ?" 
 
 " Really, Mr. Dollar," she answered, with increasing 
 collectedness, "I must say that you are uncommonly 
 thoughtful for me ! uncommonly so ! For the future, 
 however, let me beg that you do not put yourself to quite 
 so much trouble ! I trust you won't, sir !" 
 
 " It 's no trouble, Miss Worthington, to do what one 
 considers nothing but his duty to his friends. I merely 
 thought I would warn you a little, you know put you on 
 your guard somewhat for the future. Nothing more than 
 this, I assure you. I certainly hope you '11 excuse me for 
 what I 've done ; it 's all in the way of friendship, you 
 know. I see plain enoug~h that you can't know who and 
 what this individual is. I do ! I know him clear through ! 
 He 's my own cousin, you see !" 
 
 " Yes ; but I should be the very last to suspect such a 
 relationship," returned she, satirically. 
 
 " Eh ?" said he, obtusely ; " should n't you suspect it, 
 though? shouldn't you? Well, I believe in my heart
 
 COUSINS. 257 
 
 that nobody else would, either ! But I 'm quite at liberty 
 to say of him being my cousin that he is n't fit to go 
 into ladies' society ! That 's what he is n't !" 
 
 " So far as his admission into this house is concerned," 
 replied she, " I trust, Mr. Dollar, that you will allow me 
 still to remain my own judge." 
 
 " Oh, certainly certainly ! I did n't think for one 
 moment to interfere where I had no right to ! nothing 
 of that kind, let me assure you !" he answered, in perfect 
 confusion. 
 
 " I am myself very happy to say of Mr. Morrow," con 
 tinued Ellen, with decisiveness, " that whatever you may 
 think of him, I regard him as a perfect gentleman !" 
 
 " Um !" was the only sign of life he gave under this. 
 
 "Furthermore," went on the now thoroughly indig 
 nant girl, " whoever you may imagine I allow to call on me 
 in my own house, I am hardly in the habit yet of receiving 
 visits of this character. I am not willing to be made a 
 common recipient of the slanders of others, whether 
 cousins or not. I regard it as no flattery at all to my 
 own tastes, whatever it may argue for my principles. It 
 is but a very poor estimate of my character in any light. 
 And as such is the case, Mr. Dollar," she was rising to 
 her feet " I shall take this opportunity both to bid you 
 good-evening and to assure you that further calls from 
 you will not be at all agreeable to me." 
 
 And with these calm but emphatic words, majestically 
 as a queen, she walked out of the room and disappeared. 
 
 It was quite a minute before the crushed young ad 
 venturer knew where or what he was. He could have" 
 gladly called on the rocks and the mountains to fall on 
 him or the floor to open beneath his feet and swallow 
 him up out of sight. He saw nothing he heard noth 
 ing he knew nothing. His brain swam ; his eyes glared
 
 258 COUSINS. 
 
 and rolled wildly about in his head. He sat like one in 
 the mazes of a deep dream that had suddenly closed all 
 around him in the final clutch of a secret power from 
 which he had no longer any hope of escape. 
 
 The words of his father recurred to him never to al 
 low himself to be supplanted by another ; and remember 
 ing what was done, his blood boiled within him furiously. 
 When he came quite to himself again he saw that he "was 
 left alone. Rising hastily to his feet, he gnashed his 
 teeth and clenched his hands in a fury of passion ; and 
 muttering to himself, he rushed out swiftly through the 
 door. 
 
 " That d-e-v-i-1 !" exclaimed he, as he got to the hall- 
 door, striking his two hands together. " I '11 be even 
 with him, and this very night ! He can't do such a thing 
 as this and not feel my revenge ! yes, my revenge ! 
 That 's the word !" 
 
 On reaching the pavement his resolution seemed to 
 have taken perfect shape. He hurried along at an almost 
 frenzied pace, straight to a rendezvous where he ap 
 peared to be quite well acquainted ; and knocking softly 
 at a door in one of the upper rooms of a mean old build 
 ing, his heart beating violently against" his breast, he was 
 immediately waited on by an individual who, from the 
 alacrity of his movements, must have comprehended in a 
 moment the meaning of the appeal. 
 
 The door opened just enough to show the head of 
 Isaac Crankey, who peered into his visitor's face care 
 fully, and then with a whisper welcomed him in. 
 ' Isaac Crankey and Henry Dollar ! When the world 
 beholds the fusion of two such natures it may certainly 
 count on something being about to happen that will be 
 worth its attention !
 
 CHAPTEK XXVI. 
 
 i 
 
 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 
 
 LESS than an hour afterward, Henry Dollar having 
 ended the strange and mysterious interview, Isaac got up 
 from his chair, walked a few times as in deep thought 
 across the floor of the room, and finally bent down over 
 little Gabriel in the further cornr to see if he still Slept. 
 Yes, he slept. The sight' of that pale young face, with 
 the expression of anxiety and internal suffering set so 
 deeply upon it, should surely have awakened tenderer 
 feelings in the heart of him who was so rapidly enfolding 
 himself in the meshes of crime. But he felt no risings of 
 remorse none of conscience none of uneasiness even. 
 His face was as stony as his heai't. There was upon it 
 now that marble look of desperate resolution, that seemed 
 already to have petrified his entire nature. 
 
 Turning away from the sleeping boy he lit his pipe, and 
 went carefully out of the room. In the darkness he 
 groped his way along the entries and passages till he 
 found himself at the door of his intimate and confidant 
 the outcast Kate. 
 
 " Kate, old girl, I declare !" said he, as he opened sud 
 denly upon her. 
 
 " Well, Isaac," said she, pleasantly, in return, looking 
 up at him as he entered the apartment. 
 
 She was sitting in a low chair, with an old wooden 
 chest drawn out before her into the middle of the floor ; 
 
 i
 
 260 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 
 
 a candle burned dimly on the lid of the same, and by its 
 uncertain light she was engaged in examining the equally 
 uncertain colors of her little store of faded and worn-out 
 finery. Perhaps she had gone through this process a 
 hundred times before, yet it seemed to interest her just 
 as much, on each occasion of its repetition. Now she 
 held up a crushed and crumpled hat to the light, turning 
 it over and over and round and round in the course of 
 her examination. Now it was a bit of an exceedingly 
 broad and gaudy ribbon that she subjected to the test of 
 her examination, whose hues had so retreated into the 
 original groundwork, or had so perplexingly combined 
 themselves in the making-up of an anomalous color that 
 she knew nothing wh^t to think either of their com 
 plexion or their value. Again she flirted a scrap of a 
 shawl of some dazzling silk across her shoulders, and 
 arched her neck with a pride that was but mere mockery, 
 to see for herself how such things became her still. Or 
 she spread out some old dresses, once flashy, but now 
 faded, over her lap, and wondered if they would not yet 
 make a show for her somewhere in that obscure neigh 
 borhood. 
 
 And sitting there all alone this thoroughly degraded 
 being sought relief from her sterner thoughts in thus 
 trifling with the very insignia of her shame. 
 
 The entrance of Isaac, however, seemed to interrupt 
 her in her solitary occupation ; for immediately on his ac 
 costing her she looked up at him, hurriedly crowded and 
 jumbled all the articles together in both hands, and with 
 an activity that might truly be said to be peculiar to her 
 sex, swept them in a moment into the chest. It was 
 done almost before her 'companion could seat himself. 
 
 " Luck again, Kate !" said he, his eyes dilating as he 
 looked at her.
 
 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 261 
 
 " What ?" she inquired, with manifest interest in her 
 countenance. 
 
 "Ah but Kate! I've had a good leader lately! 
 Yes, an' I 've had it only this very night ! Only a few 
 minutes ago ! ~ I 've come right over here with it, you 
 see !" and he let his eyes go on sparkling with'his pleas 
 ure, while he drew out his pipe with all the energy of a 
 highly excited man. 
 
 " Now tell us what 'tis, Isaac !" said she, pleadingly. 
 " Tell us all about it !" 
 
 " Well, as for that, I did n't very well see how I could 
 help it, for I tell you a'most every thing ; but it 's to be 
 done only on one condition ; you know what that is I 
 guess !" 
 
 " What, Isaac ?" 
 
 " That what goes into your ears don't get out at your 
 mouth ! Do you understand?" 
 
 She turned upon him. a look of affected contempt, as if 
 she could not help pitying him for his want of faith in 
 her. " I tell !" sneered she, curling her lip. " You 
 don't know me, then ! No nor you never did !" 
 
 " But I don't kno^ as you ever was guilty o' 'peachin', 
 Kate," he returned, flatteringly. " I only wanted to put 
 you on your guard ! You promise, do ye ?" 
 
 " Not to tell ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that 's all." 
 
 She held up her right hand high above her head, as if 
 in the act of taking a solemn oath. The formula seemed 
 to be perfectly understood by her companion, who merely 
 nodded his head, and exclaimed in an undertone " All 
 right !" 
 
 " Now then, go on," said she, crossing her arms upon 
 her lap. " My ears are both open, you see." 
 
 " Very well ! Here it is, the whole on 't ; I v'e had a
 
 
 262 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 
 
 visit jest now from a flash ; a youngster ; a reg'lar wal, 
 you can guess what else. He thinks he knows a thing or 
 two ; but I can tell him that little Billy Bottles there 'd 
 tell him more 'n one day than he '11 ever learn for him 
 self in a fortnight !" 
 
 " He 's>raw, eh ?" asked Kate. v 
 
 " Somethin' so, he is ; but not very overmuch, though, 
 all told. But as I was a-goin' to tell ye, he 's come for a 
 job ! An' he's after me ! That 's all there 's about it." 
 
 " D' ye know who he is, Isaac ?" she interrogated, 
 dropping her voice still more. 
 
 " Know him ? Yis, an' so do you, Kate ! I know 
 him well ; and something consid'rable about his goin's 
 and doin's." 
 
 " Who is he, I wonder ? Who is he, Isaac ?" 
 
 " Why, it 's nobody but old Jacob Dollar's boy that 
 rich old wharf-rat, that don't care much what he does, 
 so he feathers his own nest nice an' warm ! Old Dollar, 
 you know, Kate, that walks sometimes as proud 's a bird 
 of a good deal finer feather! All money, ye see! It'll 
 run, jest like water ! Money makes things right, come 
 what will. An' money, Kate," added he, in a whisper 
 that in that half-lighted apartment seemed almost sepul 
 chral, " is jest what Isaac Crankey's after this blessed 
 minute! He 's been without it long enough! It must 
 be had, you see, no matter who pays the bills !" 
 
 " That 's all well enough," returned the woman ; " I 
 like that ; but what 'n the world 's the boy after ? So 
 young, you know ! And his father so well off! What is 
 there in this world to trouble such a one as him ? If 
 't was such a case as mine, now " 
 
 "Why, 1 ' said Isaac, drawing a little nearer to her, 
 " I 'II tell ye ; you must understan' that fust an' last, I 've 
 helped him a little, this very same youngster, jest as I
 
 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 263 
 
 have his father afore him ; and now all he wants is for 
 me to try hard for him at a new turn. This is it, Kate ; 
 an' you '11 keep it all to yourself, I know ; he 's got an 
 enemy, and that enemy happens to be a relation, too. 
 That 's what makes the matter so much the worse. 
 Strangest thing in the world to me how much stronger 
 these relations hate one another than only common folks 
 do ! There ain't no accountin' for 't, that ever I heerd 
 on ! Seems as if they 'd a good sight ruther tear one 
 another's hearts out, than live peaceably and quiet to 
 gether, if they could 's well 's not !" 
 
 "Has his relation damaged him any?'.' pursued Kate, 
 becoming further interested in the story. " Is 't a man 
 or a girl ?" 
 
 " It r s nobody but his own cousin, Kate his own blood 
 cousin ! That 's what he told me himself! And he hates 
 him, because he's right in his Avay! That's nat'ral 
 enough, too, for all 't I see. And now this is jest the 
 style the case stands in ; you know somethin' about law, 
 Kate, an' this is the law look of 't : Dollar versis Morrow 
 Isaac Crankey counsel for the plaintiff. T'other party 
 don't seem to have none ; manages his case for himself, 
 p'raps ; but we can tell better about that, by-'n-by." 
 
 " And Kate Trott, lawyer's clerk !" she screamed out, 
 with a silly laugh at her own sickly idea. 
 
 " Cert'n, if you wish ! CSrt'n I say to ye, Kate !" said 
 he, relapsing into sudden thoughtfulness, and dropping 
 his eyes to the floor. 
 
 " What does he want done for himself, Isaac ?" she 
 pursued, seeing him disposed to silence. u Can I be of 
 any help about it ? I never flinch, ye know, Isaac !" 
 
 " No, you can't," answered he. "I wish 't you could, 
 though. No, I know you never flinch, Kate ; I know 't 
 you allers stan' to the guns, till the last one's fired!
 
 264 ALL IK CONFIDENCE. 
 
 Give me you, for all any body else now ! I seem to know 
 jest where to find ye ! But I '11 tell ye what this young 
 chap wants to have done," he added. " He wants to 
 git this cousin o' his Morrow 's his name, you understan' 
 -jest put one side, out o' the way a little. Nothing 
 more 'n that." 
 
 " Not not. You don't mean, Isaac " 
 
 " Wai, I mean any thing a'most, so 's he only don't 
 come acros t' his track too often ! That 's what I mean." 
 
 " But, Isaac, you would n't you: Isaac " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I would ; I 'd do jest as I agreed to do, ex 
 actly ! If I ever begun to do a thing, I 'd carry her clean 
 out!" 
 
 " But you did n't agree to to to " 
 
 " Look here, now ; jest let me tell ye what I did agree 
 to, and then p'raps you '11 understan' me better." 
 
 She became a breathless listener. 
 
 " I told him this young Dollar that if he 'd fetch me 
 his own name Dollar, you see in silver an' gold, jest as 
 many times over as I was a mind to mark down for him 
 on a piece o' paper, I 'd stan' ready afterward to serve 
 him any Avay, and of coui'se the best way I could ! That's 
 jest the way 't was, an' no other. He didn't seem to 
 wait very long to give me an answer, though ; his young 
 blood was up. I 'd got eyes to see that plain enough ; 
 and he out pocket-book, an' chinked 'down the very 
 dovers I wanted right into my palm so ! an' here they 
 air, Kate, a-rattlin' together in my pocket now ! Don't 
 they jingle like pleasant music though ? You don't know 
 how warm an' nice they felt to my hand ! Worthy as he 
 is, Isaac Crankey hain't handled as much money 's that, 
 all in one heap wal, it 's been a good many, many weeks, 
 T can tell you !" 
 
 " Then you agreed ?" she added, very thoughtfully, for
 
 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 265 
 
 one who seemed to trifle with every thing in life, as she 
 did. 
 
 " By George ! but hain't I, though ? Hear that money 
 jingle agin ! That tells the story ! That 's your answer !" 
 
 The woman slowly shook her head. 
 
 " Mind now, Kate," said he, " I don't mean to do one 
 bit more 'n I 've fairly contracted to ; no, nor one whit 
 less, either. If I make out -with my job as well as he 
 wants me to, he 's a-goin' to come down handsum, so he 
 says ; an' '11 do the right thing by me. See 'f he don't !" 
 
 A second time she shook her head. 
 
 " What 's that for notv ?" he asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Prap's he may do the right thing by you ; but " 
 
 " Yes, an' he will ! I 'm not the one that 's at all 
 afeerd o' that ! He will do it !" 
 
 " But you look out," pursued she, " that you don't do 
 the wrong thing by him !" 
 
 " By him ? No, indeed, Kate ! It '11 be by somebody 
 else, I reck'n, that that '11 be done !" 
 
 " I 'm afraid so." 
 
 " What !" he exclaimed, starting suddenly. " 'T aint 
 possible that you 've turned ! Aint a-changin' your tune, 
 are you ? Kate, I don't understand ye ! I don't know 
 what ye mean !" 
 
 " I wouldn't go about this work," answered she. " I 
 would n't. There never '11 any good come of 't." 
 
 " What ! what ! WHAT !" cried he, three several times, 
 and each time more emphatically than before. 
 
 " I 'd let this business go, I say, Isaac," she persisted. 
 " I begin to be afraid of 't." 
 
 Nothing could well exceed his great surprise at hear 
 ing these few words from her lips. This was the very 
 last place in the world where he expected to have cold 
 water thrown over his project. It immediately repented 
 
 12
 
 266 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 
 
 him that he had been so confidingly foolish as to mention 
 the matter at all to her. 
 
 " P'raps you don't see fur enough ahead, Isaac !" said 
 she. " I say to ye agin, I would n't do this thing ; I 
 would n't." 
 
 " I will !" he pronounced, quite as energetically. " I 
 tell you now, once for all, I will !" 
 
 " No, I know you won't stop for nothin' now. You '11 
 go on till you '11 find you can't go no further. And then 
 what ? Who '11 ontie your hands then for ye ?" 
 
 He dropped his voice, and assumed a highly melo-dra- 
 matic style : 
 
 " The walls have got ears, girl ! If they had n't, I 
 could tell you that about this very same business that 'd 
 make your hair stan' upon end ! and about other business 
 too, that you've had ^ome o' the profits of a'ready. How 
 do you know what I've been concernin' myself about 
 this long, long time that 's gone by ? How '11 any body 
 ever know ? No, no, girl ; let me tell you that I keep 
 my own secrets after this ! I tell you nothing more, I 
 promise ye !" 
 
 As he delivered himself of these words, his lank body 
 was bent far forward, his right arm extended, his fore 
 finger pointed threateningly into the woman's face, and 
 his dark eyes seemed to retreat further within his head, 
 where they glowed as fiercely as fires blaze in gloomy 
 caverns. 
 
 " You never need be afeerd o' me, Isaac," said she, 
 soothingly. " Your secret's safe here, I can tell ye!" 
 
 " Do you think," returned he, with such slow and de 
 liberate accentuation of the syllables of each word as 
 made him look the native fiend, " do you think that if I 
 believed you was agoin' to let out my secret, you 'd ever 
 go out o' that door alive ag'in ? No !"
 
 ALL IN CONFIDENCE. 267 
 
 She fairly trembled beneath the strong influence of his 
 words. Yet she had the courage to say what still re 
 mained on her tongue to say. 
 
 " I would n't touch that money, Isaac. I believe there 's 
 blood on it !" 
 
 He only looked steadily in her face, making no reply. 
 
 " I 'd jest go an' carry it back," she added ; " and I 'd 
 wash my hands afterward too !" 
 
 " Carry it back !" sneered he, getting upon his feet 
 again. " I guess you '11 find Isaac Crankey never does a 
 raw thing like that, now ! If I did n't take it, why, Filly- 
 mug would ; and where 's the difPrence, I ask you ? 
 Carry 't back ! I ruther guess I shall !" 
 
 With this decisive expression of his feelings, he went 
 out through the door as quick, if not a great deal quicker, 
 than he came in. 
 
 After he was gone, Kate sat alone and thought the 
 matter over a long time ; but still she felt that she could 
 find no good reason for changing her opinion upon it.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 
 
 NEVER was there known a lovelier summer morning 
 than that on which Mary and Martha Rivers shut the 
 little gate of Mr. Holliday's yard upon themselves, and 
 slowly strolled up the limited walk to his miniature porch. 
 The door stood open, displaying a little seven-by-nine 
 rustic hall, whose floor was srjread with clean white mat 
 ting, and against whose white washed wall rested a lounge, 
 covered tidily with a pretty chintz. Around the two 
 square posts that held up the porch, wound the runners 
 and luxuriant shoots of a couple of white honeysuckles, 
 whose blossoms, snowing the masses of foliage from top 
 to bottom, breathed a, fragrance about the place that gave 
 it almost the air of a paradise. The sisters had hardly time 
 to exclaim in low voices respecting the many charms that 
 delighted their eyes, when Mr. Ilolliday himself came 
 hurriedly forward to meet them ; welcoming them to his 
 nest as he called it with much cordiality. 
 
 First he led them into the little parlor on the ground 
 floor, opening the windows and letting in the sweet airs 
 of the morning. They sat down and looked out over the 
 yard, admiring every thing. The room was small, and 
 very plainly furnished ; yet an air of refined taste was 
 visible in both the selection and arrangement of the fur- 
 niture, that betrayed in a moment the inner and truer in-
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 269 
 
 stincts of the occupant. Two pictures, rustio su-bjects, 
 adorned the low walls one a summer and the other a 
 winter piece. Over the shelf was a colored representa 
 tion of a platter of beautiful speckled trout ; and on the 
 mantel itself stood a basket of counterfeit fruit in wax, 
 with real flowers strewn tastefully over them. A table 
 was drawn into the middle of the floor, on which were 
 spread new books, a portfolio of engravings, and a hand 
 ful of hasty sketches of his own. And all this true refine 
 ment in an old wooden hou.se in the country, a story and 
 a half high, of a dark brown color, and squatted just under 
 the back of a hill ! 
 
 After satisfying themselves there, Martha proposed to 
 him to go into his study ; and Mary echoed the call with 
 earnestness. So up stairs be took them, and ushered 
 them into his diminutive chamber, where he said he kept 
 his handful of books, and performed all his labor. 
 
 A snugger place it was hardly possible to conceive. 
 The girls first expressed surprise, and then delight ; yet 
 there was nothing like a wealth of books in it, nor a super 
 abundance of furniture. A straw carpet covered the 
 floor, and a square deal table stood in the middle of the 
 room. On this were lying, in indiscriminate confusion, 
 books, manuscripts, pens, inkstand, and papers. Only a 
 few volumes had marshaled themselves on his many 
 shelves as yet, but his library was growing quite as fast 
 as he grew himself, and no faster. 
 
 " Now we 're going to have you read us what you 
 promised !" called Mary, eager -to enjoy all she could 
 command. "We've walked down this morning almost 
 on purpose !" 
 
 Arthur half protested. He was modest. He did not 
 like thus to parade himself before others. But all that 
 was no matter. He offered to give them whatever they
 
 270 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 
 
 called for, to take home and read by themselves ; but 
 even that would not do. They wanted to hear him read 
 his own productions himself. And Mary threw her bon 
 net off her shoulders, and said she should certainly sit 
 there till he complied with their wish. 
 
 Driven to an extremity like that, he went fumbling a 
 little nervously among the heaped papers on his table, 
 and finally drew out a handful of leaves from a manuscript 
 that looked as if it had seen but a brief existence. Ex 
 cusing himself the best way he could, and looking up to 
 find nothing but the most fixed resolution in their eyes, 
 he braced himself back, and nervously began : 
 
 "NEW REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. 
 
 " I never could tell exactly how it was that I -had fallen 
 into such a habit of dreaming, but perhaps that is no 
 matter. At all events, there I was ; and there I had been 
 for at least a couple of hours, settled comfortably in my 
 deep arm-chair, feet high-perched on the jamb, and eyes 
 buried in the dying and deadening fire-coals. 
 
 "The afternoon sun it was in winter touched up 
 with a dim brilliancy the faded colors in the carpet, and 
 died in the somber half-shadows that were retreating to 
 the corners and angles of the room. Not so much as a 
 lazy mote was sailing up and down the yellow pencils of 
 light. The old house was still ; yet the stillness was no 
 wise oppressive. The huddled and shivering poultry 
 might have been seen dressing a little their roughened 
 plumage in the strips of sun beneath the fence, as they 
 sometimes do on these wintery afternoons; and the chimes 
 of far-off snow bells, ringing down the lonely road, 
 mingled somehow strangely in with the flowing current of 
 my feelings. 
 
 " All that time I had been thinking about Love and
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 271 
 
 Marriage ; and of those other supplementary topics that 
 make a sort of fringe-work for these two. It was so easy 
 settled in just such a bachelor's chair, before just such 
 a genial fire it was so easy, I say, to convince Judg 
 ment that the Bachelor's life was the only true and com 
 plete life no burdens on his back but his own ; not a 
 thought in the whole circle of his thoughts that did not 
 come back to his own heart as its center ; no anxieties 
 without, so that his single conscience was satisfied within ; 
 no fears, no cares, no sorrows, no mourning ! 
 
 ." It all seemed so plausible to the heart that a bachelor's 
 was a quiet and a contented lot ; that his apartments were 
 never any thing but a snuggery ; that his life was only 
 a succession of rapid stages of benevolence ; his hopes 
 single, undivided, and rarely overthrown ; his happi 
 ness little less than a perpetual fruitage of his growing 
 desires. 
 
 " There was a nameless something about the condition 
 of such a being that instinctively recommended itself to 
 the sympathies ; a breath of fragrance, exhaling from 
 nothing but the name bachelor ! It took for granted 
 independence, freedom, comfort. It presumed absence 
 of restraint, of every nature. It pictured a quiet, cosy 
 present, and mapped out a calm and careless future. 
 
 " Only the unmarried man and at this point I believe I 
 settled myself far back in my chair only the bachelor 
 can tell you at all what life is, or how it goes. He is 
 both of it, and in it ; yet he is nowise so deeply interested 
 as a participator, that he is worthless as an annotator. 
 He ' goes in,' but never with rolled-up sleeves. He en 
 joys, and up to his very eyes ; but never above them. 
 With a good share of its labor lying ready for his hand, 
 he seems rather to woi'k like an amateur than as a slave ! 
 
 "He takes quite as much comfort in seeing others drudge
 
 272 AN AUTHOB AT HOME. 
 
 and do as in drudging and doing himself. Rat her than 
 companions, others are chiefly the sources of his amuse 
 ment. He would be lost with himself if others were like 
 him ; for then all the fountains of his enjoyment Avould be 
 dried up. He lives more a seer than a doer ; filling his 
 eyes with sights, his brain with reflections, and his heart 
 with solid, quiet, enduring happiness. 
 
 "And while I lazily brushed away a spark that the chest 
 nut stick had seen fit to snap out upon my bosom as if 
 it would discover whether there were a heart of tinder 
 w r ithin I began to draw rapid outline sketches of the 
 bachelor'^ home-life, filling them in with such truths as 
 my after reflections furnished, and clothing and coloring 
 all with the glowing ruddiness of my now well-warmed 
 feelings. 
 
 "To be the whole of your family head and all ! To 
 come home from a distracting day of business, and quietly 
 sip your tea, and afterward, in slippered feet, doze pleas 
 antly over your fragrant Havana ! To stir your own fire, 
 just as often as you choose, without the fear of burning 
 baby, who, perhaps, sits crouched at your feet, spitting on 
 the delicate embroidery of your slippers ! To read your 
 favorite old authors undisturbed, without a fierce and 
 sudden cry from infantile lungs, to make turbid the wind 
 ing streams of your thought ! To scribble verses to as 
 many sweethearts as you may have, with no fear from quick 
 and bright eyes over your shoulder ! To sit up as late as 
 you will, enjoying nothing but your own society, or that 
 of some other thoughtless one, full as happy as yourself! 
 To rise Vhen you feel inclined in the morning, and even 
 to deny yourself breakfast altogether if so you like it ! 
 To be yourself wholly yourself and nothing but your 
 self! To take time to look about you, as you get on in 
 the world ; to be inestimably comfortable at all times, be-
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 273 
 
 cause none of the little prickly cares of a man of family 
 beset the smooth path you have chosen ! 
 
 " The choice words of wise old Burton come pat to your 
 mind at times, and you repeat them aloud with an exult 
 ing fillip of your fingers ' Consider withal how free, how 
 happy, how secure, how heavenly, in respect, a single 
 man is ; consider how contentedly, quietly, neatly, plenti 
 fully, swef tly, and how merrily he lives ! He hath no 
 man to care for but himself, none to please, no charge, 
 none to control him, is tied to no residence, no cure to 
 serve, may go and come, when, whither, live where he 
 will, his own master, and do what he list himself!' 
 
 " You are young yet ? Well, well ; and so there is all 
 the more of this rich harvest of happiness for you to 
 gather into your heart's granary. Young ? Then why 
 a wife ? Who better able to supply all the little wants 
 of his condition than a young man ? With the youth 
 you have, you hold health also, and active vigor, and im 
 pulsive and bounding spirits. What more, in this world, 
 would you have ? 
 
 " Is it so necessary that a man with glowing impulse and 
 heated ambition should slip his neck in a yoke, and bow 
 meekly beneath its galling weight, when he might be 
 holding his head loftily in the air, and snuffing only such 
 breezes as blow from the high lands of his hopes ? Should 
 aspiration needlessly put a bit in its own mouth, and 
 strong reins in the hands of its more timid master? 
 Ought pleasure to give up its fair claims at the very 
 start, too without becoming so much as a modest and 
 moderate contestant ? Should freedom surrender all its 
 most precious prerogatives, without a single murmur of 
 complaint, and seem glad of the privilege besides ? 
 
 "But young and poor? Heaven help you, then! 
 What a curse were poverty now, with another and a tender 
 12*
 
 274 AN AUTHOK AT HOME. 
 
 heart aching with the want you can not supply ! What a 
 coil does this monstrous serpent twine about your happi 
 ness, till it strangles the life out of it altogether ! How you 
 shudder as you come home at night, knowing full well 
 that the oil and the meal are low, and the gaunt and fam 
 ished wolf is at the door ! How all your energies deaden, 
 and how your ambition, just now blazing up so brightly, 
 entirely goes out ! How can you bear to see the tears 
 trickling in silence down that pale face ! How will your 
 heart bear up against the daily denials the repeated 
 short-comings the constant excuses and evasions while 
 it feels that it alone is responsible for all this woe ! 
 
 " No no ! A thousand times No ! You Avill enter 
 upon no such hazardous experiment as this. You will 
 consent to contract no alliances for your heart, where the 
 risk may come at last to make that heart bleed as it never 
 bled before. Better, if poor alone. There is none but 
 yourself to suffer, then. A single mouth is all there is 
 waiting to be fed. Only one body to be clothed. Only 
 one set of wants to be supplied. If grief comes you can 
 easily meet it alone ; to see another plunged in it would 
 but dishearten and distract you. If troubles multiply, the 
 same heart that dared and defied them is able of itself to 
 abide the peltings of its pitiless storm. But to drag down 
 another into the depths of your own suffering you cau 
 not ; you will not. 
 
 " Or if you are well along in years ? Quite over the 
 dividing ridge of human life ? Well, and still your lot is 
 rich in comfort, rich in ease, and quiet, and content, and 
 all manner of blessings. The very juices of your enjoy.r 
 ment streak your ruddy cheeks. The pleasures of your 
 free-and-easy mode of life leave their glow in your bright, 
 full eyes. Hitherto your existence has been free from in- 
 cumbrance and inconvenience ; you resolve that it shall
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 275 
 
 always be so hereafter. Your heart shall remain at rest, 
 even as your tired feet lounge in their loose slippers at 
 evening. 
 
 " Look into the fire, then, and dream just as long as you 
 will. No voice is near, to waken the echoes that have 
 slept so long in your chamber, or to break the flow of 
 sweet feeling that sets in such a placid current out from 
 your heart. Press back your head into the cushion of 
 your chair as deeply as you can ; no noisy prattle shall 
 threaten to drive away your coveted drowsiness. Throw 
 up your heels as high on the jamb as you will ; there shall 
 come no complaint from your seeming misdemeanor no 
 sudden call to start you, like an impulse, to your feet again. 
 
 " It is an easy life ; a reasonable life ; a life of passive 
 pleasure of abiding and independent comfort. You 
 love children, perhaps? Your old classmate has them 
 in plenty. Caress them as much as you will. Play with 
 them till they tumble your spotless shirt-bosoms, and 
 crumple remorselessly your immaculate cravats. Toss 
 them to the ceiling till they are giddy if you like the 
 fun ; or blow into their dimpling necks till they are ready 
 to go off into fits for laughter. Why would you have 
 such burdens on your hands continually, to repay you 
 with but a half hour's boisterous romping ? 
 
 " You court female society ; it is so refining so exalt 
 ing so ennobling. What then would you do better 
 than mingle in it whenever the taste inclines you ? You 
 are not tied down, hand and foot, in your choice, by a 
 band as strong as that of necessity. You are free to go 
 where you will ; you are at home any where every 
 where ; equally acceptable in all places ; welcome alike at 
 the parties, the routs, and the re-unions ; and still still a 
 bachelor. 
 
 " Yes a bachelor ! a happy, happy man ! A being
 
 276 AN AUTHOB AT HOME. 
 
 whose wants need never outrun his means ; an existence 
 basing your enjoyment on your real right to enjoy ; a 
 perfect creature, because neither more nor less than an* 
 unit ; complete in yourself, as in your aims, your hopes, 
 and your happiness likewise ; a beatitude living, moving, 
 and breathing ; with a shelter for yourself, but none for 
 perplexities or cares ; an altar for your own heart, but 
 not^so large that you desire to share it with others ; a 
 breast uncankered with envy, and free from the capricious 
 tempests of social feuds and family jars. 
 
 " Oh blissful, blissful life ! Oh, blessed, blessed man ! 
 
 " I think I must unconsciously have taken a hitch in my 
 chair or a brand may have broken suddenly in two, 
 scattering the white ashes over the little hearth or a 
 parasite blue-bottle may have lit on my nose, demanding 
 a spiteful brush from my hand. It is difficult now to re 
 call what it was. '-Yet in some strange way a change 
 scud over my spirit, and over the spirit of my dream, 
 too. The current of my thoughts wore a new channel, 
 and quite on the other side. And so I kept on sailing, 
 little caring where it floated me, minding neither prow 
 nor helm. 
 
 "And I swung lazily under the shadows of the tangled 
 boughs on the opposite bank, and grew suddenly re 
 freshed with the fragrance of new flowers, and felt the 
 flush of a new sense steal over my heart, like soft sun 
 shine nestling in a covert of dark leaves. 
 
 " I seemed all at once to see with other eyes. I breathed 
 with new lungs. Strange sounds ravished rny ears. I fed 
 on melodies sweeter and more lulling than those of flutes, 
 where but just now I heard not even the ripple of a 
 pleasant echo. Beautiful vistas opened before me, where 
 but lately my eyes shrank from the deep gloom. Little
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 277 
 
 cottages smiled through the green network I had im 
 agined only a wilderness, peopling the picture till its life 
 and reality were irresistible. 
 
 " Yes with the tide I had drifted down into the still 
 haven of quite another dream ! 
 
 " There is her chair now, over against your own. Her 
 dark eyes you are looking into them all the time. The 
 smiles that break out over her face they light the whole 
 of the dismal hearth of your heart. 
 
 "It is not a picture. It is not a toy to amuse and 
 delight you. It is no myth that has danced into 
 your bachelor apartments and sat down uninvited by 
 your fire. It is a living creature an impersonation of 
 beauty ; every whit a charming ideal yet every whit a 
 charming reality, too. 
 
 " Feast your hungry eyes on her bright eyes. Let your 
 heart run riot while you contemplate those waving ringlets, 
 that dimpled mouth, those ripe red lips, and that graceful 
 figure. Lay envy to sleep as your feelings flutter at such 
 a vision ; and think no more of solitary quiet, and single 
 comfort, 1 and selfish content. 
 
 " She stirs the fire and the honest blaze shines out like 
 the sun in your face. She glides around the room, per 
 haps stopping now and then to run over the scrawls that 
 are spread on your table while only a quiet smile, with 
 not a bit of sarcasm, betrays the fun she is extracting 
 from your folly ; and can you once think so gentle a crea 
 ture as that in your way ? She smooths out the table- 
 spread ; and adjusts the folds of the window curtain ; and 
 gathers up a book or two that have strayed to the floor ; 
 and says, in a low voice ' There ! I think that looks all 
 the better !' and are you Turk enough to think such a 
 being a ' nuisance ?' or to wish for a moment that she 
 was quit of your premises? or to lack gratitude for
 
 278 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 
 
 the gentle spirit that shines out through all these little 
 services ? 
 
 "Just married, you are? You have sat down together 
 at the hearth to talk it all over. 
 
 " There are the old folks of course they must come in 
 for their share. How bravely did mother look on while 
 she was giving away her darling to a stranger! How 
 generous the denial that was made for nothing but 
 another's happiness ! With what a hearty, holy zest was 
 that blessing bestowed by the father while he rocked his 
 child's head on his tempest-torn breast ! They will all 
 want to hear how she gets on ; certainly shall they, even 
 to the minutest items of your daily wedded life. They 
 will wonder among themselves brothers and sisters if 
 she is in the least homesick, and if her heart ever aches 
 to see them once more. No no ! Not a bit of such a 
 feeling as that, though she would gladly welcome them 
 all to her own new home. 
 
 " It does not seem as if so sweet a dream could be any 
 thing but a dream. It is too pleasant to be any thing 
 more than an illusion. It can not be that all the desires 
 of your heart, all the hopes of ygur ambition, all the 
 dreams of your youth, are at last ripened and gathered. 
 That your wife? the very name makes you already 
 half-start. You find yourself gazing fixedly upon her; 
 more thoughtfully, too, that you may assure yourself 
 over and over again of the real possession of so much 
 happiness. 
 
 " Young are you ? 
 
 " Then there are so many more years of delight, of deep 
 delight before you. Thank Heaven for you may that 
 you were led to marry early ; for the heart is quick in 
 youth and its impulses are a thousand times more fervid
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 279 
 
 and its draughts of pleasure a thousand times more ex 
 hilarating than a score of years later. 
 
 "Then so much the closer will the tendrils of your feel 
 ings entwine, till, in after years, there shall be no wrench 
 ing them asunder. The sentiments have never yet been 
 allowed time to take root ; but they will strike deeply into 
 a soil now, from which all the winds and storms of after 
 life shall not be able to wrest them. And all the tastes, 
 and fancies, and preferences, will now^ begin to take 
 shape, giving your nature breadth and depth, and your 
 character proportion. And the horde of petty prejudices 
 envy, and malice, and selfishness all these will go 
 back scourged to their dens, unable to effect a permanent 
 lodgment in the disposition that has no room for any 
 thing but love. 
 
 " So little time ago was your bridal ! It seems now 
 long years of bliss. You wonder no, you do not won 
 der but you believe it will always be so, even to the 
 end. End? Of that you are in just no mood to think. 
 This is nothing but the beginning. Who would be reach 
 ing forward into the gloomy shadows of the close at such 
 a time as this ? Exactly on the threshold ; right in the 
 pride of life ; just in the flush of hope ; with the round 
 dome of your heaven frescoed all over with such charm 
 ing dreams as in this life you may never dream again ! 
 
 " And with youth, then with health, then with a noble 
 aspiration. How grateful you are, to know that the rich 
 fruit of your many labors will be shared with another; 
 How self-satisfied to feel that all your aims are unselfish, 
 centering in another's happiness rather than your own ! 
 
 " Trials ? Oh, yes ; of course they will come. As soon 
 expect to stay the blowing of the winds, when they start 
 up from their lairs in the wilderness. And what if they 
 do come ? What then ? Is the man living, young or
 
 280 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 
 
 old, who is clear of them altogether? Can finger be 
 pointed to a single heart that is not fretted sorely with 
 perplexities, or distressed witli cares, or torn, as by 
 thorns, with disappointments and griefs? Are beings 
 any where to be found in the body whose lives, from 
 youth up, are not thickly beset with trials of health, trials 
 of hope, and trials of happiness ? Is human existence, 
 then, such a pleasant cheat, that we live but to enjoy, 
 whether the right has ever been earned or not ? Are 
 human concerns all so artfully dovetailed each into the 
 other that there is no fear of even a slight jar in the vast 
 complexity of the social machinery ? 
 
 " Ye"s ; but poverty ! Who can bear that ? 
 
 " You can. All can. The most of us have no alter, 
 native ; but plod on wearily to the grave, its cloud by 
 day, but never its pillar of fire by night, throwing down 
 a shadow across our paths. 
 
 '* But she will suffer ! Surely, it were downright heart- 
 lessness to betray so guileless a nature into the wilderness 
 of want. You have taken her from the lap of plenty ; 
 you can not behold her patient self-denial her daily in 
 nocent evasions her affectionate endurance, while you 
 are struggling over the mountains of opposition or mis 
 fortune, in the hope of some day bettering your poor con 
 dition. The wasted flesh the pinched cheek the hag 
 gard look the colorless lips will not such daily sights 
 wear the iron still deeper into your soul, till regrets rush 
 in to break down the barriers your tenderness had built 
 about your home ? 
 
 " Ah, yes but look straight and steadily into her eyes, 
 and it is there that you shall read her ready answer. 
 Courage is hers, a thousand times more than it belongs 
 to you. Patience surrounds her like a coat of triple mail. 
 Such as she possess endurance beyond what selfish and
 
 ANAUTHOKATIIOME. 281 
 
 superficial man ever dreamed. When you are able to 
 sound the depths of her love, you can then understand 
 the strong, martyr-like spirit with which she defies want, 
 and invites the greatest sacrifices. There is that in her 
 nature, that, much as you think you know of every thing 
 else, you still know nothing at all about. Weaker than 
 yourself, she is still many and many times stronger. If 
 the bond between you be strained by trials, what then, 
 so long as it can not break ? And what wrenching can 
 wrest asunder bands that have been forged in the mys 
 terious smithy of love. 
 
 " If you want, will not she want, too ? Will it not be 
 the first and finest token of her devotion that she shares 
 whatever Fortune denies you, as well as what it pours 
 into your lap? And when your own astonished eyes be 
 hold the gratification these frequent denials for your sake 
 yield her, will you not go to your tasks taking a secret 
 shame to yourself that you fall short in your share of the 
 endurance ? or that you lack what is required of you in 
 the fortitude ? or that you betray the weaker heart in 
 brooding over troubles that demand nothing but action 
 and indifference to rout them one and all ? Will you not 
 take strength imperceptibly to your heart, and infuse a 
 new vigor into your purpose, from daily contact with an 
 example at once so lofty and so silent ? 
 
 " Solitary comfort ? Cigars and slippers ? Do you talk 
 of such things now ? And if you selfishly weigh such 
 trifles with the abiding happiness, are they able with 
 all your pressing down to kick the beam ? Solitary com 
 fort ! You would not call it comfort now at all. Slip- 
 pei-s at evening, with your rich Havana, and your 
 drowsy dreams ! Why, can you not now enjoy these so 
 much the more ? What is there to hinder you ? Will 
 the picture of that sweet face, breaking out in smiles
 
 282 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 
 
 through your blue and white smoke-wreaths, like an an 
 gel's face through the clouds, turn the current cf your 
 blood, or strike any thing like a chill to your heart ? 
 Will the consciousness of her gentle presence at your 
 hearth, abridge by the veriest trifle the full enjoyment of 
 your reveries, when her own endeared face and image go 
 dancing through them all ? 
 
 " Old authors, your favorites ! Well ; and is there any 
 special tenure known, by the terms of which their rare 
 and radiant fancies, their immortal images, and their 
 strong and inimitable expression, are to be enjoyed by 
 yourself alone ? Is not their language rather for eveiy 
 appreciative nature ? Are not their sentiments for all 
 persons, and for all time ? Will you lose a little of their 
 light, merely because another wishes to borrow from it 
 at your side ? 
 
 " And there now she sits. She is your wife, the wife 
 of your heart. No relationship on earth so close, so ab 
 sorbing, as this. She feels what you feel ; she loves what 
 you love. If you come home weary to your hearth, all 
 is ready for your comfort there; and in the stead of 
 only gloomy silence, are pleasant and aifectionate syl 
 lables that lift your spirits out of the fogs. Your em 
 broidered slippers, so soft and inviting there they stand 
 ready for your feet. Your box of Havanas, there it is, 
 with its rich russet color, got down from the upper shelf 
 against your coming. Books she knows your favorites 
 already too well, and has laid them on the table just at 
 your elbow. 
 
 " Will you smoke ? She will chat so pleasantly for you 
 the while, that your roll of weed will seem to you in com 
 parison quite destitute of fragrance. Will you read ? No 
 ears more ready than hers, and no heart more hungry for 
 sympathy with the thoughts of your well-thumbed au-
 
 AN AUTHOR AT HOME. 283 
 
 thors. Or sit idly, rehearsing the histories of the little 
 day just gone ! Thank Heaven for a companion who is 
 able to make you wholly happy over trifles innocent as 
 these ! 
 
 " And then years will go by, wheeling oif with their 
 squadrons of cares and joys into the past. And in time 
 the hair will become streaked Avith silver. And the luster 
 will recede in the eyes. And the strength will become 
 sapped in the limbs. Is it so comfortable a thought to 
 you that you shall be all alone then ? that your happiness 
 will lie stranded like a battered old hulk, on the shifting 
 sands of a strange shore? Doth not your heart bound 
 with a richer, deeper, steadier pulse, when you feel that 
 not alone, but with her at your side, you will totter along 
 hand in hand, and finally ' go down the hill thegither ?' 
 
 "Immediately upon this -thought I started from my 
 chair. 
 
 " ' Benedick, or Bachelor !' cried I aloud. ' Who who 
 would be a bachelor !' " 
 
 The author paused, and laid down his manuscript. 
 Mary declared it was all delicious ; she had enjoyed it 
 every line. Martha, however, was silent. There was a 
 deep flush on her handsome face, and her eyes kindled 
 with an unusual expression. 
 
 " Now suppose we stroll about over my little garden," 
 suggested Mr. Holliday, rising quickly to his feet. " It 
 will certainly be much pleasanter than sitting here !" 
 And they went out through the door. Yet all the way 
 down the stairs, and all the way around the garden- 
 walks, and indeed for all the morning after, the dream 
 of the young author was brooding like a pleasant halo 
 around the younger sister, and her heart confessed a secret 
 delight that had never, never been known to it before.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A SOBER BECKONING. 
 
 WHILE the evening sun was, going down behind the 
 long spires of the city, gilding them all till they looked 
 like slender pencils of living light, and throwing a vail of 
 splendor over roofs, gables, and chimneys ; and while the 
 few who loitered about the streets adjacent to the slips 
 and quays men of business preparing to go home, or 
 sailors and 'longshoremen sailing and drifting hither and 
 thither in little shoals seemed intent on nothing at all in 
 the world, a young man was to be seen walking through 
 the street on which Mr. Jacob Dollar enjoyed the wide 
 renown of transacting business, glancing hastily at the 
 numbers on the doors as he went along. 
 
 He stepped firmly, and his countenance wore a 
 thoroughly manly, and therefore handsome expression. 
 If one could, by such outward tokens as offered them 
 selves, come to any conclusion respecting the nature of 
 his business, it "would readily be inferred that he was 
 bound on an errand that might have been engrossing his 
 thoughts for a long while. 
 
 It was so. The young man was Duncan Morrow. 
 
 As he arrived at the door of which he was in search, 
 and to which was duly attached the narrow strip of tin 
 inscribed with his uncle's name, he stopped short a mo 
 ment, and taking a few long and deep breaths, ascended 
 the stairs.
 
 A SOBER BECKONING. 285 
 
 Again was his uncle alone ; he could see that he was, 
 through the little windows. " Is he always alone ?" he 
 could not help asking himself. 
 
 Opening the office door, he went boldly in, and there 
 in the dim twilight confronted him. 
 
 " Good afternoon, sir !" saluted Duncan, with a bow 
 that was likewise intended for a respectful one. 
 
 "Um!" exclaimed the other, in a gruff undertone, 
 changing color a little. But no further reply. 
 
 " Never mind for that !" thought the young man. 
 " This is no time, at all to stand on ceremonies !" 
 
 " I 've come to see you, uncle, privately," said Dun 
 can, " on some business of my own. You are perfectly at 
 leisure, I hope ?" 
 
 " No no ; I 'm not," eagerly answered Mr. Dollar, 
 looking round angrily. " I 'm not at leisure, sir. I ex 
 pect a gentleman in to see me, every minute. He '11 be 
 here now, very soon; very soon, sir!" and he looked in 
 the direction of the door, as if that imaginary person 
 might be about to enter. 
 
 "Then I will leave just as soon as he makes his appear 
 ance," returned Duncan, not in the least disconcerted. 
 " Meantime, let me go on with what I came to see you 
 about." 
 
 And with all the deliberation in the world, he sat 
 down. 
 
 Mr. Dollar's eyes flashed strangely indeed. He be 
 came suddenly very uneasy in his chair. He brushed his 
 hand briskly across his forehead, and to and fro over the 
 bald spot on his crown. It was as plain to Duncan as 
 need be, that a more unwelcome visitor than himself, at 
 that hour, could not have made his appearance. 
 
 " I conclude," began the young man, rather leisurely 
 than otherwise, " that you still recollect something I had
 
 286 A SOBER BECKONING. 
 
 to say to you, when I was here last, about the little prop 
 erty my mother left ?" 
 
 "No, I don't," quite shortly returned his uncle. "I 
 remember nothing at all about it." 
 
 " You do not recollect, then, telling me at that time, 
 that you were perfectly ignorant of my mother's leaving 
 any property, of any value ?" 
 
 Staring hard at him, as if he would demand by what 
 authority he came in there to interrogate and cross-ques 
 tion him, he answered still more crustily, "Recollect 
 nothing at all about it. Why should I ?" 
 
 And thereupon he again rubbed, first his forehead, then 
 the bald patch, and finally adjusted his cravat with much 
 uneasiness. 
 
 "And recollect nothing," pursued Duncan, "of my 
 speaking of your having had the whole care of it?" 
 
 " No, sir," very short indeed. 
 
 " That 's strange," mused the young man, half aloud, 
 throwing his eyes up at the wall. 
 
 " Yes ; strange things happen very often, sir," observed 
 his uncle. 
 
 "Very well; then nothing is left me but to set this 
 down as one of them," returned he, with resoluteness. 
 " It is a matter that will admit of no dispute whatever, 
 that I did speak to you and when I was last here, too, 
 of my mother's estate !" 
 
 Thereupon, Mr. Dollar, intending no doubt to impress 
 him more properly with a just sense of his own presence 
 and dignity, bestowed upon him still another look, more 
 frowning and severe than before ; as if he were hesitating 
 the least bit in the world about getting angry outright. 
 
 Said he, at length, " Do you mean to come here to 
 charge me with with " 
 
 " No, sir ; no, sir ; not at all. I charge you with
 
 A. SOB1-1R RECKONING. 287 
 
 nothing ; and I wish to charge you with nothing. I only 
 mean to say, however, and I do hereby say to you, that 
 you appear to have a very defective memory ! That ig 
 all, sir !" 
 
 " Is that all, indeed ? And let me tell you that that is 
 a good deal more than I usually allow any one to come 
 in here to tell me ! A good deal more, sir ! Do you get 
 my meaning ?" 
 
 "I hardly think there 's much danger of. my mistaking 
 it," answered Duncan. " It would certainly be nobody's 
 fault but my own, if I failed to do so." 
 
 " But, in Heaven's name," burst forth Mr. Dollar, 
 " what has all this stuff to do with me ? What are you 
 talking about ? What are you here for ? I guess you 've 
 mistaken the office !" 
 
 "At least," said his nephew, as deferentially as he 
 could, under all the circumstances, " if I have got into the 
 wrong office, I am sure of having found the right indi 
 vidual ! The person whom I have come here expressly to 
 see is Mr. Jacob Dollar ; my own uncle, too ; and no 
 other person in the world." 
 
 Something it was in the tone of Duncan, whether the 
 ease or the resoluteness, or both so well combined, that 
 entangled the feelings of Mr. Dollar still more inextric 
 ably in the mesh of perplexity, and he seemed about to 
 lose fiis patience "altogether. 
 
 " Your uncle !" repeated he, sneeringly, catching up a 
 newspaper, and as suddenly throwing it down again. 
 
 " I can not deny the relationship, as I see," said Dun 
 can, "even if that might be supposed to be my wish, sir. 
 The fact stands out just as it is." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said his uncle, speaking half compassion 
 ately of the dead, "I know I happened to be the brother 
 of your poor mother. I grant, too, that she went and
 
 288 A SOBBB BECKONING. 
 
 threw herself away in marrying as she did. But I 
 couldn't help that. It's a thing I can't help now, either. 
 That 's all passed and gone forever. Poor girl !" 
 
 " You never need have any fears," proudly, and rather 
 defiantly, replied Duncan, "that either her maiden name, 
 or her still living relatives, will be brought into disgrace 
 by any of the fruits of her marriage. That happens to 
 be a something, very fortunately, sir, beyond your con 
 trol." 
 
 " Um !" answered Mr. Dollar, nettled terribly ; and he 
 fell to stroking his chin. 
 
 " But I wish to say more of my mother. It is what I 
 have come here expressly for." 
 
 " All you please all you please. Without any doubt 
 she was one of the very best of women." 
 
 " You speak truly ; she was, indeed. None knew her 
 who did not love her. She was a general favorite every 
 where. But by none was she more beloved, sir, than by 
 her own children. I don't know as it 's necessary that I 
 should say even that, especially in the presence of her 
 brother." 
 
 " Oh, it 's all natural enough," returned Mr. Dollar, af 
 fecting a wonderful degree of careless ease in his manner. 
 " It 's just as it should be. I 'm sure, I 'm glad to hear it 
 is so. Such intelligence is calculated to make any brother 
 feel perfectly satisfied." 
 
 " Yes," pursued Duncan, keeping to his purpose perse- 
 veringly ; " and it is because I happened to love this dear 
 mother of mine so much that I have come to the deter 
 mination to do justice to her memory in every particular. 
 She died, as you may well know, leaving two children ; 
 my sister Alice, and myself." 
 
 " Well, no ; I did n't know that," answered his uncl ?, 
 as if, even after knowing it, he cared still less about it.
 
 A SOBEK BECKONING. 289 
 
 " Alice, poor girl ! lias been deaf and dumb from in 
 fancy. Since I was able I have supported her myself; it 
 has been, I fear, but a sorry kind of support some of the 
 time ; but it was the best I could do, especially without 
 the least assistance from relatives whose help would have 
 been worth something." 
 
 " That 's all -perfectly right," said Mr. Dollar. " I like 
 the looks of that, I 'm sure." 
 
 " After having searched through the whole matter as 
 thoroughly as possible," persevered the- nephew, " I dis 
 cover, to a positive certainty, that my mother left property 
 enough of her own in your care to make my poor sister 
 comfortable for life. I want to know what there is to be 
 said and done further about it ; and I have come to the 
 conclusion, too, that the matter ought not to lie in this 
 state any longer. This is exactly the object of my visit 
 to-night." 
 
 " In my hands ! Your mother left prop-er-ty- 
 in my hands !" exclaimed his uncle, drawing every 
 word. 
 
 " Yes, sir," promptly replied Duncan ; " in your hands. 
 That I am perfectly persuaded of." 
 
 " What 's given you that idea, I 'd like to know ?" de 
 manded Mr. Dollar, quite briskly. 
 
 " I will tell you, sir: in the first place, it was what she 
 told me herself; in the next place, she IMA so stated it in 
 her will." 
 
 " Her will ! Did she make a will? What had she got 
 to bequeath, in Heaven's name V" 
 
 " She did'make a will," returned the nephew ; " and in 
 that instrument she saw fit to make a disposition of her 
 property. Of course she would not have done so unless 
 there was something to be disposed of. As I said, sir, that 
 will is one proof of her having deposited what little she 
 
 13
 
 290 A SOBER RECKONING. 
 
 once possessed, in your hands ; and I carry that proof 
 about with me. I have it now." 
 
 " Won't you let me see it ?" asked his uncle, reaching 
 out his hand. - 
 
 "I should prefer not to, sir, just now," resolutely refused 
 the nephew. " I am not here to prove or disprove any 
 thing. What I want to know is, simply whether you are 
 willing to make suitable return soon of the trust confided 
 in you. If so, then I will come at some other time, and the 
 matter shall be brought to a close in due form. Of course, 
 the property has improved considerably in your hands ?" 
 
 His uncle was thoroughly aroused now, for he -seemed 
 to see the danger of his mean duplicity staring him full in 
 the face. " What nonsense," exclaimed he, " to make a 
 will when there 's nothing to leave ! It 's Just of a piece 
 with half the things women do. The fact is, they never 
 knew any thing about business, and they never will. How 
 ever," he added, as if breaking away from the thought 
 that fettered him, " it does n't make a great deal of dif 
 ference, I guess, whether she made a will or not. It 's 
 nothing more than so much blank paper, any how." 
 
 "You will find," returned Duncan, with his usual spirit, 
 " that it does make all the difference in the world. In 
 the first place, it certainly goes to show that she had 
 property to leave., and that she was perfectly aware of it, 
 besides. This will was made by her on her dying bed ; 
 and of course its statements are to be received as of vastly 
 more weight and importance than ordinary ones would 
 naturally carry with them. In the next place, it makes a 
 great deal of difference to me whether my only sister 
 deaf and dumb, too is made comfortable for life by it, or 
 goes without what, by every rule of justice, fairly belongs 
 to her. There 's where the matter rests. You see that 
 much, Mr. Dollar, don't you ?"
 
 A SOBER RECKONING. 291 
 
 " I don't see what all this has to do with me, sir," said 
 his uncle. 
 
 " It has this to do with you, then : that as you received 
 into your hands the little heap of my mother's fortune in 
 trust for her own and her children's benefit, you will be 
 looked to now for the full surrender of all that you re 
 ceived every dollar !" 
 
 His uncle looked at him steadily a moment with min 
 gled astonishment and anger. 
 
 " This is loud talk, young man," said he, lowering his 
 voice ; " very loud talk ! Do you know it ?" 
 
 " When I set myself about an affair of business, Mr. 
 Dollar," said Duncan, "I never mean to be put aside by 
 any of the little obstacles that come up in my path. I 
 intend to finish what I begin, always ; especially a busi 
 ness of the highly important character that this possesses. 
 As you must see yourself, at a single glance, this is cer 
 tainly a matter of the first interest to me ; and not less to 
 me than to my dear sister, and the memory of my dead 
 mother ; and still further, to your own self, Mr. Dollar !" 
 
 "Well, but I don't see that. I don't see what I've 
 got to do with it, any way ; or why I should take any 
 sort of interest in it." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Duncan ; " if you don't, then it must 
 needs be explained fo you. You shall not certainly be 
 made to suffer through ignorance. This matter interests 
 you, then," he went on, "because just so surely as you 
 refuse to give up and restore what was placed, almost 
 sacredly, in your management, you will be made to give 
 it up ! I speak openly to you, Mr. Dollar, and without 
 the least idea of reserve. I mean just what I say, and 
 nothing less. It is enough for me that at this very 
 moment I understand the matter through and through. 
 No further explanations are needed by me, either one
 
 292 A SOBER BECKONING. 
 
 way or the other. I am ready and waiting to go forward 
 just as soon as you betray unwillingness to return what 
 never was your, own, and what must have assisted you in 
 the first place in the accumulation of all you now possess. 
 My purpose is fixed!" 
 
 " Young man," said Mr. Jacob Dollar, his eyes flashing 
 and his face burning with rage, while he was almost insuf 
 ferably impatient of the restraint thus placed upon him 
 by his penniless nephew "young man, you very evi 
 dently do not know who you are talking to, or what you 
 are talking about ! It is my advice that you go home 
 and consider upon this matter a little longer. There is 
 such a thing as being mistaken, though you may not have 
 thought of it. And there 's such another thing as being 
 in too great a hurry about a matter. You '11 find, if you 
 take my advice and think it all over coolly, that you have 
 fallen into both errors. Just go back home again, and 
 resolve to yourself that for the future you '11 be more 
 cautious !" 
 
 Duncan rose slowly from his seat. He stood up at his 
 full height, and with a proud and resolute mien. His lips 
 were pale, but their lines were marked with all the firm 
 ness of fixed determination. His brow was clouded, yet 
 across it fell no shade of perplexity. His bright eyes 
 flashed a fire from their very depths, that would of itself 
 have scorched and withered the soul of any other than 
 such a being as Jacob Dollar without a single syllable 
 from his lips. 
 
 "Then at last, and for the last time," said the nephew, 
 "I understand you. What you now say is final ? You 
 deny, once for all, any participation in this mean and dis 
 honest transaction? You refuse -to restore what I am 
 ready to show you have taken ? Is that it ?" 
 
 " You do understand me, sir," answered his uncle.
 
 A SOBER BECKONING. 293 
 
 "And now the sooner you leave this room the more com 
 fortably you will be likely to get down the stairs ! You 
 understand that, I suppose, too?" 
 
 " Well then," rejoined Duncan, " I simply wish you to 
 remember that the proofs of your iniquity, which I carry 
 continually about with me, are such as will blast you and 
 your name forever ! I shall see to it that they are put 
 to good service instantly! Good-day, sir. We may 
 meet again ; and it may be under altogether different cir 
 cumstances !" 
 
 And in a moment he was gone. 
 
 As he emerged from the door below stairs and wend 
 ed his way along up the street, the shadows already 
 beginning to gather in the angles of the buildings on 
 either side had he been curious enough to glance be 
 hind him but for an instant, he would have caught the 
 outline of a mysterious-looking person following at a 
 little distance after him. 
 
 And more than this even could he have been near 
 enough to listen to the few ominous syllables that fell 
 from the lips of that mysterious figure, he would have 
 heard the strange words sounding sepulchrally in his ears 
 " That 's the feller, eh ? I guess I sh'll know him ag'in, 
 though !" 
 
 The person was Isaac Crankey ; and this espionage he 
 had been set upon just at that time by the watchful Henry 
 Dollar, who happened to catch sight of his cousin on hia 
 way to his father's office.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE DOUBLE S E C B E'T . 
 
 ONLY a few minutes had he been gone from the office 
 of Mr. Dollar, when the latter, who had become quite 
 uneasy with nothing but the companionship of his re 
 flections, jumped up from his chair, and went down stairs 
 at a rapid rate. 
 
 He was angry that could not be denied. The flush 
 of hot blood in his cheeks betrayed it if nothing else had. 
 
 And his quick step, and the nervousness of his whole 
 manner made the, proof complete. Hurrying along up 
 the street, he had hardly gone the distance of half a 
 block when he overtook Isaac Crankey. 
 
 " Just the one I wanted to see !" exclaimed Mr. Dollar, 
 passing him and turning round as if a sudden thought 
 had occurred to him. "Just the very man !" 
 
 " Always at your service, sir," returned Isaac, tipping 
 his greasy visor with a knowing look in the other's face. 
 
 " Go right back to my office !" said Mr. Dollar. " Go 
 right back ! I want you !" 
 
 The man turned half round preparatory to obeying the 
 order. 
 
 " No one 's round here in partic'ler, is there? Nobody 
 sees us, think you ?" continued the man of money. 
 
 " I can't see as there does ; I guess it 's all right," 
 answered Isaac, turning his quid in his mouth, while his
 
 THE DOUBLE SECRET. 295 
 
 eyes sparkled with fresh intelligence. " No danger as I 
 can see." 
 
 " Then go ahead, Crankey !" said Mr. Dollar. " I '11 be 
 there right after you. Run on ! I must see you to-night." 
 
 And Isaac turned now fully around, and hurried off to 
 the place whither he had been directed. 
 
 When Mr. Dollar joined him again in the office up 
 stairs he had taken the precaution to shut and secure the 
 lower door. After that he felt that he need have no 
 dread of interruption. 
 
 " Now we are alone," said he to Isaac, as he took his 
 seat again in his office-chair. " Now I can say just ex 
 actly what I want to say without any fears of being over 
 heard." 
 
 Isaac smiled, for he could feel his fee already. 
 
 " Crankey," said Mr. Dollar, in a bland and highly con 
 ciliatory voice, " you 've done a good many useful little 
 jobs for me, in your way !" 
 
 "Wai yes; I b'lieve I have," returned Isaac, care 
 lessly rubbing his head; "an' I guess you '11 say I've in 
 variably done 'em well, too." 
 
 " No cause for complaint," said Mr. Dollar. " Not the 
 firsf cause for complaint. And I have paid you well for 
 them, have n't I ? Always paid you well for them ? 
 Never disputed your price nor any thing of that kind ?" 
 
 "Alwuz paid me like a man, Mr. Dollar. I don't 
 complain. I never did complain. I only wish there 
 was more like you !" 
 
 " Well r well that 's enough. That 's all I wanted to 
 know. We're square, then. All our old accounts are 
 settled, are n't they ?" 
 
 " I b'lieve they be," answered Isaac, who in his heart 
 of avarice would eagerly have seized upon the lightest 
 pretext for the establishment of a new claim.
 
 296 THE DOUBLE SECRET. 
 
 To one who did not thoroughly know Mr. Dollar, with 
 all his strange peculiarities, such a conversation as this 
 of his with a degraded being like Isaac Crankey, would 
 have been an anomaly past explanation or unravelment. 
 To his own sense of what became him, judging as he must 
 have done, from, a stand-point that he very well under 
 stood, it was quite within the legitimate limits of his 
 business operations ; and of his character none the less. 
 
 " What I called you in here for this time," said he, 
 seeking to give him a timely taste of the feast in prepara 
 tion, " is to offer you a little something more ! No ob 
 jection, have ye ?" 
 
 " Aha ! My palm 's been itchin' these many days !" 
 answered the ruffian. " It 's been wantin' to be covered !" 
 
 "Then I know you're ready for what I'm going to 
 ask you to do. It 's -really very fortunate ; I could n't 
 well do without you I'll say that much; and if this 
 thing was allowed to run many days I might n't feel quite 
 so much like doing it ; and then again, you see, it would 
 most likely be too late. You understand, I conclude ?" 
 
 " I guess I do. Nothin' like strikin' while the iron 's 
 hot, Mr. Dollar is ther' ? It 's jest what I always say 
 to my friends ; an' I ruther guess I 've got lot's of 'em." 
 
 Mr. Dollar's face suddenly flushed again. The recol 
 lection of what had so lately passed between him and 
 his young nephew rushed rapidly over his brain, and 
 fierce anger took control of his heart. 
 
 "Did you pass a young man just now?" asked he, 
 lowering his voice nearly to -a whisper. 
 
 " Pass a man ? Yes no ! Yes I did ; leastways, he 
 passed me, I guess. How was he dressed ? Do you re 
 member ?" 
 
 And making a vigorous effort to recall every thing, 
 while he was likewise wondering in secret if he could
 
 THE DOUBLE SECRET. 297 
 
 mean the same individual that he had just been set to 
 watch by his own son Henry, he cast his eyes down upon 
 the floor. 
 
 " He wore a hat," answered the merchant, thought 
 fully ; " and a frock-coat of a brown color. I did n't no 
 tice the remainder of his dressy in particular." 
 
 " Whiskers ?" asked Isaac, in a single word. 
 
 " Yes, whiskers. All the way round his face they were." 
 
 " Ah, I see him then," returned Isaac, squirting a plen 
 tiful stream of tobacco juice into the dark and dirty little 
 grate. 
 
 " First let me tell you his name, and who he is," said 
 Mr. Dollar, " so that you won't fail to know him when 
 you see him again. It 's Morrow ; Duncan is his given 
 name. He 's a sort of a clerk or a bookkeeper, or a what 
 not or other, in a merchant-house in the city. They em 
 ploy him, I 've heard. And that 's all I know about that." 
 
 " Exactly," chimed in the man of violence. 
 
 " Now, to come right to it at once," added Mr. Dollar, 
 " here is the point, and here 's the pinch ; " 
 
 " That 's what I 'm lookin' for, ye see ;" interrupted 
 Isaac. 
 
 " This young fellow is a nuisance to me ! He gets 
 in my way ! I can't keep him out of it ! Only a few 
 minutes ago, he left the very seat you 're in now ; and in 
 that seat he had been threatening me with the most 
 wicked and unheard-of treatment !" 
 
 " He !" sneered the other, as well he might have sneered 
 from knowing something of Mr. Dollar's wealth, and of 
 his opponent's poverty. " Why in the world sh'd you be 
 afraid o' him ? Why, he han't got no power by the side 
 o' such as you, Mr. Dollar !" 
 
 "Perhaps he hasn't ; and then, perhaps he 's got much 
 more than I know any thing about. At all events,' and 
 
 13*
 
 298 THE DOUBLE SECRET. 
 
 Mr. Dollar braced himself with an enraged gesture in his 
 chair, " I mean that he shall never walk into this place 
 to threaten me again !" 
 
 " No more would I let him do it .myself," answered 
 Isaac. " In fact I 'm pretty sure I should n't !" 
 
 " The trouble he makes me," went on the merchant, 
 dropping his voice again, "is just in this way : he 's got 
 a paper about him, that he told me himself he always 
 carried about him ; and that paper m ust be taken out of 
 his pocket ! In other words, Crankey, here 's a viper, 
 and you can see his fangs ; those fangs must be pulled 
 out ; when that 's done, he 's as harmless as any body ! 
 Do you think you get my meaning now ?" 
 
 "Ho! ho!" laughed the other, screwing and twisting 
 his body about, as if he had enjoyed nothing so highly in 
 a long time ; " that 's a good figger, Mr. Dollar ! Blamed 
 if 'tan't ! You ain't never very hard to understand in 
 my way o' thinkin' !" 
 
 " Very . well, then. Now the next thing I want to 
 know is " 
 
 Crankey settled his chin soberly on his breast, under 
 standing very well what was coming. 
 
 " If you are with me in such a kind of business ?" 
 
 And Mr. Dollar eyed his companion with a fierce sort 
 of anxiety, as if with that single searching glance he would 
 look him through and through. 
 
 " How do ye generally find me, Mr. Dollar ?" returned 
 he, looking up pleasantly in his face. 
 
 " Oh, as for that, I 've no fault to find ; no fault what 
 ever. I 've told you so before, you know." 
 
 " An' I 've got no fault to find with you, neither. 
 Won't ye please to go on, Mr. Dollar ?" 
 
 " Well then, in few words," said he, " I would like to 
 have you obtain possession of this paper. If you can
 
 THE DOUBLE SECBET. 299 
 
 manage to take every thing you '11 find in his pockets, 
 you can't very well miss this. How you will see fit to 
 do it, is not for me to inquire. Yet I should think you 
 could manage it pretty easily ; take him some evening 
 he goes out, I understand ; or find your way to his room 
 when he 's asleep ; or almost any way you might think 
 best. All I want, you know, is that single paper ! It 's 
 going to be the means' of making me a great deal of mis 
 chief unless I can get it into my hands at once, and de 
 stroy it! Suppose I leave this whole matter to your 
 skillful management ? What do you say ?" 
 
 Isaac had been thinking. His mind was pulling at two 
 strings. One of them had been placed in his hand by 
 young Henry Dollar, and now the other was just fur 
 nished by his equally criminal father. The ruffian could not 
 help turning over at the moment the old adage that has 
 something to say about." killing two birds with one stone." 
 
 " I say yes, Mr. Dollar," he answered, raising his head 
 and firing another stream into the dull little grate. 
 
 " That 's right !" exclaimed the merchant, rubbing his 
 hands in ill-concealed glee. " Now I know just where to 
 find you!" 
 
 " As you always may," interrupted Isaac. 
 
 " Then you engage to undertake this business for me, 
 do you ?" 
 
 " Certain, Mr. Dollar ; but still I 'd orter say it depends 
 a trifle on the price, you know ;" and as if to turn off the 
 edge of his suggestion somewhat, he half laughed in the 
 merchant's face. 
 
 " Well then," resumed Mr. Dollar, settling in his chair, 
 for his feelings were made a little easier now, " I '11 be 
 perfectly fair with you, and I '11 say that you shall do this 
 delicate piece of business forme at your own price! How 
 do you like that ? It 's fair, is n't it ?"
 
 300 THE DOUBLE SECRET. 
 
 " Certain, certain it is ; and it 's jest like nobody but 
 Mr. Dollar, too !" he returned, employing such flattery 
 as came to him. "But you see," said he, "it costs one a 
 good deal o' trouble, and a good deal more money be 
 sides, to keep a secret, an' such a secret as this too ! It's 
 really expensive, Mr. Dollar, every way !" 
 
 " Oh, well, I shan't grudge you a dollar of it, not a 
 single dollar. As soon's your work's all done, you '11 have 
 your money. I shah 1 calculate to pay it down promptly 
 into your own hand ; and no questions asked, either." 
 
 " That suits me, I 'ni sure," said Isaac. 
 
 "Then you are fully agreed on it?" asked Mr. Dollar 
 once more, as if still in some vague doubt. 
 
 " Yis, I am," was the prompt reply. 
 
 " Here 's something, then, to bind the bargain," and 
 he handed over to him a piece of gold which the villain 
 seized with an eager grasp. " Now the sooner you go 
 about your work the better !" 
 
 " 111 see if I can't do it this very night, Mr. Dollar," he 
 returned, in a whisper that sounded fiendish in that dark 
 ened little apartment. 
 
 His expression, if one could have noted it, was sud 
 denly and strangely changed, betokening the entire su 
 premacy of the evil one over his hardened heart. Rising 
 immediately therefore, from his seat, he moved thought 
 fully, but with firmness, to the door. 
 
 " You are sure you know your man ?" said Mr. Dollar, 
 as the ruffian went out. 
 
 " I guess I do !" he answered quickly. " An' what 's 
 more, I happen to knpw a spot where he passes a good 
 many nights in a week, to see some young woman of his 
 acquaintance! I guess I can tell him, ever so fur off! 
 I 've got my man in my eye, sir ! You jest wait and be 
 patient till you hear from me agin !"
 
 THE DOUBLE SECEET. 301 
 
 " Slide the bolts back on the lower door, Crankey," 
 said Mr. Dollar, as the man went down stairs. 
 
 And after he Avas gone, and the room was quite still, 
 and the merchant saw that so foul and so wicked a deed 
 had been determined on beyond recall, he began to pace 
 to and fro across the floor, hands in his pockets, and his 
 eyes cast downward hi thought. He felt now that he had 
 taken a step, that it was not in his power to retrace. His 
 conscience moved him a little ; but he thrust his hat on 
 his head, and exclaiming aloud to himself, " The fool ! 
 he 's brought it all on himself !" passed finally out, and 
 locked his doors. And the old rooms were as silent as if 
 no deed of darkness and violence had but just now been 
 plotted there, between one who styled himself a " respect 
 able" merchant, and a villainous captain of robbers and 
 thieves.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLER. 
 
 MR. BRINDALL the old apple-dealer came home in 
 the evening later than usual, weary and dusty. He placed 
 his big basket behind the door, and sat down and wiped 
 the perspiration from his forehead. Fetching a deep 
 sigh, as if his heart that night was more troubled than 
 ever, he threw an affectionate glance at his devoted friend 
 the young seamstress, Fanny and then fell to the 
 study of the shadows that were creeping and skulking 
 about the angles of the little area out of the window. 
 
 " What is the matter to-night, father ?" asked Fanny, 
 in a tone that was enough to equalize the most irregular 
 spirits. " Has n't tt-ade gone well with you ? Why do 
 you take such very long breaths ?" 
 
 " Ah, Fanny, Fanny !" exclaimed he, very slowly and 
 low ; " many as your trials are, and many as I myself 
 know them to be, you don't know any of that bitter, bit 
 ter experience that I know ! Your lips have never had 
 such a cup held to them as that ! Enough to make the 
 stoutest heart sigh, yes, and melt itself away in sighs ! 
 Enough to drive reason out of the strongest brain!" 
 
 " What is, father ? What is ?" she inquired, pausing 
 in the middle of the floor. " I don't know what you 
 mean, exactly. I don't know what it is that troubles 
 you so very much. If you would but tell me, now, I
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLE B. 303 
 
 think I could give you some little relief. I am pretty 
 good at such things, ain't I ? At least you have told me 
 that I am." 
 
 " Sympathy is good," said the other ; " and your sym 
 pathy, dear Fanny, is of the sweetest. Indeed I don't 
 know but I must have given up long ago, had n't it been 
 for what you have done for me. But still," here he be 
 came thoughtfhl and slow in speech again, " there is a 
 something in almost every heart, that no other heart 
 can quite reach." 
 
 " Is there in yours, father ?" 
 
 For a moment he was solemnly silent. - * 
 
 " If you could but ask the stone walls, against which I 
 lift my eyes every hour in the long days, and to which I 
 offer my prayers !" 
 
 " Offer prayers to the walls !" she exclaimed, half-won 
 dering if he were quite in his right mind. 
 
 " They are as soft as the hearts of men," he answered. 
 " I find more companionship in them. They offer me 
 more sympathy. Their silence, even, is more welcome to 
 me than the silence of men ; for they give me back no 
 hard or scowling looks; they have no such heartless 
 faces ; they are mute, and I am mute ; and so all the 
 day we keep companionship. Except that now and then 
 I throw my eyes up into the heavens, and wonder if all is 
 to be lived over again up there ! I can't help won 
 dering !" 
 
 It was now the girl's time to become thoughtful ; and 
 seating herself near him, she alternately was led captive 
 of her astonishment, and the incoherent talk of her friend. 
 
 " If a man never is to get up in the world," said he, as 
 if he were thinking aloud, rather than talking to be heard 
 by another, " if there never '11 come a change, never a 
 turn in the long lane, never a lift in the clouds, nor a
 
 304 THE BOOK PEDDLER. 
 
 clearing away of the night, why, what 's the use in trying 
 to go on ? Life 's worth nothing at all ! It 's worth less 
 than nothing ! Better end it at once, than to grovel 
 along so ! Better try that which we know to be so un 
 certain, than to creep on one's hands and knees through 
 the remainder of life, and under chains, too ! Oh, why 
 is it so ? Why is it so ? Who is it that says society 
 shall be framed in this way, with all these iron bands and 
 barriers ? Who is it that is strong enough to say that 
 the world shall build itself up on the ruins of a few unfor 
 tunate ones ; and that those few shall never, never rise ? 
 Who has the right to make these fyrant prejudices, that 
 shut men out of hope out of all sympathy from the rest ? 
 that snaps off the link of dear brotherhood, and declares 
 that it shall never in this life be joined on again ? Oh, 
 Heaven ! to be an outcast ! to wear the mark of Cain ! 
 to bend, and bend, and stagger so unsteadily under the 
 weight of a burden that every body delights to make as 
 heavy as he can ! to look wistfully into human faces, and 
 find not the first mark of a blessed humanijty there ! to 
 feel about one for human hearts and be repaid with gifts 
 of stone and ice ! Who can live and bear up under such 
 things ? Who would want to, when the escape is so easy ? 
 the mere prick of a pin ? the stopping of the breath ! 
 What is life worth on such hard terms? without the 
 riches of the sympathy of your own kind ? without any 
 bright spot to set off the dizzy dizzy darkness ?" 
 
 He paused a moment. 
 
 " But you have my sympathy," ventured Fanny, hardly 
 daring to intrude on a grief that seemed so overwhelm 
 ing. " Is not that something, small as it is, father ?" 
 
 " Oh, God bless your dear heart, my little one !" he 
 exclaimed. " So I have ! So I have ! But it kills me to 
 think that it is what I can never repay ! That if I could
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLER. 305 
 
 but find an echo in other hearts, I could instantly make 
 your own dear heart overflow with joy !" 
 
 " And why can you not ?" she asked him, in perfect 
 childishness and innocency. 
 
 "Don't seek to know any further," he answered. 
 "It's my doom, and I must bear it! The chain that is 
 fastened to me, I must clank along with me every*step to 
 the grave ! If there is only a hope that after that I shall 
 be free ! only a single faint hope !" 
 
 The poor girl, perplexed beyond expression, would 
 gladly have probed the trouble to its very heart ; but 
 being already too well assured from his manner that it was 
 what on no terms he was disposed to permit, ceased fur 
 ther inquiry, and let out to Kim in thoughtful silence the 
 whole flow rich, and strong, and full of her sympathies. 
 
 "I've pretty much detei'mined," he presently began 
 again, changing his subject somewhat, " to try a new 
 kind of business for the sumnaer, at least ; something 
 that will give me greater variety, and more air, and new 
 acquaintance. I've grown tired of standing so in one 
 place all day, and looking into people's faces to no pur 
 pose ; and I believe it makes me more unhappy, and hate 
 the world more than ever, to see that out of so many 
 great currents of human life, so very few have even a 
 light thought for me. I 've thought the matter over 
 with myself these several weeks ; and now my mind is 
 about made up. I hate to go away from you, Fanny, for 
 I feel that you 're the only friend I 've got in the world ; 
 but I hope the time won't be long before we shall be 
 together again*. I will exert myself so much the more tc 
 hasten the day ; and meantime I shall write you." 
 
 Fanny could not have been more surprised, although, 
 on reflection, she applauded sincerely the motive that in 
 duced him to enter on his new undertaking. She gave
 
 306 THE BOOK PEDDLER. 
 
 utterance to many exclamations, and asked many ques 
 tions. Of course she was deeply interested to knOw what 
 his new business was to be. 
 
 "Traveling," said he;, "traveling all the time! I'm 
 going to walk away from the world, by walking through 
 the world. I 'm going to find new faces, dear Fanny ; 
 perhaps some of them will have a soft look for me, or a 
 pleasant smile. I 'm going to enter all home-roofs, and 
 look right into the hearts of families ; to see what others 
 have to endure as well as myself, and how they can be 
 happy in spite of it all !" 
 
 She thought that such an employment as this would be 
 exceedingly welcome as a change, to a heart in the dis 
 eased condition of his ; yet she could not quite under 
 stand how so novel an occupation if such it might be 
 termed was to furnish him with the means of livelihood. 
 So she timidly put more questions. 
 
 " I '11 tell you the whole of it, Fanny," said he, as if he 
 were about to impart her some great secret : "I've got 
 rid of my stock in trade, and let out my stall at the 
 street-corner to another person all for the cash in hand. 
 To-morrow yes, just as soon as I can go about it I 'm 
 to buy a basket-full of as popular books as I can find, 
 and strike right off with them into the country ! I shall 
 keep traveling till I sell them ; and then replenish my 
 stock. There 's my plan, Fanny ! Now tell me how you 
 like it." 
 
 She hesitated. "Well she might ; for this was nothing 
 less than a proposal to quit her society altogether, and 
 launch himself once more alone upon the world. Yet she 
 was far from certain that this was not the best thing left 
 for him. She could not help feeling that she was unable to 
 cope with so terrible and so stealthy a disease as seemed 
 to have got hold of his heart ; and, even at a sacrifice to
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLEK. 307 
 
 herself, was trying to become perfectly willing to consent 
 to the separation. 
 
 " What do you think of it, Fanny ?" he* asked her a 
 second time. " You don't tell me." 
 
 " If it will make you any happier than you are here," 
 she answered, thoughtfully, " I shall want you to go. Do 
 you think it will ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; oh, yes, Fanny. Any thing, rather than 
 this agony all the day long. Any thing, so that I may 
 perhaps find faces that will have looks of sympathy forme ! 
 I can not live so, long. I must either go about something 
 new or give up altogether ! I must I must, Fanny ! I 
 see how it is ! I can see it all plain enough for myself!" 
 
 He expressed himself with such passionate fervor that 
 the girl was quite alarmed. Indeed, in the brief space of 
 time taken up with this quick reply, her mind had imper 
 ceptibly given up its secret protests and its lingering 
 doubts, and she at once assented to his plan with all earn 
 estness. It was plain that he must have a change, and 
 that soon, or the consequences might be even beyond 
 what she dared dream of. 
 
 So on the morrow he began his walks about town to 
 the several bookstores at which he had determined to 
 lay in his supplies ; and making such selections as he 
 thought would avail him most and soonest, packed them 
 away snugly in his basket the same in which he had car 
 ried his fruit before them and returned to Fanny to as 
 sort and arrange his little stores over again. 
 
 The poor girl's eyes opened the wider as they ran over 
 the gilded backs and inviting titles ; and throwing aside 
 her work, and diving in eagerly among the leaves, she 
 appeared to have suddenly become a creature of another 
 world. The old man sat and watched her with indescrib 
 able interest.
 
 308 THE BOOK PBDDLEK. 
 
 " If every body else is only as much taken up with my 
 books as you are," saidjie, "I sha'n't be afraid of going 
 to the poor-house very soon !" 
 
 All things being duly got in readiness, the several 
 volumes of the basket-library having been arranged and 
 re-arranged for at least the fiftieth time, and always with 
 the closest eye to effect, the peddler took young Fanny's 
 hand in his, evidently prepared to make her a long speech 
 on taking his leave ; but when he saw her eyes trying to 
 look through the films of their tears into his face, his 
 throat swelled, his articulation choked, and he could only 
 press her hand affectionately, and uttej, in a half whisper, 
 hoarse and low " God bless you, dear Fanny ! Don't 
 forget me, will you ?" 
 
 She answered not. She could not speak. And while 
 she gazed silently after him, he was gone. Such was 
 their leave-taking ; an occasion on which each had re 
 solved to talk by the half-hour to the other, whereas only 
 one, and he with difficulty, could utter a word. 
 
 First of all, he wended his way to a railway station ; 
 and purchasing a cheap ticket for a distant village, took 
 his seat in the car denominated the " second-class ;" al 
 beit there is no kind of question that first-class people 
 may often ride in them and was shortly wheeling across 
 the country at a rate that but a little while ago would 
 have been deemed fabulous. 
 
 In the same car with him were a couple of Irish fami 
 lies, just arrived, who were on their swift way to some dim 
 and unlocated western home -just across the prairies, or 
 just over the mountains ; three laboring men, two of 
 whom were trying to answer the questions of the third as 
 fast as he put them ; and a poor woman, alone. The ped 
 dler had his thoughts as well as those in the higher-priced 
 cars behind him ; and while he sat on the hard bench,
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLEB. 305) 
 
 leaning his arm over the back of the seat, and gazing at 
 the flying objects out of the window, his mind went back 
 back back ; the old time slipped forward to his eyes, 
 with its freshness and hope ; the troubles were gone ; the 
 trials, the temptations, the whole ; he was living in the 
 golden mist that early memory the memory of the boy 
 was weaving. 
 
 By the middle of the afternoon he was set down at his 
 place of destination ; and hardly had he put foot upon the 
 long platform, and turned about to look closer at the swift 
 train that brought him there, when every thing cars, en 
 gine, people, and all was a dark speck scarcely to be 
 distinguished in the distance. Half dizzy with the sud 
 denness of the change, he took up his basket and moved 
 along slowly through the village. 
 
 For the rest of that day he had much more good for 
 tune than he had dared to expect. At the first place at 
 which he called he sold nothing, it is true ; but then he 
 felt quite as well as if he had, from seeing the eagerness 
 with which they crowded around his peripatetic library, 
 and fell to an examination of his several books. At the 
 next he disposed of one volume ; and he was as much 
 gratified, perhaps, as disappointed, in knowing that if he 
 had happened to bring certain other books he could read 
 ily have disposed of two more. He slept in the village 
 that night, and early in the morning took his way over a 
 country road into the inner domains of rural life. 
 
 His walk took him across rough and little-traveled 
 highways, and down narrow and grassy lanes ; and past 
 little clusters of manufactories, settled down in shaded 
 valleys, and spacious and pretensions farm-houses, lording 
 it over broad acres of grass and corn. Wherever outside 
 appearances seemed to invite him, he went in ; setting 
 forth the quantity and character of his works to the lis-
 
 310 THE BOOK PEDDLER. 
 
 tening inmates in the most intense and glowing language 
 he could command, and frequently calling their attention 
 earnestly to some particular volume, assuring them that 
 it was just such a book as they needed, and should be 
 found lying on every table. 
 
 Some of the rustic population were very willing to read 
 his books, and soon became absorbed in them ; but as 
 waiting to allow others time to read was hardly turning 
 fair opportunities to his own account, he soon managed to 
 bring such experiments to a crisis; and the manner of his 
 doing it was so much in keeping with the thrifty charac 
 ter of a genuine New England Yankee, that he rarely 
 failed of the object at which he aimed. For the privilege 
 of reading a certain time in any of his books he would 
 propose to exact the corresponding privilege of a little 
 rest for his feet and food for his stomach ; or if it chanced 
 that night was coming on, he would offer the same op 
 portunities for reading in return for a lodging and a 
 breakfast in the morning. Where there were families of 
 children, whose thirst for reading was just making itself 
 felt upon the mind with its gnawing sensations perhaps 
 never through a long life of anxiety and busy care to be 
 entirely satisfied he found little difficulty in compassing 
 his design ; and the result was, that the further he got 
 into the great country, the better he found his condition, 
 both pecuniary and physical. 
 
 His spirits were slowly undergoing a beneficial change. 
 He could feel that they were. He had none of that old 
 fear that brooded continually upon him like a nightmare. 
 His step grew lighter and lighter the further he walked. 
 A conviction possessed him that he had turned his back 
 forever on all that was distressful to his feelings, and that 
 he need not any longer walk in doubt. His eyes did not 
 now all the time seek the ground. They studied the
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLER. 311 
 
 silent landscapes through which he went, and dreamed in 
 the blue deeps of the rounded sky ; and sought out beauty 
 wherever it dwelt in its homes by winding streams, or 
 in little crypts of darkling valleys, or across rolling plains 
 in the mazes of vast woods. He labored to throw off the 
 whole memory of his former life, and strove, as few men 
 can strive, to look forward to the future. He struggled 
 valiantly to break through the mesh of his olden thoughts, 
 hoping to find a something his heart most needed in the 
 experience of the new. 
 
 And thus day after day went by with him, each one 
 bringing brighter skies than its predecessor. He traveled 
 on through village after village, and town after town, 
 always selling something, and making his labor profitable. 
 Hope was in his heart now and that was something. 
 
 One evening he reached Draggledew Plain. The little 
 hamlet burst upon his sight almost without warning. It 
 was just at the going down of the sun, and exactly at the 
 hour when he was wondering if he should find a good 
 spot in which to quarter for the night. There was the 
 old tavern, with its swinging sign supported by tall posts 
 before the door. There was Hector Hedge himself, the 
 landlord, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his hands braced, 
 against the sides of the door above his head. And there 
 stood the pleasant little church, its spire pointing silently 
 above the elms to the heavens, penciled with the delicacy 
 of fancy against the glowing sky of evening. 
 
 Walking up to the tavern-door, he found that he could 
 readily obtain lodgings there, although Hector Hedge 
 was a man that was satisfied with no slight or superficial 
 survey of the customers he honored with his service. 
 Did they want books there ? he, or his wife, or his chil 
 dren ? That made old Hedge smile. Books ? what 
 were books good for but to throw away a man's money
 
 312 THE BOOK PEDDLEK. 
 
 on, and give to the mice that liked the paste in their 
 bindings ? His children had their school-books ; what 
 need of more ? He was sure they used them up fast 
 enough ; faster than he could afford to pay for them ! 
 
 But the peddler was persevering. Children are not to 
 be curbed with nothing but a tyrannic command. Be 
 fore the evening was well through he had completed a 
 contract with the still resisting landlord, by the terms of 
 which one half the charge was to be deducted from his 
 board-bill, on condition that the children be permitted to 
 read all they wanted! This thought Hector was at 
 least cheaper than paying money out of pocket for books 
 that would be flung aside as useless in the end. Mr. 
 Hedge is not alone, by any means, in his way of thinking. 
 
 Early the next morning the traveler began his rounds 
 through the village ; and having completed them with as 
 little success as he could have feared, started off bravely 
 again for the open roads and the broad country .- 
 
 The very first house he came to happened to be that 
 of Mr. Holliday. The honest housekeeper's eyes glistened 
 at sight of his baskets of books, and she regretted over 
 and over again that Mr. Holliday was not at home ; "He 's 
 a great hand for books," said she, "and writes 'em himself, 
 too ! You 'd sell some to him, sir, I know you would !" 
 
 Could she tell where he had gone ? No, she could n't 
 exactly ; but it was out to walk somewhere. " Mebbe 
 you '11 meet him along on the road, sir ! He went over 
 that way," waving her hand. 
 
 He walked and walked on. The sun was high in the 
 heavens, and it was sultry. Climbing toilingly up the 
 hill, the delightful residence of Mr. Rivers met his vision. 
 He could hardly help pausing to admire the pretty pic 
 ture it offered him. Placed among the trees and shrub 
 bery it looked more like some little rustic arbor than a
 
 THE COOK PEDDLER. 313 
 
 house for people to live in, aud only as such a picture it 
 seemed to possess his mind. 
 
 As he came up the road and studied the peculiarities 
 of the place more closely, he discovered that upon the 
 piazza were sitting a couple of young ladies Avith a gentle 
 man companion. The latter was Mr. Holliday. First he 
 hesitated ; then he halted ; then he started on ; and 
 finally stopped again. But observing that they had been 
 quick witnesses of his vacillating conduct, he determined 
 to destroy all unfavorable impressions that "they might 
 have formed, by opening the little wicket and going 
 straight up to them. With a respectful bow, therefore, 
 he held out his basket, and asked them if they would 
 like to look at what he had to sell. 
 
 " Oh, books, Mary !" exclaimed Martha, making as if 
 to take them ah 1 into her lap at once. " New books ! 
 What a treat !" 
 
 Mary was looking them over, and so was Mr. Holliday. 
 
 " And I declare !" again exclaimed the fully awakened 
 Martha, " if here is n't a volume I happen to own my 
 self! Well done, Mary ! Just look here !" 
 
 " What is it you 've got ? Let 's see if it 's worth 
 making such a fuss over," answered her sister. 
 
 The other held it up so that she could read the title on 
 the back. " Marrymust Bridge !" said she ; and glanced 
 at Mr. Holliday, and blushed. 
 
 " That 's quite a popular book," suggested the peddler. 
 " I have sold quite a number of them since I started." 
 
 The girls smiled, and Mr. Holliday said "Urn!" and 
 smiled too. 
 
 " I don't think we shall want anymore copies of that," 
 said Mr. Holliday, turning over the assortment Avith the 
 hand of one who knew the Avay to what he wanted ; "but 
 here are two or three others that I think I might as Avell 
 
 H
 
 314 . THE BOOK PEDDLER. 
 
 , \ 
 
 have. I 've been waiting for thorn till I could go to 
 town myself; but as long as they are here, right at the 
 door, I 'd as lief have them now as to wait." And the 
 eyes of the young author went searchingly through the 
 pages of the volumes he fished up from the depths of the 
 basket. 
 
 Martha's sympathetic eye discovered that the poor man 
 was tired, and that his heart, through his face, told a sad 
 and long tale of anxiety. She asked him if he would not 
 sit down ; to which invitation he responded by taking a 
 seat upon the step of the piazza. Then thoughtfully in 
 quiring if he would like some cool and fresh water, she 
 hurried to draw a pitcher full from the pump on the back 
 porch. 
 
 The traveler took off his straw hat, and seemed to en 
 joy with a keen relish the cool air of the place. His 
 mind was on his business chiefly, however, and he gazed 
 into the handsome faces of the girls while he talked 
 and talked away in behalf of his books. Mr. Holliday 
 bought three and paid him for them. As much to en 
 courage him as with any other design, each of the sis 
 ters purchased a volume, and sat a few moments running 
 them over. 
 
 All had been gathered properly into the basket once 
 more, and the traveling merchant was making ready to 
 depart; he was, in fact, right in the act of thanking his 
 friends for their kind patronage, when a step was heard 
 across the floor, and Mr. Rivers made his appearance. 
 
 The stranger rose to his feet as with a bound. The 
 eyes of the two met. Their looks were fixed and deeply 
 searching. Mr. Rivers stopped in the middle of the floor, 
 neither did the other for a moment move from his tracks. 
 By degrees the rest looked up and saw what was the state 
 of things, and in their turn were silent with astonishment.
 
 THE BOOK PEDDLEE. 315 
 
 "Great Heaven !" was the low ejaculation that seemed 
 pressed out of the stranger's heart. 
 
 Still no syllable passed Mr. Rivers's lips, and still the 
 others spake not. But the eyes of the former were fast 
 ened upon the face of the intruder .with an expression 
 that combined both curiosity and sympathy. It was not 
 a harsh look ; it rather suggested deep compassion, yet a 
 compassion wonderfully threaded and perplexed with 
 doubt. 
 
 Only for a minute or two did the stranger remain in 
 his position, and then turned away muttering undistin- 
 guishable syllables, and looking as if in dumb supplication 
 upward to the sky. He walked down the path again, 
 and immediately disappeared on the country road. As 
 soon as he was out of sight, the sisters instinctively 
 turned to their father, to seek explanation of such strange 
 conduct ; but instead of having their curiosity gratified, 
 their wonder only became the greater by the discovery 
 that their father had suddenly moved oif into the house. 
 
 All three looked at each other inquiringly, each one 
 involved in the same perplexity ; but they asked no ques 
 tions. They werfe silent, and silently they nursed their 
 wonder. 
 
 And off over the still and lonely roads went the book- 
 merchant again, the old cloud hanging over him darker 
 than ever, and the old shadow still flocking up his path. 
 He walked he knew not how fast. It was no matter to 
 him now whither he went ; he had as lief turn back to the 
 close city as to push on through the open country. He 
 felt that he was branded with a curse. He thought 
 there could no where be escape to him from his doom. 
 He was almost tempted to fold his arms, and await now 
 the very worst that could come, without an effort to es 
 cape from any thing.
 
 316 THEBOOKPEDDLEK. 
 
 The girls sought to learn of their father, after Mr. 
 Holliday had gone, what it was that caused such a marked 
 change in the man's demeanor, satisfied that he could tell 
 them all they wished to know. But he received their 
 inquiries with a shake of the head, merely saying : 
 
 " It 's nothing that you need know, my daughters. 
 It 's all gone by now. I won't rake it over again. The 
 man has apparently suffered enough already ! I pity 
 him ! Let him go !" 
 
 I
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A LOVEK'S KNOT. 
 
 THEY had been running about the grounds of Mr. 
 Rivera's little elysium Martha and Mr. Holliday pluck 
 ing here and there a flower or two that was still left in 
 blossom, and weaving them into a wreath with the myrtle 
 leaves that grew luxuriantly beneath a sober spruce-tree, 
 suffering the current of their conversation to run whither 
 their feelings or fancies led them along. It was a pleasant 
 afternoon in the late summer, full of the slowly ripening 
 glories of the season. In the brilliant sky burned the 
 most gorgeous colors that the summer had by the al 
 chemy of its furnace produced. In the air slept a calm 
 and half sensuous feeling of delight, that brooded on the 
 stilled spirits so quietly that it was as if they never had 
 known, and never would know the suffering of unrest. 
 The glory filled the heart as it filled the sky. 
 
 By slow and circuitous routes they reached at length 
 the entrance of a little rustic temple, that had been 
 erected late in the spring, and over which a pair of 
 climbing roses had ever since been laboring ambitiously 
 to throw a light cloak of flowers and leaves. Woodbines 
 that had likewise been set out at the foot of each of the 
 posts at the entrance, were slowly shadowing the lattice, 
 and dotting the wooden seats with the many versiformed 
 figures and patches that the sun sifted through their
 
 318 A LOVER'S KNOT. 
 
 exuberant foliage. They were talking of books and 
 authors ; and expressing their preferences for such of 
 both as betrayed the broad and deep love for nature, 
 which alone gave the true tone of healthiness and delight. 
 
 Martha was a sketcher from nature herself. She looked 
 at landscapes with an artist's, and therefore with a lover's, 
 eye. And as she received such a secret pleasure from 
 their reproduction with the pencil, she affirmed that she 
 hardly enjoyed them less when painted with the artful 
 skill of description. A book with a thread of nature 
 winding through its attractive pages, like a brook dancing 
 down a meadow-land, showed soul, and sympathy, and 
 reach of power that lay not altogether upon the surface. 
 With such, and with such only, she enjoyed a close and 
 extended companionship. 
 
 And in this kind of talk, suffering the calm moments to 
 slip by, their sympathies mutually enkindling to a more 
 noticeable extent than ever before, Martha stepped within 
 the little arbor without a thought, and sat down upon 
 the bench. 
 
 " How delightful it is here !" she exclaimed, gazing out 
 through the leafy screen. " In one summer more, now, 
 this shade will be much denser ; and then we shall have 
 an out-door palace indeed ! Won't you come into my 
 reception-room, Mr. Holliday ? Really, you don't know 
 what beautiful tints I get here ! They are almost as 
 softly toned as if they came through high windows, all 
 arched and stained !" 
 
 The young man, who stood at the entrance looking in, 
 questioned himself to know if this could be more than a 
 pictured dream. In the balloonings of his fancies during 
 sleep, he could just dimly and duskily remember that he 
 had been admitted to glancing visions of which this one 
 seemed a copy. His thoughts, as they ran nimbly back 

 
 A LOVEK'S KNOT. 319 
 
 throwing their flowery girdle about his experiences, could 
 just place before him again some sweet picture, that had 
 almost faded already, but now lived and mingled its sunny 
 rays in with the more somber hues of his existence. 
 
 It was a dreamy vision, and peculiarly beautiful. What 
 with the full foliaged boughs overhead, that shed broad 
 shadows down through the pagoda-like roof of the little 
 arbor, and the closer-growing green of the vines that em 
 braced it on all sides as in love a shade was produced 
 within, in the softened light of which the face and figure 
 of the young girl became almost ethereal. She did not 
 seem altogether of flesh and blood, nor yet altogether an 
 gelic ; yet like a vision part reality, and part a delicious 
 illusion she seemed swimming in the airy and evan 
 escent atmosphere of her own radiance, charming and her 
 self charmed. And to fix this momentary impression, 
 and to make it, for ever so swift a moment, an outstanding 
 reality, around which nevertheless still floated the cloud- 
 gauziness of a chastened summer afternoon ecstasy the 
 light dawned meltingly through the lattice-work over her 
 radiant face, toning itself down exactly to that point at 
 which it might create a beautiful fancy, yet admit a re 
 ality of life. 
 
 Mr. Holliday crossed the threshold, and sat down on 
 the same bench that she occupied. Placing his hat be 
 side him, he suffered the tremulous waves of air to rill 
 across his forehead, while his heart confessed to a sense 
 of being purely refreshed. Martha continued dallying 
 with the little wreath of myrtle and flowers, resetting 
 the latter, v and now and then arranging the leaves over 
 again. 
 
 " I wonder Mary does n't enjoy coming here as much 
 as I do," said she, for the first time sensible of being 
 slightly embarrassed by. her new situation.
 
 320 A LOVER'S KNOT. 
 
 "Your tastes are unlike," suggested her companion. 
 " I could hardly find those that were more so, especially 
 about natural objects of beauty." 
 
 " And yet," put in Martha in extenuation, " Mary has 
 changed very much since we first came from town out 
 here. What was at first not endurable at all she now 
 manages to get along with quite tolerably. Indeed, I 
 have hopes of her !" 
 
 "What should make such a difference?" he asked. 
 " You were both born in the city, and have been accus 
 tomed to nothing but city modes of life till now." 
 
 " But even before we moved here," interrupted she, " I 
 remember very well that I had longings oh, such, inde 
 scribable longings, sometimes !" 
 
 " For the country ? For such a life as this so caan 
 and so placid through all the seasons ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes for nature ; for beauty ! I craved a sym 
 pathy that feels its way out from beneath the surface of 
 things! I know that nature is dumb; but^she has lan 
 guage for such of her children as can listen with child-like 
 souls. I can not help feeling pity for the ignorance in 
 which they who affect a feeling above the inanimate 
 world are willing to grope and grovel. How little they 
 still know, and only because they will not lift their heads 
 above these fogs of our artificial life !" 
 
 " Fogs indeed !" returned her companion. " But I 
 think I see abundant signs of a healthy change in the 
 feelings of your sister, myself. The truth is, one can not 
 always successfully resist these mute appeals of our com 
 mon mother. They are not mute, either. They are full 
 of the most glorious eloquence of the most stirring 
 pathos. They move us deeper than to mere smiles or 
 tears. If a person is still unacquainted with the heart of 
 nature, his life is yet to be begun. He has not so much
 
 A LOVER'S KNOT. 321 
 
 as learned the alphabet by which he is to know his own 
 emotions. But let me tell you, Miss Martha," he contin 
 ued, perhaps changing his tone as she slightly changed 
 her color, " that it was this very same universal love for 
 what I have ever loved so truly myself that particularly 
 interested me in you. I thought from the first that I had 
 found in your heart a deep well of sympathy. Since 
 then my early convictions have controlled me." 
 
 Martha's eyes ceased to wander away through, the 
 diamonded lattice, but fell slowly to the flower-wj eath 
 she held in her hands. 
 
 The hour was so quiet, and the spirit of the hrur so 
 genial, and the rich impulse of the young man's heart 
 went bounding along so pleasantly to his brain, ir aking 
 the moment one of such complete happiness that > with 
 out forethought, and before he could discipline hiy quiver 
 ing lips to the syllables that were crowding t.> their 
 threshold for expression, he spoke to the one vho sat 
 next him as he had never, never spoken before to living 
 soul. 
 
 " I have long hungered for the sympathy that I hope I 
 have at last found in you," he said. " My life has been 
 more or less lonely, and is so still. Few hearts there were 
 that beat to extend me any of their wealth ; and till I saw 
 you I felt alone. But your face kindled an emotion that 
 never controlled me before. I knew I could read in it the 
 secret of all the mysteries my heart had ever Lnown. It 
 dissolved the barriers I had raised about me t once. I 
 lived on, and hope grew. The feeling you Lad excited 
 seemed to renovate my whole nature to mak 3 me a new 
 creature. I could not say that the germ of it was not 
 within me before, waiting for an atmosphere in which it 
 might grow ; but never, never had I felt the power of the 
 feeling till then. I tried to outroot it, thinking I might 
 14*
 
 322 A LOVER'S KNOT. 
 
 unconsciously be misled of it. I tried to persuade myself 
 that k was nothing more than a momentary influence that 
 would pass away as my heart sobered itself. I sought 
 solitude ; but that made the matter worse. I plunged 
 deeper into study, and labored to correct what I feared 
 might be nothing but an error leading me astray. But I 
 could not labor as I once did. My thoughts did not 
 seem at all to be my own thoughts. Nothing that I once 
 possessed time, inclination, emotions nothing was any 
 longer my own." 
 
 Now Martha was busily picking the little green wreath 
 in her lap to pieces. Her face was strangely flushed, and 
 its expression surpassingly sweet and beautiful. But not a 
 word passed her lips. In eloquent silence she sat there in 
 the rustic temple in the garden, and listened to this earn 
 est and burning confession of her companion. 
 
 " Many and many a time," he continued, " have I de 
 termined to tell you all that so filled my heart ; and as 
 many times have I buried the secret, with a strong effort, 
 down in my own bosom again. But it would not stay 
 buried there. It has sought to control me, and it has 
 controlled me. It masters me even now. I can not keep 
 it from you longer ; I should be dealing untruly not less 
 with yourself than with my own nature, did I seek to 
 conceal what will not be concealed. If you will not turn 
 a deaf ear yet to me if you will consent to feed ever so 
 little the sympathy that is consuming my soul, unfed 
 oh, if you will but receive the sincerest profession my 
 heart ever, ever made believe that I love you truly 
 believe that my soul has imperceptibly been knit to 
 yours, till it now yearns to it as to its own living mate ! 
 Tell me if only any part of this feeling of mine finds an 
 answer in your heart ! Give me hope only a faint hope 
 that you will in even a small degree receive the pro-
 
 A LOVER'S KNOT. 323 
 
 fessions I have made with the feeling in which they are 
 made ! And, dear Martha" she had suffered him gently 
 to take one of her hands between both his own " may I 
 ask to hear from your own lips such syllables as will en 
 courage me my whole life through ! Tell me if I can oc 
 cupy that place in your heart that you do in mine ! Let 
 me be assured this' very day of my happiness, if such hap 
 piness is in store for me ! Martha, shall you utterly refuse 
 me? Shall I be sent away empty? Will you give me 
 just one word one single word of encouragement that 
 the sun may shine as brightly for me as it has not shone 
 since my earliest childhood ? that the world may look as 
 fair as it can look only to those whose souls are brimming 
 with hope ? that my future life may have its heaven 
 tinted with the glowing colors of love, rather than shaded 
 with the clouds of disappointment and desolate solitude ? 
 Will you encourage me, dear Martha, with one little 
 word ? May I dare hope that you ever can, ever will 
 offer me your love in return ?" 
 
 He was silent a moment, and but for a moment. Mar 
 tha Rivers was a girl of too excellent sense and of a much 
 too highly cultivated heart to allow herself to treat such 
 professions insincerely, or to trifle in the least Avith the 
 feelings of which they Avere begotten. Gathering cour 
 age, therefore AA'hile the beautiful color in her cheeks and 
 over her forehead deepened perceptibly she threAV her 
 eyes out of the opposite lattice, and answered him : 
 
 " I Avill be frank with you, Mr. Holliday. I can not be 
 otherwise if I would. The preference you ha\ 7 e this mo 
 ment expressed for me, I do not think it conceit in me at 
 ah 1 to say, I have observed for a considerable time. It 
 could not readily have escaped me. And the sympathy 
 you crave yes, yes, you have it ; you do have it." 
 
 " Do I have more ? more than sympathy ? Do I
 
 324 A LOV Ell'S KNOT. 
 
 merit such a gift as your love ?" he asked rapidly, stih 
 holding her hand in his own. " "Will you tell me that, be 
 fore I go away from this spot ? Will you even make this 
 place sacred in my eyes forever, by the confession I ana 
 dying to hear your lips speak ? Will you ? Will you, 
 dear Martha ?" 
 
 She was going to say more, but she felt that her lips fal 
 tered and trembled. She had not the command of them 
 that was hers but a moment ago. All she could whisper 
 to his quick questions was summed up in the few syllables 
 " I will ! Yes, I do ! 
 
 Enough for lover as earnest as young Mr. Holliday. 
 His eyes gazed rapturously on her speaking face, as if he 
 could scarcely realize what he saw. His pulses throbbed 
 with a quick and stirring impetuousness. A thrilliflg sen 
 sation shot through all his veins, as he tried to feel, and 
 to bo conscious of the feeling, that he Avas supremely 
 happy. But if he were abundantly assured of the truth 
 that for the first time in his life now dawned on him, the 
 conviction was a something too subtle for analysis, and 
 only bright enough for a blissful dream. In the unspeak 
 able emotions of the moment his soul reveled without 
 hinderauce. Nothing but light flooded his sky. Nothing 
 but golden colors lengthened and spread away in the 
 boundless azure of his future. Could mortal ask for more ? 
 
 When they finally left that charming retreat, thus 
 made memorable to both through a whole lifetime, their 
 spirits were calm to . an extent that neither had ever 
 known. The sun shone more bright in the heavens. 
 The air was bland as the enchantment of a drearn. 
 Every sight, every odor, every sound, carried a secret 
 delight to their senses. They were walking circuitously 
 again toward the house ; but they walked, in their fan 
 cies, through paths that wound round among banks of
 
 A LOVER'S KNOT. 325 
 
 ever-blooming flowers, and that skirted lakes upon whose 
 silver surfaces the exuberant foliage threw down only 
 golden shadows. If heaven ever lives here for the brief 
 est moment in poor human hearts, it surely took now 
 entire possession of theirs. Oh, the indiscribable and 
 never-repeated bliss that broods in the lap of the first 
 love. Never again in the checkered after-life may it re 
 turn, for never then are the feelings fresh with the dew 
 of hope, and never mono does the exulting heart so bound 
 forward over the long reaches of an experience that is 
 then all, all unknown ! 
 
 They came to the end of a little walk, and encountered 
 the paling. As they were about to turn again, a voice 
 from the other side saluted them, causing them both to 
 start rather suddenly from their quiescent enjoyment. 
 
 " Well done !" said the voice, with an articulation 
 
 7 i 
 
 whose rapidity alone might have betrayed its possessor. 
 " How dee do ? Got back again, ye see ! Pleasant ! 
 Beautiful day, ain't it ?" 
 
 They looked only to behold Mr. Dandelly ! He had 
 just taken off his white castor, and was industriously en 
 gaged in fanning his bed of sweltering curls, with a hand 
 kerchief whose perfumes might have been stolen from 
 Araby the Blest. The same strange genius the same 
 untiring, indefatigable, never-dismayed character, that 
 clung to an acquaintance to the end of his days ; good for 
 all places, and warranted to last through all time ! 
 
 "At least," thought Arthur, "I'll brush him off!" 
 and offering Martha his arm, they turned quite abruptly 
 down another path, leaving the poor creature alone with 
 his lengthened ringlets, and his lengthening reflections.
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 
 
 SOON after tea the same evening, which was prepared 
 at an early hour in Mr. Elvers's household during these 
 long and weary summer days, Martha happened to be 
 sitting again on the piazza-bench, alone. Mary was en 
 gaged about something interesting chiefly to herself, and 
 therefore sought the additional retirement of her own 
 apartment. 
 
 The flush of the new happiness still lay over the spirits 
 of Martha, and betrayed itself sufficiently in the expres 
 sion of her face. She was sitting there thus quietly, try 
 ing to lay against her heart the full meaning of the words 
 that had but that afternoon been spoken, and to feel in 
 some proper degree the depth and breadth of the reality 
 that had now resulted. But clearly to separate the actu 
 ality from those pleasanter and more delightful emotions 
 that would go dancing through her nature ; to measure 
 by a thought, so critical that it could analyze and sep 
 arate, while it still enjoyed, the boundless delight that 
 had unexpectedly been begotten of that day ; to divorce 
 her feelings of indescribable pleasure from the bright 
 tints that colored them all, and bring them down to a 
 hard and dry realization, this was what she could not do, 
 for it was more than any human heart in like "circum 
 stances ever confessed to itself that it has accomplished.
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 327 
 
 The garden, she thought, never looked more beautifully 
 to her than now; nor the walks, the trees, the foliage, 
 the sky. She saw beauties where cultivated as was the 
 sense of beauty within her she had not seen them be 
 fore. All the world wore the same rosy and radiant 
 colorings that were given it of her own impassioned 
 heart. There was nothing like an excitement, either, 
 upon her ; on the contrary, a sweet peace brooded over 
 her feelings, out of which more joy flowed than ever 
 gushed from the waters of a swift and turbulent ecstasy. 
 It was joy, but not partial joy. It was a perfect joy, full 
 and complete. And as it welled up constantly till her 
 heart was running over, so it lent its own peculiar lights 
 to the very landscape over which her eyes went roaming. 
 It seemed, rather than to excite her, to lay a calm hand 
 upon her head and compose her with its blessing. 
 
 In the midst of the delicious reverie of the evening 
 hour, she caught an approaching footstep across the hall, 
 which she knew to be her father's. He stood in the door 
 a moment, and spoke carelessly of the appearance of the 
 sky in . the west, prophesying a bright day for the mor 
 row. Then slowly approaching her, he asked if she were 
 alone ; and receiving her answer, took her hand within 
 his arm, after his old-time manner of affection, and began 
 a thoughtful walk up and down the garden paths. 
 
 For a while his talk to her was only of general matters ; 
 such as any father might. easily be supposed to indulge in 
 with his daughter, in a stroll through a garden full of 
 objects of interest to them. both. He had many com 
 ments to make on the flowers ; their thrift, and their fu 
 ture promise. He offered a variety of observations on 
 the general plan of things, suggesting a list of alterations 
 and improvements against another season; and at last 
 turned his .eyes in the direction of the little arbor, and
 
 328 FATHEK AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 spoke of the climbing vines there, that were so full of 
 shadowy assurances for the summers just before them. 
 
 Martha's eyes were fixed upon the arbor, too ; and her 
 heart beat more briskly against her boddice, as she re 
 garded it, and her breath came shorter. 
 
 He led her gently along, until they reached the en 
 trance. She threw in a glance ; the interior seemed to 
 her never to look so beautiful. She was going all through 
 with her rich afternoon experience again. But just as 
 she expected to take the next step forward, and pass the 
 leaf-frilled entrance, what should her father do but stop 
 altogether, and take her hand in his own. Her face was 
 deeply suffused with color. 
 
 " My daughter," said he, in a low voice that thrilled 
 her every nerve, " I have been wanting to speak with you 
 about a matter that chiefly concerns yourself, for several 
 days. Let us go in here, where we can be alone, and I 
 will begin upon it. Come !" 
 
 And before she could have protested or resisted, had 
 such been her disposition, he had conducted her to the 
 bench, and seated himself close by her side. 
 
 " I will come to it at once," said he. " It 's about Mr. 
 Holliday." 
 
 She felt as if her face was burning up. So soon upon 
 the scene that had before been enacted in that samo 
 place ! 
 
 "He spoke with me about you, several days since," 
 continued her father, " professing an ardent and honor 
 able attachment. I had some considerable conversation 
 with him on the subject, in the course of which I deter 
 mined to understand thoroughly what his professions 
 might really mean what they were made of. I ques 
 tioned him freely ; and I must say that to all my inquiries 
 he answered with perfect candor and a true gentleman's
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 329 
 
 frankness. He freely confessed his deep affection, and 
 besought my permission to offer you such attentions as 
 might be mutually congenial to you both. And I at 
 once gave it to him. I could do no less to a person for 
 whom I have ever entertained such high respect. Have 
 you ever observed any partiality for you on his part, 
 Martha ?" 
 
 She confessed that she had. 
 
 " A decided partiality ?" he persisted. " So striking 
 as to put your mind in a new train of thought ?" 
 
 Yes, she was obliged to admit that, too. It was not 
 the time now for concealment. Every thing depended 
 on open dealing with one another. 
 
 " Well, well," said he, " he had my assent he had it 
 freely. Now, Martha, I want you to tell me plainly if 
 you are pleased with his attentions, especially when they 
 aspire to a character that all partialities do not. I wish 
 you would frankly give up to me one secret of you'- 
 heart ; not to be used for any purpose that can in the 
 most remote manner interfere with your happiness, but 
 simply to place me, as well as yourself, on such a footing 
 with him as may be proper in the premises. You will 
 understand exactly what I mean. I know your own 
 good sense will commend my inquiry and the motive 
 that prompted it. Do you like Mr. Holliday, my daugh 
 ter ?" 
 
 There Avas but one answer to such a question as that, 
 of course ; and she could not be supposed to burden it 
 with a great many qualifications. 
 
 " Of his preference nay, of, his passion, I myself am 
 very well persuaded," he went on. " I think I have de 
 tected it long since in a variety of little matters. It was 
 quite unmistakable. If you find that your heart secretly 
 repays this feeling of his, and if, furthermore, you are
 
 330 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 satisfied that his nature and disposition to say nothing 
 of his prospects are such as are reasonably suited to 
 your own, why why " and then ensued a pause that 
 Martha would gladly have furnished him with a quarto 
 dictionary to fill up. 
 
 " Why," pursned he, after seeming to turn it over and 
 over in his mind, " then you certainly can have no objec 
 tion to to to " and here came another pause, quite as 
 awful as before. 
 
 " But for all that I seem to hold him in such estimation, 
 Martha," he added, not troubling himself at all to com 
 plete his last two fragmentary sentences " I wish I could 
 learn more about his history, from his youth up ; for in 
 the first place, he interests me deeply, and always has 
 since the day he rescued you from the awful death that 
 threatened you " 
 
 Martha instinctively shuddered at the mere recollection 
 of that runaway ride. 
 
 " And in the second place, there appears to be some 
 sort of a mystery folded up in his life that a tender sym 
 pathy could not fail to unravel. My curiosity is a little 
 piqued as well as my sympathy ; and I confess it : but 
 it is only to you, my daughter." 
 
 Martha had herself at times been moved by the same 
 or similar feelings, although they had been kept entirely 
 to herself. " Still," replied she to her father's remai-ks, " lit 
 tle as we may know of him, or rather of his early history, 
 he has certainly commended himself to our respect, if not 
 to our affection, since we first knew him." 
 
 "Certainly he has. I dispute nothing of that kind, 
 I was only seeking to gratify certain feelings that in 
 fluence me at times. Yet if they should n't happen to be 
 gratified at all why, I suppose it would make no such 
 great difference in the end."
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 33l 
 
 " Perhaps he will narrate what there is to be told in 
 good time," suggested Martha. 
 
 " Well, let us hope so. I can wait in patience, I think ; 
 especially if you can, my daughter." 
 
 They exchanged smiles. 
 
 " Of course you hold a high opinion of him. as an au 
 thor?" her father remarked. " You look upon him as a 
 man of much promise, do you not ?" , 
 
 " Have you read his last book yourself, father? and his 
 first one too, for that matter ?" she asked, regarding him 
 with a look not a little related to pride. 
 
 " Yes, I have ; and I must say that I liked it. I liked 
 its tone. It was a healthy one throughout. You know I 
 don't call myself much of a critic, of course ; but then 
 that does n't hinder my knowledge of my own feelings, as 
 I can see. And I thought, furthermore, from the reading 
 of his volume, that he was a young man of whom a great 
 deal may be expected ; not any the less, to be sure, be 
 cause he is now quite unknown, and because he lives for 
 the time in this seclusion. You can't tell how soon some 
 persons will flower out." 
 
 " No one could expect that such a" person should be 
 very generally appreciated in a locality like this, you 
 know, father ; all pretty enough and pleasant enough as a 
 rural district; but not peopled by those who are par 
 ticularly qualified to judge in matters of intellectual 
 attainments." 
 
 " I know that very well. But while I do know it, I 
 can see enough of Mr. Holliday's good sense and ac 
 curate calculation in settling in such a place, till he has 
 got a foothold in his profession, to mak,e me respect him 
 all the more." 
 
 " Yes, but I do not think it is altogether from mere 
 motives of prudence or economy that he remains here ii?
 
 332 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 his present retirement. That is something, of course; 
 but it is n't all." 
 
 " \yhat then ?" asked he, scarcely thinking of any other 
 considerations that could induce him to lead such a life. 
 
 "Why, his deep and ardent love for nature," answered 
 Martha, showing by her tone that she fully appreciated 
 the feeling of the young author herself. 
 
 "Ah! that indeed!" said Mr. Rivers. "Love of na 
 ture ? Yes, that 's a great deal." 
 
 " It is with some beings," answered Martha ; " and with 
 him not less than myself. We both agree exactly in that 
 matter.'* 
 
 " Do you ? Then so much the better ! Then so much 
 the more reason for hoping that your dispositions are al 
 together alike, and will finally coalesce entirely. From 
 my own feelings on that point I know very well that it is 
 a strong bond to hold congenial natures together. If 
 this love for nature is a leading element in the soul of 
 Mr. Holliday, Martha" 
 
 " It is, it is, father." 
 
 " Then he is already ennobled and refined far above 
 what mere social life can do for him ; and there is little 
 or no more need of questionings about his character. 
 That is passport enough. It proves him pure, and gener 
 ous, and good. But have you ever thought what sort of 
 a wife you might make for an author, my daughter ? 
 Think you, you can fill such a place not only with satis 
 faction to your husband, but with happiness to yourself?" 
 
 She blushed before she answered. 
 
 " If our tastes are at all alike, as they are," said she, 
 thoughtfully, " perhaps such a relation might be a happy 
 fcne." 
 
 " So indeed it would," replied her father. " Only find 
 sympathies that feed your own sympathies, and the union
 
 FATHER AXJ> J> A f < , I! T i: K . 333 
 
 is sure to promise every thing that could be desired. I 
 am free to say that I like Mr. Holliday, and always have ; 
 and he has had my consent to pay such attentions to you 
 as may be agreeable. Now I am going to leave you 
 alone here to think about 'it as long as you will." 
 
 He arose to depart. 
 
 " Oh, father," called she, desirous perhaps of changing 
 the subject a little. " Arthur and I were talking the 
 other day about something that I promised him I would 
 ask you to explain." 
 
 " What is that, my daughter ? I am willing to enlighten 
 you all I can." r 
 
 " Will you surely, then, on this subject ?" 
 
 " Well, well ; first tell me what it is, and I will give 
 you my answer afterward. That 's the business way, you 
 know." 
 
 " It is about that book-peddler that came here a few 
 days ago. As soon as he saw you he muttered something, 
 turned deathly pale, and went away. You would n't tell 
 me what it meant at the time, you know " 
 
 "Then I'm certain I can not do so now. Oh, no; 
 that 's nothing. That 's all gone by now, and must n't 
 be spoken of. It was something you wouldn't under 
 stand, even if I should tell you ; and if you did, why no 
 good would be done by my telling. N"o, no ; let that 
 matter drop. Don't ask me about it again. It 's blown 
 over, and never will be likely to be heard of again." 
 
 And with these few words he slipped out of the little 
 vine-clad arbor, and pursued his way to the house. 
 
 For nearly an hour the enraptured heart of the girl held 
 her in that delightful seclusion. She sat alone and 
 dreamed it all over again, stretching her dreams far for 
 ward into the future. The event of that afternoon she 
 had not yet had the courage to communicate to her father,
 
 334 . FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 although a better opportunity never could present itself 
 than the one she had just suffered to pass unimproved. 
 Yet she looked forward to the full revelation of her secret 
 in good time, when her heart told her that others beside 
 herself would gladly welcome her lover with the open arms 
 of affection and relationship. 
 
 And there in the rustic temple she dreamed, and 
 dreamed on.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 A MUTK MONITOR. 
 
 ON the inauspicious evening* of Mr. Jacob Dollar's se 
 cret conference with his brother in crime, he retired very 
 soon after supper to the privacy of his own apartment. 
 
 At a time like this, crowded so full with the specula 
 tions of his guilty thoughts, and ah' ve with the torturing 
 suggestions of a soul in which murder itself held its court, 
 his manner could not fail to be agitated to a remarkable 
 degree. He was in no wise himself on this evening. That 
 coolness which he ordinarily wore about him like a gar 
 ment, and by the help of which he well know how to chill 
 and repel all undesirable approaches, was not upon him 
 now. The usual audacity had left the expression of his 
 countenance. That look of biting cynicism was gone. 
 His nerves had lost a great part of their energy, too, as 
 nothing but his faltering and unsteady step across the 
 floor to and fro, to and fro would testify. He carried 
 his hands unsteadily, and without purpose ; swinging them 
 carelessly about him, tucking them under the skirts of 
 his coat, thrusting them into his pockets, or passing them 
 hastily through his hair. 
 
 What energy he did display was fitful and irresponsible. 
 It was not his own. It betrayed only an occasional re 
 turn of his true reason, and of course, therefore, the gen 
 eral supremacy of chaos among his feelings and thoughts.
 
 336 A MUTE MONITOR. 
 
 Already the mysterious change had come over him, 
 against which, under like circumstances, no living man 
 can hope to make provision. He had dared to touch the 
 pitch, and he could not help being defiled. The sacred 
 oath of nature that bound him to innocence, he had reck 
 lessly violated ; and now there was no peace for him, let 
 him turn whichever way he would. An echo startled 
 him. A mere shadow aroused him like an accusing spirit. 
 The hasty beating of his heart, as he paused a moment to 
 listen, sounded like the roll of the drum of fate. 
 
 His face was flushed, *but not altogether with wine. 
 Something beneath this it was that caused such an un 
 usual betrayal of excited feeling. He could not drive it 
 from his . thoughts, that he had recently had ominous 
 business business of violence and wrong with Isaac 
 Crankey, the monster whose hands shrank not from the 
 stains of innocent blood* He was not able to expel the 
 dreadful reflection from his mind, that at that very hour, 
 it might be, a fellow creature was suffering through his 
 own cruel instrumentality ! He could begin to feel the 
 truth that others have felt poignantly before him, 
 
 " Tis conscience that makes cowards of vfs alL" 
 
 An indefinable, and therefore a more dreadful fear, cast 
 its dark, 'dull shadow over his heart; the fear lest what 
 he had projected should not result exactly as he wished ; 
 lest some trifling accident that no human sense could 
 have foreseen and averted, might have come in between 
 him and his object, and might yet send back the guilt 
 with a terrible recoil upon his own soul. Under the mor 
 bid influence of such a fear, therefore, he was carried to 
 a pitch of excitement nearly related to insanity itself. 
 
 As soon as he sat down, every noise that reached him 
 at all suddenly from the street, started him half out of
 
 A MUTE MONITOK. 337 
 
 his chair. The sounds of the coming and going footsteps 
 on the pavements he caught with indescribable eagerness, 
 lest some of them might be the footsteps of an unwelcome 
 messenger. Every unexpected blast of wind upon the 
 blinds ; every creaking of a bough in the yard against 
 the window below; every doleful moan of a distant 
 swinging sign, struck a secret terror to his heart, as if 
 his very life might in a moment freeze and die within him. 
 
 His eyes, at these times in such paroxysms of fear, 
 seemed quite deprived of their power of vision. Mon 
 sters, now and then, dire and dread, mingling themselves 
 in shapeless masses, clutching and clawing at each other 
 over his head, kept him in a state of continual trembling. 
 He knew that he felt hot and sickening breaths, emitted 
 from the mouths of creatures that had no existence save 
 in his own diseased brain, streaming forth upon him, over 
 his face, in long, unbroken lines ; and unconsciously he 
 turned away his head in disgust, and gasped for air that was 
 free from the contamination of creatures so indescribable. 
 
 Suddenly his eyes grew bleared, and looked really 
 bloodshot ; so that he could but indistinctly observe ob 
 jects just across the room. Every thing seemed to swim 
 before him, or to grow strangely colored and distorted. 
 He actually thrust out his hands, as if he would know 
 whether the images that moved in his brain were real 
 ities in the focus of his diseased vision. 
 
 The room was fearfully still. A tomb, it seemed, 
 could hardly be more so. One could have heard dis 
 tinctly the slight scratch f a nail, or the merest creak 
 of a board. It was not a natural silence at all ; it seemed 
 ominous and awful. It was begotten of some influence 
 that must have been close of kin to death. Apparently 
 it was the brooding of some revolting terror over the 
 man over the heart over the entire apartment. 
 
 15
 
 338 A MUTE MONITOR. 
 
 And what was the cause of all this secret distress to 
 the heart of the man of money ? Why fetched he such 
 deep, deep breaths, like one whose lungs are stifling for 
 want of air, and who feels himself sinking down down 
 to a depth from which he can never rise again ? Were 
 not all his plans now perfect ? Had he omitted or over 
 looked one single trifling link in the iron chain he had 
 been forging ? Was there any loop-hole still left, out 
 through which he feared mischief arid final ruin might 
 creep slily on his wishes, overthrowing himself at the 
 same moment with them? Would not no^y his most 
 eager desire reach its realization the desire of obtaining, 
 even although by monstrous violence, the' paper that re 
 corded irresistible proof of his black-heartedness and 
 treachery ? 
 
 The door-bell rung. It was a hasty and alarming ring. 
 
 He started up as if he had heard the quick report of 
 a pistol. Every tinkle tinkle tinkle of the bell re 
 sounded sharply in his ears. The multiplied echoes rang 
 and kept ringing through the whole house. His heart 
 beat alarmingly faster, yet he could not tell why. The 
 blood flushed his face, and then as quickly left him pale 
 as a statue. He clutched the arms of his chair, and sat 
 bolt upright, staring every where about him. 
 
 There was something more that .started his fears. He 
 caught a sound like the shuffling of feet in the hali below. 
 And next he heard a tramp ; the steady tread of feet, 
 tramp tramp. 
 
 Now he sprang to his feet.* 
 
 He could hear a shriek below short and piercing. 
 Confused screams and cries from female voices reached 
 him, and his blood curdled with fear. And above all 
 other sounds came the quick voice of men calling, and 
 ordering, and advising.
 
 A MUTE MONITOR. 333 
 
 His heart was already in his mouth. He could neither 
 speak nor move. There he was standing in the middle of 
 the floor, frozen to the spot to which his nerveless limbs 
 held him, and gazing around him in resistless agitation 
 and blank dismay. Something had happened, he knew ; 
 but what ? 
 
 Now there were feet to be heard on the stairs ap 
 proaching. Each moment they came up up, and nearer 
 nearer. Now they were at the landing. Now at the 
 very door of his apartment. 
 
 He heard an abrupt and thundering knock ; and before 
 he could have had time to answer, the door was hastily 
 opened. A loud cry of distress a deep subdued moan 
 that came from the heart of a sufferer was all he heard. 
 A maid-servant stood before him, wringing her hands 
 and almost choking with her great grief. 
 
 " Wh what is the matter ?" 
 
 It was all he could do to gasp it out. 
 
 " Oh, sir! Oh, sir!" cried the girl, at length; "come 
 down stairs and see ! Only come yourself and see the 
 dreadful dreadful sight !" and again she fell to weep 
 ing more bitterly than before. 
 
 "Who where am I? What is it? Who has come? 
 Tell me, girl !" he shouted, seizing her frenziedly by the 
 arm. 
 
 "Down stairs, sir! Down stairs!" she cried. "Oh, 
 cruel cruel thing ! Oh, sir only go down stairs and 
 see it for yourself!" 
 
 So unsatisfactory an answer, which was quite all the 
 affrighted creature ould give him, fired him with an en 
 ergy he never knew before. Yet with the energy came 
 a dreadful fear that was sickening and deathly. 
 
 "'Merciful Heavens!" he exclaimed. "What does all 
 this mean ! In my own house, too ! What can it mean !"
 
 340 . A MUTE MONITOR. 
 
 and lie rushed madly past the girl, and hurried out through 
 the door. 
 
 Down the hall stairs he pursued his headlong way 
 his brain whirling and his eyes swimming, thinking not 
 of himself or his own safety and drove onward till he 
 came up with a dark knot of men gathered in a door at 
 the further end of the hall. As he reached them one of 
 them caught hold of his arm to keep him back. 
 
 "Who is it?" he demanded, gazing insanely into the 
 faces of them all. " What does this mean ? I demand 
 of you to tell me ! What ait you doing here ? Am I 
 in my own house ? Do I know what I am about ? Is n't 
 this Jacob Dollar ? Do I see these men here before me ? 
 What are you here for ? What is it ? Let go of me ! 
 Let me go in ! Stand back, I say all of you ! Make 
 room for me ! What does all this mean ?" 
 
 As he finished speaking thus passionately he made a 
 fearful effort to pass on, bracing his arms stoutly against 
 those who stood in his way. He appeared to possess 
 the strength of a madman. In another moment he had 
 forced himself into the room, when he strode across the 
 flooi to the spot about which the others were gathered. 
 
 Already the room was dark with the crowd of people. 
 They swayed and pushed this way and that, every face 
 betraying the deep and solemn feeling that ruled their 
 hearts. .The voices of all were low, and surcharged with 
 a heavy sadness. They bewildered the man of wealth 
 still the more, and made his terror the greater and more 
 appalling. 
 
 He worked a passage to the center of the group. 
 There was a table there, and across the table lay 
 stretched a body ! He started with a cry as his eyes 
 first fell on it. 
 
 Looking down nearer he saw the pale face of the
 
 A MUTE MONITOK. 341 
 
 corpse. Closer closer still, and he got a view of all its 
 lineaments. He saw all ! He knew all ! It was the 
 body of his only son and child ! 
 
 So sudden and overwhelming was the shock, that for a 
 moment he was struck dumb. He vented his anguish in 
 one single groan ; and that was all. Clasping his hands 
 together, and straining his wild gaze upon his child, he 
 seemed not to breathe, but to have yielded at last al 
 together to the distracting powers that beset his soul. 
 
 " Murdered !" whispered a voice that sounded in his 
 ear like a loud hiss. " See here !" and a man put away 
 the streaming locks of hair, and laid bare the ugly wound 
 across the pallid temple. 
 
 " Murdered !" suddenly seemed to echo itself in yells 
 in screeches in loud and direful cries in his ears, till the 
 voices echoed like the wails and sobs of a great tempest. 
 " Murdered ! Murdered !" He thought he had known 
 that word before. Those dread syllables seemed not 
 quite unfamiliar to him. They revived strange phantoms 
 that had dimly peopled his brain for many days. They 
 gave him, as it were, a half scent of blood, so that he 
 grew sick, and faint, and trembling. Oh, what a word^> 
 what a fearful word was that ! 
 
 The young man lay rigid in the arms of death. His 
 head had been thoughtfully adjusted so that his counte 
 nance wore its familiar expression, and his hands were 
 fixed stiff and motionless at his side. Those around the 
 table were viewing him with pitying eyes, lamenting the 
 fatal blow that robbed a fellow-being so cruelly of his life. 
 
 The lips exuded a white froth, showing that his death 
 was hard, and came only after the severest struggles with 
 nature. The eyes were wholly closed. The hair, that had 
 become considerably matted, was brushed carefully away 
 from the forehead now, revealing the broad mark of
 
 342 A MUTE JfcONITOR. 
 
 blood that was drawn across his left temple, and staining 
 the skin till it presented a horrid spectacle. At that 
 place the skull had been broken in. That was where the 
 assassin's bludgeon fell. Through this aperture the soul 
 had gone out again to its Maker. 
 
 The father at length comprehended it all, and then 
 broke forth in a wail of agony that was uncontrollable : 
 
 " Oh, my boy ! my boy ! my own dear boy ! This 
 great wickedness ! this cruel, cruel wrong Oh, this 
 wicked murder ! Who has done it ! Who has robbed me 
 of my own child my only child ? Oh, who has done it ? 
 Henry, my child !" he took hold of his cold hand, and 
 slowly lifted it up from his side " speak to me only 
 once more ! Only once, dear Henry ! Speak again to 
 me! Oh, do speak! Oh, God ! what has come on me 
 to-day ! What a wicked wretch ! Oh, what a crime is 
 this! If I had never lived to see it ! If I had died be 
 fore you, my dear son ! Speak, Henry ! Speak ! Oh, 
 my wicked, wicked soul ! my wretched heart ! my 
 bloody hands!" and he held them up before his eyes. 
 " God forgive me ! God only forgive me !" 
 
 He continued to bend over to the face of his dead son, 
 uttering such wild ejaculations as these, until, in conse 
 quence of some sudden and inexplicable revulsion of feel 
 ing, he turned like an insane man, rushed out of the room, 
 and ran up stairs into the apartment he had just left, se 
 curing the door after him. 
 
 Then pacing the floor frantically to and fro, he began 
 to bewail the terrible calamity that had fallen on him. 
 The vivid recollection, too, of the murderer's project he 
 had himself so lately planned with his confederate, Isaac 
 Crankey, now flashed over his guilty soul, and made his 
 torment harrowing beyond description. He saw how his 
 own wicked scheme had miscarried. He saw how fear-
 
 A MUTE MONITOR. 343 
 
 fully it had been made to recoil upon himself; how bitter, 
 how very bitter, was the draught, when the chalice was 
 held for his own lips to drain ! 
 
 And laying his head at last upon the table, and burying 
 his face in his hands, he wept aloud. 
 
 Poor, guilty, crime-overtaken man Tears were all 
 the relief his soul could at such a time enjoy. He might 
 well thank God for even them.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 
 
 THE funeral solemnities were hardly over, when the 
 real nature of Mr. Dollar began to exhibit itself in a way 
 that few of his friends or acquaintance would have sus 
 pected. As if possessed of a spirit of revenge that would 
 better have belonged to a fiend, he immediately set him 
 self about the work of exacting blood for the blood, that 
 had already been shed. It was not enough that the law 
 had taken this mysterious matter into its own hands ; he 
 would go beyond the law ; its operations were too slow 
 for a spirit so maddened as his ; he would go as far as 
 he who went farthest, in ferreting out and bringing to 
 condign punishment the perpetrator of a crime so revolt 
 ing. It was true that all this would not restore his son 
 to him again ; it would never bring back that presence, 
 that look, those familiar words, never so dear to him as 
 now ; but revenge would be so sweet to a nature like his, 
 and would drive away more harrowing memories in the 
 wild excitement "of its pursuit. 
 
 " I have money, enough of it," said he. " It shall 
 every dollar melt from my hands rather than the gallows 
 shall go cheated of its victim ! I will spend all I am worth 
 before I will suffer the cold-blooded murderer of my child 
 to go unpunished !" 
 
 And night and day he labored perseveringly at his re 
 solution. He pried into minute circumstances, that had
 
 ACCUSE B AND ACCUSED. 345 
 
 transpired immediately before the homicide, with a zeal 
 that even the secret police might have taken pattern 
 after. He searched through the most trifling bits and 
 shreds of fact, to see if he could find nothing to fix and 
 hold fast his suspicions. He built up imaginary theories, 
 and made them at times so exceedingly plausible, that he 
 wondered with himself if he had not really hit at last upon 
 the key to the whole nefarious mystery. Upon this 
 single subject he was little better than a monomaniac. 
 
 Throughout the whole of his excitement, his mind had 
 fastened itself upon one person, whom he believed, or 
 wished to believe, the author of this crime. All his 
 thoughts were actively engaged in creating and collecting 
 proofs no matter how fine-spun they might be to in- 
 mesh that person in the fatal web of his accusation. His 
 earnest desire of fastening guilt upon him far outran his 
 ability to collect satisfactory evidence upon which to base 
 his charge. Yet he did not hesitate or falter. His crazed 
 thoughts gave him no rest, day or night. They would be 
 at some work continually ; and no work was more con 
 genial than this. He raved openly about the violent 
 death of his son, assuring every one who was willing to 
 listen to him, that the murderer should not, and could 
 not escape. People only thought him earnestly anxious 
 to bring a criminal to deserved punishment ; but in fact 
 the sole object of his pursuit was revenge. 
 
 As a matter of course, energetic inquiries were imme 
 diately set on foot in all quarters of the town, for ferret 
 ing out and bringing to speedy justice the author of a 
 deed so diabolical. Here stood a young man on the 
 threshold of life, as it were, with a heart jubilant in the 
 prospect outstretched before him, and filled with the im 
 pulses begotten of bright hopes and generous feelings. 
 This was what people said. 
 
 15*
 
 346 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 
 
 And this young man had been suddenly, and without 
 any warning, sent out of the world ; hurried, driven into 
 the presence of his Maker. He loved life, it was prob 
 able, as well as others. His enjoyments might have been 
 quite as perfect and satisfactory. He had relations whom, 
 he loved, and who without doubt loved him tenderly in 
 return. Then how cruel the blow that deprived him un 
 expectedly of life ! How black indeed the villain's heart 
 who laid in wait to deal the deadly stroke with his weapon. 
 
 Alas, alas! such poor, weak, superficial judges of the 
 human heart are we, after all ! Little knew, and little 
 thought those who thus reasoned and felt with them 
 selves, that his heart was filled with nothing but plots of 
 murder and wrong at the very moment of his fearful 
 death ! Who could undertake to say that he had met 
 with nothing more than his just retribution! 
 
 And while the authorities studied and labored over 
 the dark mystery, the frantic father raved and labored 
 too. At length he felt that he had come so closely upon 
 the heart of the matter, that he openly declared the real 
 murderer could not go loose upon the world another day ! 
 Society should not longer be kept in fear by his unchained 
 presence ! He was a monster that deserved to live only 
 in the process of a slow death ! fit only to be lifted by 
 his neck between the heavens and the earth, for a ter 
 rible warning and example ! Justice, yes, justice, he said, 
 was all he wanted ; and of that no human being* should 
 defraud him ! He would have it, too, right speedily ! 
 
 And^his half insane man, who goes about with such 
 high-sounding phrases in behalf only of right who fears 
 so much for the safety of the social system from the tem 
 porary freedom of the murderer who is so willing to 
 spend all the accumulations of laborious years, that one 
 single crime may not go unaccompanied with its proper
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 34Y 
 
 reward this man could himself plan a cold-blooded as 
 sault that might result in death ; could project the sub 
 sequent robbery of an insensible person, and still cry out 
 against another who happened to put the cup to his own 
 lips " Justice ! I will have justice !" Could it be that in 
 the providence of One greater than he, the poison he had 
 mixed for another he had been forced to swallow himself? 
 
 One more day passed. 
 
 Duncan Morrow sat in his room engaged in reading. 
 It was evening. The leisure he had after the expiration 
 of the day's business he did not allow to go unimproved ; 
 and at this particular hour he happened to be thoughtfully 
 studying the pregnant page of Shakspeare. By a some 
 what strange coincidence, the play to which he had turn 
 ed happened to be Macbeth. His soul was already deeply 
 wrought upon by the power of the great master, and 
 every feeling and emotion was absorbed in the unfolding 
 of the passions of the bemgs that lived on the page. He 
 offered a picture of a devoted student giving "his soul to 
 the subject before him. 
 
 Suddenly he thought he heard footsteps on the stairs 
 as of men coming up. He lifted his eyes from the book 
 and attentively listened. 
 
 The men reached the door, and knocked. Rising im 
 mediately from his chair, and holding the volume still in 
 his hand, he opened to his visitors. They at once accost 
 ed him^with hasty and in coherent words ; and one of the 
 two asked if his name was Duncan Morrow. 
 
 " It is," he answered him. 
 
 Thereupon both of the strangers pushed into the room, 
 and closed the door after them. 
 
 " It 's an unpleasant duty to perform," said the one who 
 had put the question, " but we can't help that. You are 
 arrested on a charge of murder !"
 
 348 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 
 
 Duncan shrank back aghast. His face suddenly grew 
 pale as death. For an instant he could not speak. 
 
 "Me ! MURDER !" he was able at length to exclaim. 
 
 They simply nodded an affirmative. Their silence as 
 sured him that they were perfectly serious in the business 
 in which they had come. 
 
 Then for the first time the whole of the dread suspi 
 cion flashed over him. He seemed now to understand at 
 a glance what all this meant. 
 
 " Tell me the whole, then !" he commanded them. 
 " Upon whom is it charged that I have committed this 
 crime ?" 
 
 " Henry Dollar ; your own cousin," was the answer. 
 
 " It is enough," returned Duncan, in a tone of unaf 
 fected sorrow. " I will go with you willingly. But I 
 wish you to understand me I ana innocent perfectly 
 innocent !" 
 
 The better to quiet their own fears, they proposed to 
 slip a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. He assured them 
 that would be quite unnecessary ; yet if they entertained 
 even the most trifling fears for his escape, he would cer 
 tainly consent to be ironed. And while they were per 
 forming the task, they could not but secretly admire the 
 proud bearing that nothing but his own lofty sense of in 
 nocence could have begotten. From the studious quiet 
 of his little apartment, therefore, they bore him away to 
 the sterner custody of prison walls, there to await action 
 by the properly constituted authorities. 
 
 That was his first night in a felon's cell. He paced the 
 floor for some time after his entrance within the four chill 
 and repulsive walls, and finally seated himself on the little 
 bed spread out upon its iron frame. A light twinkled on 
 a stand in the further corner, making the gloom more op 
 pressive. The four walls, with the low, dungeony ceiling,
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 349 
 
 made his flesh creep coldly, and almost stifled his breath 
 ing. 
 
 " Oh, well," said he, in a low voice, " better even so, if 
 one has but the assurance of his innocence !" and he 
 threw himself down prone upon the bunk. 
 
 It was long afterward when he went to sleep, with 
 no feeling like oppressiveness at his conscience with no 
 load on his heart and with the heavy recollection of no 
 great guilt to drag around with his thoughts wherever 
 they journeyed. He had been troubled, and tnnibled 
 deeply j^et at no moment had he wanted strength to 
 fortify himself. He reposed on a feeling of security that 
 nothing but complete innocence could have given him. 
 
 The next moi*ning he was taken before a magistrate of 
 police, and examined touching the matter of which he 
 was accused. What could exceed his astonishment 
 even if it did not rise to absolute indignation to find 
 that Mr. Jacob Dollar himself appeared against him, and 
 was in fact his loudest and most strenuous accuser ! Little 
 facts had been carefully collected and collated ; minute 
 and seemingly unimportant circumstances were patched 
 and strung together ; unworthy suspicions such as could 
 hardly come from less than a bad man himself were 
 adroitly glossed over with a semblance of truth and real 
 ity; and a chain of isolated incidents and occurrences 
 was so ingenuously linked together seemingly without a 
 break or so mugh as a flaw that Duncan actually started 
 in half alarm on seeing these evidences of crime adduced 
 against him, unable, too, to put against them all any 
 thing more than the simple protestation of his innocence. 
 
 This was well as far as it went ; but, unfortunately, it 
 fell far short of the weight required to overbalance the 
 plausible evidence of the accusation. So he was remand 
 ed by the magistrate to prison, to await his trial before
 
 350 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 
 
 the appropriate tribunal. And with, confusion of face he 
 was conducted back to his cell, his heai-t bursting with 
 the feelings he was not allowed to express. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the same day his cell-door was 
 opened, and the keeper ushered in a female. Duncan 
 was sitting moodily in the only chair the apartment con 
 tained, vainly trying to comprehend and more thoroughly 
 realize his fearful situation. 
 
 As the lady entered he gazed earnestly in her face for a 
 moment, and then hastily rose from his seat and offered it 
 to her. Evidently, in that dim and uncertain light, he could 
 not, see her distinctly enough to make out who she was. 
 
 "Duncan," at once spoke the female, aware that he 
 did not recognize her, " don't you know me ?" 
 
 He approached nearer, and looked fixedly in her face. 
 Immediately he threw up his clasped hands, and called 
 aloud, " Ellen ! Is it you, Ellen ? Have you come to 
 accuse me, too ?" 
 
 " No, Duncan ; no. Only be calm a little while. I 
 came to hear from your own lips what all this meant. I 
 must know. If you can quiet my fears, oh, Duncan ! do 
 so at once ! Yet I would know only the truth ! Do not 
 deceive me ! Let me still continue to trust you, even if 
 your hands are stained with another's blood " 
 
 As she paused she threw an impressive glance toward 
 the turnkey, which he seemed at once to understand, and 
 withdrew from the apartment. 
 
 " Oh, Ellen ! Ellen !" groaned the young man. " How 
 your heart must revolt at a scene like this ! This mon 
 strous accusation how it must change all your feelings 
 toward me ! Wretch that I am, to be the cause of drag 
 ging you down, down into the deep of this infamy !" 
 
 " Do not think of that, Duncan. Listen only to the 
 secret whispers of your own conscience. What that tells
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 351 
 
 you is of far more importance than any sort of consolation 
 I or any one else could ever hope to give." 
 
 " I know it, Ellen ! I know it !" he returned, with a 
 great deal of passionate feeling. 
 
 " Our situation," she continued, " is a peculiar one. I 
 do not come here at this time, Duncan, to accuse you, or 
 to upbraid you with even a single syllable. You ought 
 to know my heart well enough to believe any thing 
 rather than that of me. But the first intelligence of this 
 dreadful matter so startled me that I knew not what to 
 do. Desert you, and when you were only accused 
 not yet proved guilty-^how could I ? Where should I 
 go for advice ? Whom should I call on to satisfy me any 
 better either of your guilt or your innocence ? I was in a 
 state of the most dreadful perplexity and distress !" 
 
 " Oh, Ellen ! Dear Ellen !" 
 
 "Suddenly my course was plainly pointed out to me. 
 I saw it all marked down at a single flash of my thought. 
 I resolved to come immediately to you, and first of all to 
 learn from your own lips the truth or falsehood of this 
 great, great accusation. Now, Duncan, you will tell me 
 the whole. Even if you are covered with guilt, I can not 
 wholly banish you from my heart, if you confess to me 
 the truth. No no, Duncan, I must only pity you yes, 
 pity you the more !" 
 
 Her eyes were dim with tears, as she finished speaking ; 
 and when they fell on the uplifted face of the unhappy 
 young man, she saw that the great drops were likewise 
 chasing each other rapidly down his cheeks. For a little 
 time not a word further was spoken. He took her hand 
 gently in his as they stood there in the middle of the 
 floor, and she bowed her head upon his breast. Their 
 mingled sobs filled the little cell with a sorrow to* which 
 its twilight gloom seemed a peculiar adaptation.
 
 352 ACCUSES AND ACCUSED. 
 
 " I want your help," at length half groaned and halfi 
 sobbed the prisoner, " your sympathy ! I must have it. 
 Ellen, or I can not live !" 
 
 " Only tell me the whole truth about this awful crime," 
 she returned, not lifting her face from his bosom. " Tell 
 me if you did it ! Are you guilty, Duncan ? Oh, do 
 not keep any thing from me ! Let me know ail ; let me 
 know the very worst !" 
 
 "Ellen, dear Ellen," he spoke, his voice suddenly 
 growing calm, " you shall know the truth, and from me, 
 too, I am innocent! I am not guilty of this fearful 
 crime ! I know not a syllable of its commission ! Do 
 you believe me, Ellen ?" 
 
 She raised her head slowly, and her dimmed eyes 
 sought his face. On it sat enthroned a look of perfect 
 tranquillity and composure. A sweet light seemed in a 
 moment to have shed itself over all his features, and he 
 stood before her wonderfully changed. His attitude was 
 firm and resolute. His head sat erectly on his shoulders. 
 He wore the mien of one whose inmost soul had furnished 
 the words his lips had just spoken. 
 
 " Do I believe you !" she repeated, still gazing with a 
 a look of blended joy and anxiety, which it is impossible 
 to describe, into his speaking countenance. " Oh, it is 
 such bliss to me, Duncan, to know you are innocent! 
 Speak that word again ! only once more ! It sounds so 
 sweet when it comes from you !" 
 
 " As I live," repeated he, " I am innocent ! My heart 
 does not accuse me, and it never will !" 
 
 Immediately he clasped her almost lifeless form in his 
 arms, and held her there till the passion of this mutual 
 joy had in some degree exhausted itself. 
 
 The day ended to them both with all the blessed calm 
 of a Sabbath. Duncan was assured of her undying love,
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 353 
 
 and she of his perfect innocence. Nothing could strain 
 apart the thrice-knit bond of their affection now. 
 
 Before he went to sleep that night, and long enough 
 after Ellen had left hirn alone again, he sat at a little 
 tahle that was provided him, and wrote to his sister. He 
 gave her a frank statement of the unfortunate matter, and 
 begged her not to be in the least degree troubled ; for he 
 felt no remorse himself, and could feel none, for the simple 
 reason that he was haunted with no consciousness of 
 guilt. 
 
 The second day after, the letter was placed in the 
 hands of Alice, while she was sitting in the pleasant 
 shadow before her little door. Mrs. Polly did not hap 
 pen to see her when the letter was delivered, nor for 
 some time afterward ; so the poor girl's emotion was not 
 visible to any one. She ran the letter through, while 
 her heart beat with a fearful tumult. It read as fol 
 lows brief, under all the circumstances, yet concise and 
 emphatic : 
 
 "Is PRISON. 
 
 "Mr OWN DEAR SISTER I hasten to tell you my 
 self of the unexpected occurrences of the past two days, 
 preferring that you should receive your first intelligence 
 from me. Do not give yourself any needless alarm, then, 
 dear Alice, on learning that I have been an-ested, and 
 am at this moment confined in prison to await my trial. 
 You will, of course, wonder for what I am arrested. 
 You shall certainly know, though I do not doubt you 
 who know me so well will think it the most preposter 
 ous affair it is possible to imagine. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, dear Alice, I am charged with 
 murder ! Do not start, nor shudder, for there is no need 
 of it. I was alarmed at first myself; but my mind is com 
 posed now. My conscience fails to accuse me, and that
 
 354 -ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 
 
 is enough. But upon whom do you think I am accused 
 of committing this crime ? Upon my own cousin Henry 
 Dollar ! He was found dead in the public streets one 
 evening, and as it was known that we were on not at all 
 good terms, I am immediately suspected of his murder ! 
 On my examination before a magistrate, who should be 
 there to thrust the charge in my face with an earnestness 
 I could hardly help pitying him for, but Henry Dollar's 
 own father ! 
 
 " I am entirely at a loss to understand what proofs can 
 be brought, with any degree of success, against me, 
 though I felt at first a little alarmed at the plausible na 
 ture of the suspicious circumstances he ingeniously col 
 lected and arranged in support of his charge. All these, 
 however, -must in the end fall to the ground of them 
 selves. But the malice with which that man seems to 
 pursue me every where, is what people generally know 
 nothing about, and can not understand. It was but a few 
 days since that I went to him, as I then told him, for the 
 last time, and demanded to know if he was ready to settle 
 the estate of our mother upon you, as I before suggested. 
 He utterly refused to do any thing about it, and in fact 
 drove me from his presence in a storm of rage. I can 
 see, I think, a close connection between that event arid 
 my present situation. But who would believe now what 
 I might have to say of him ? No, dear Alice, I must be 
 dumb, and hope for a release only through the kindness 
 of the Providence I have always trusted! 
 
 "But in all this tribulation, I am supported by the con 
 tinued love of one whose affection I have long labored to 
 deserve, and one whom you would even now delight to 
 call ' sister.' Ellen Worthington for you should at this 
 time know her name is my soul's surest strength. She 
 believes in my innocence, and I yet live in her love. Oh,
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 355 
 
 Alice ! if you could but know what happiness I am still, 
 allowed to enjoy, in feeling the assurance that the purest 
 heart in all the world still believes my own to be inno 
 cent of all wrong ! This it is that consoles me in the 
 midst of such distressing circumstances ! 
 
 * * **** % % % 
 
 " Write me as soon as you can, dear sister, and prom 
 ise me solemnly that you will not sorrow for my present 
 misfortunes, but rather believe that out of them all I shall 
 at last come to a greater victory. My love to good Mrs. 
 Polly ; tell her from me there is no need to despair. A 
 better feeling is the one needed now. 
 
 " Always your devoted brother, 
 
 " DUNCAN MOKROW." 
 
 Alice finished reading the letter, and suffered it to fall 
 tremblingly into her lap. " Oh, if he should be found 
 guilty!" her heart silently said -to her. And she finally 
 put her bonnet on and walked rapidly away from the 
 cottage. 
 
 Passing through the village street, she turned off hast 
 ily into the road that conducted to the house of Mr. 
 Rivers, and toiled up the gradual ascent till she reached 
 the -spot. The first one she asked to see was Martha. She 
 knew just where to go for sympathy hi a time like that. 
 
 Martha accosted her in the door, and the poor dumb 
 girl eagerly took her hands and burst into tears. Oh, 
 the tears of those whose tongues can not express their 
 sorrows ! What griefs touch the feeling heart m<ore 
 deeply than theirs ! Martha's eyes immediately filled, 
 through nothing but pure sympathy. Alice led her 
 friend to a seat on the piazza-bench, and, drawing the 
 letter from its place against her burning heart, gave it 
 her to read.
 
 356 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 
 
 Words are hardly sufficient to describe the mingled 
 tumult of feelings with which the intelligence contained 
 in the letter was conveyed to her mind. Alice's own 
 brother charged with a crime so fearful as that of mur 
 der ! And her own dear friend, Ellen Worthington, be- 
 trothe"d to the one who stood thus accused ! It was pre 
 posterous nay, it seemed even impossible. 
 
 She hurried away to acquaint her sister Mary with 
 what she had just learned, and both returned to their 
 visitor on the piazza to offer her their silent, though none 
 the less deep, sympathy. Great tears stood in the eyes 
 of the mute, glittering evidences of her inward wretch 
 edness. Martha sat down close beside her, and the 
 afflicted girl instinctively took her hand again, as if it 
 were some secret link binding her to her friend's heart. 
 And in the silence that dwelt all around her she sat and 
 gazed upon the floor, never moving her eyes, and never 
 changing that indescribably sad expression of her coun 
 tenance. 
 
 The sisters were too astonished to say much as yet. 
 The intelligence of this unfortunate connection of their 
 friend Ellen with such an affair, though it was most re 
 mote and indirect, struck a sort of dismay to .their hearts, 
 and they inwardly wondered what might come next. 
 This was the first time, too, they had ever had reason to 
 suspect so much 'as an acquaintance between Ellen and 
 the brother of Alice. And now it flashed suddenly over 
 the mind of Martha, the whole of it : this was the cause 
 of -Ellen's strange interest in Alice during the first visit 
 they paid the little cottage in her company ! Here was 
 the clear explanation of what at the time seemed so mys 
 terious and unusual ! 
 
 Of course the news of Duncan's arrest for his cousin's 
 murder speedily reached every ear about Draggledew
 
 ACCUSER AND ACCUSED. 357 
 
 Plain ; and not a single person, old or young, was left out 
 of the great circle that held up its united hands in horror, 
 or attempted its thorough and satisfactory discussion. 
 The excitement there was quite as intense as it was 
 nearer to the real scene of the action itself.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A SECRET OUT. 
 
 MR. ARTHUR HOLLIDAT sat in the little arbor again 
 with Martha, on one of the most golden days of -Autumn. 
 A soft haze draped the landscape, enrobing the distant 
 hills, brilliant with the varied forest dyes, with a beauty 
 that cheated the senses out of the reality, and lulled the 
 thoughts into a rapturous reverie. The fruits all about 
 in the orchard were yellow among the boughs, bending 
 them down nearly to the ground. Only the fall flowers 
 erected their stems and displayed their rich garniture of 
 blossoms along the borders, or in knots about the hearts 
 of the beds ; while leaves, long sere, lay strewn here and 
 there in the paths, and sad-voiced crickets were slowly 
 letting their little clocks run down in the faded and dry 
 ing grass. 
 
 The spirits of the youthful lovers certainly were tinged 
 with the soft coloring of melancholy that belonged to the 
 time, and for a long while they sat within the little arbor 
 both silent and thoughtful. Martha would perhaps have 
 broken this silence frequently enough, but she thought 
 she discovered a look in the countenance of her compan 
 ion that steadily forbade her. 
 
 It was only after quite a long interval, indeed, that he 
 spoke himself. " Martha," said he, and his voice was so 
 sadly solemn that she started'at the sound, " my thoughts 
 have troubled me much since the hour of our betrothal !"
 
 A SECRET OUT. 359 
 
 " Are you not so happy, then ?" 
 
 " Oh, not because of that not for that ; but I have a 
 burden to carry about with me that that " 
 
 " But may I not share it with you ? Can not I help 
 you carry the load ?" 
 
 A pause again. 
 
 " Yes, dear Martha," said he, looking in her face with 
 eyes glowing with affection " yes, you shall share it 
 with me, if you will. But I accuse myself because I have 
 not told you all this before. Perhaps" and he hesitated 
 a little " you may not feel toward me just as you do 
 now when you come to hear the whole of the history I 
 have to relate." 
 
 " Arthur ! what can you mean ? Do you think I am 
 one to" 
 
 " No, no, Martha ; I do not misjudge the heart you 
 have given to me. I hope I appreciate the whole of 
 your noble and truthful nature. Yet when I look back 
 over the long history that till this day has been kept from 
 you, and remember that you should have known it all, 
 every syllable, long before you plighted me the richest of 
 your affections, how can I help accusing myself, and most 
 severely, too, for falling so far short of my duty?" 
 "You perplex me, Arthur," she returned, uneasily ; "I 
 can not think how any secret you have hitherto seen 
 proper to keep from me, especially if it concerns yourself 
 more than it does me, can operate to my harm." 
 
 " Perhaps it might, indirectly." 
 
 " Then pray tell me at once, and rid both of us of this 
 suspense. What do you refer to, Arthur ?" 
 
 "It is nothing less than the one great secret of my life. 
 Unquestionably you have yourself suspected there was 
 some strange way to my early days that you had not yet 
 explored. You never heard me speak of my youth or of
 
 360 A SECRET OUT. 
 
 ray friends. Martha, I have had no friends. Since the 
 day I was six years old I have been but the plaything of 
 circumstances, tossed hither and thither as the winds of 
 fortune veered and shifted, until I have finally thrown 
 anchor in this quiet haven here. 
 
 " It is of my-youth, my connections, my parents, I want 
 to speak. You shall have the whole story in a few words, 
 for it will only come down to the time when, a mere child, 
 I Avas thrown on the world. Hear it now, Martha, and 
 then tell me in all frankness if the discovery will hi the 
 least change your feelings toward me." 
 
 She looked a tender rebuke at him, but made no reply. 
 
 " To begin where I should, then," continued he, " and 
 in fact where I shall only end my father is a crimintil! 
 That was the sternest truth my mother's lips ever taught 
 me ! It sunk itself at once into my memory nay, into 
 my whole nature, and in a great degree shaped the course 
 of my after-life. 
 
 " What my father's name was I do not remember, even 
 li I was ever told. The crime he was guilty of was com 
 mitted before I could well fix these things in my mind. 
 I only knew what fny mother chose to tell me ; the rest 
 is oblivion to me, the whole of it. 
 
 " The crime in question was forgery. My father had 
 been in an excellent business, and was believed to be do 
 ing well. His friends gathered around him, and his 
 friendships ripened into perpetual enjoyments. I was an 
 only child. He had been married to my mother but a 
 few years, and every thing was going on with abundant 
 prospects of prosperity. He was contented in his occu 
 pation, and apparently blessed in his domestic relations. 
 Things seemed to turn out, as he went along, about as he 
 would have wished. All his acquaintance congratulated 
 him on his apparent success.
 
 A SECRET OUT. 361 
 
 " But there 's no lane that is without a turning. From 
 some unfortunate combination of circumstances, or from 
 an unfortunate speculation that just at that crisis over 
 whelmed him, or some other cause that I may never have 
 heard of, he found himself suddenly crippled in his re 
 sources, and obliged either to make a full surrender of 
 his property for his creditor's benefit, or do something 
 desperate to retrieve his fortunes. 
 
 " He chose the latter course, and committed forgery ! 
 Who the victim of his iniquity was I can not tell you. I 
 never heard, and I am certain I never have sought to 
 know since I came to years of maturer understanding. 
 It has been a religious principle of my conduct since, 
 never to re-open the heait of the calamity that at so ten 
 der aft age fell on my mother and myself. 
 
 " I was told by my mother that he had his trial before 
 a jury of his countrymen. Proof of his guilt was too 
 glaringly plain to be questioned. The very instrument 
 of his crime was produced in open court. Witnesses 
 were ready to cut oif all possible means of escape for 
 him, and to hedge about him the snares that he had 
 framed with his own reckless hand. He was convicted, 
 and sentenced to seventeen years imprisonment at hard 
 labor in the State Prison ! And this man was my own 
 father, Martha ! this guilty criminal ! this inmate of a 
 prison-cell ! Can you hear me thus quietly, when you 
 know my name is surrounded with such associations ?" 
 
 " Go on ; pray go on," answered Martha, much moved 
 by the unexpected narrative. 
 
 " Not long after his sentence, my mother determined 
 on a step that she thought due both to herself and her 
 offspring. She was fully resolved that neither herself, 
 nor any living child of hers, should share the disgrace 
 my father had brought upon his own head. I think her 
 
 16
 
 362 A SECBET OUT. 
 
 sympathies for him must by this time have at. died out, 
 to enable her to adopt such a measure. Most wivea 
 might have sorrowed on to the end. But she did not do 
 so ; or if she did it was such a secret sorrow that none 
 knew of its influence or existence. 
 
 " Her husband being already a convicted criminal, the 
 law allowed her a divorce without any further trouble 
 than the simple proof of this ; which the record of the 
 criminal court abundantly offered. The proof was pro 
 duced, and the divorce granted. 
 
 " She told me of her having assumed her maiden name 
 again, and that name she immediately bestowed upon, 
 me. In truth I have never known any other. Holliday 
 will be my name while I live. 
 
 " It was hardly more than a year after this great event 
 in her life that she sickened and died. Oh, I remember 
 that sad experience but too well to this day ! I can go 
 back to the bedside of the only being I then loved, and 
 see her pale face once more, and catch the sound of her 
 low voice as she spoke words of such tenderness to me. 
 I remember too well what a big sorrow swelled and 
 burst in my little heart then, and how my eyes rained 
 hot tears continually. I saw her hand grow thin and 
 shadow-like, and her flesh waste slowly from her cheek. 
 Oh, Martha, as I live, I do to this day believe that it 
 was nothing but her hidden sorrow that was consum 
 ing her ! I can now understand what I never thought 
 of grasping and measuring then. I think I can appre 
 ciate, as I can hardly less than woi'ship, the stern heroism 
 with which she concealed her agony, and went about 
 among her acquaintance with a placid countenance, while 
 her side was pierced with cruel arrows. I could not see 
 it then. Perhaps no one could see it then. But I can 
 now.
 
 A SECRET OUT. 363 
 
 - 
 
 "And my dear suffering mother died, bequeathing me 
 to the world, and confidently hoping the bequest would 
 not be flung scornfully away. My sun sank at once out of 
 sight. The light of my heart went out in darkness. I 
 was alone, and I stumbled slowly along, groping blindly 
 on my passage. What my experiences have been since 
 that time of early trial, what fortunes and misfortunes 
 have kept me tossing here and there in the seething sea 
 of the world, it would be uninteresting for me to relate ; 
 and it would all be of no profit even if I did. * 
 
 " But this dark mystery that has thrown its long shadow 
 over my whole life, and will shadow it to its very end 
 this I thought it imperative that you should know. I 
 only upbraid myself for not telling you of it before, when 
 you should certainly have known the whole of my history. 
 It might have modified your feelings toward me perhaps 
 changed them entirely." 
 
 "Arthur!" reprovingly exclaimed the gii'l, hurt at such 
 a suspicion. 
 
 " Pardon me ; I would not willingly wound you ; rather 
 would I inflict chastisement on my own self, for I know 
 that I deserve it severely. But will you tell me, dear 
 Martha, that you can reconcile yourself to an alliance for 
 life with one who carries in his own blood the taint of a 
 criminal? Can you continue to love me, nay, will you 
 not rather feel inclined to scorn me, now that so humili 
 ating a confession has been made to you ?" 
 
 " Arthur, do you know my nature yet ? You wrong 
 me ! You wrong me more than you can be aware !" 
 
 " Forgive me for it ! Forgive me, I beg of you ! In 
 my own feeling of abasement I could not help forgetting 
 what was due to another. If I could but be assured, 
 Martha, that you love me in spite of ah 1 this !" 
 
 Hers was too noble a nature to be swayed by consid-
 
 864 , A SECRET OUT. 
 
 orations such as this. She had given her affections to 
 him not to the fortunate circumstances with which he 
 promised to be surrounded, not to his friends, or to his 
 family connections. But a single object filled her heai*t, 
 and that object was himself. Come misfortune or come 
 contumely, she could bear up bravely under it all, so she 
 stood by the side of him. 
 
 That was an hour of new joy to the heart of the young 
 author, in which he almost experienced the delight of the 
 hour of his betrothal. He beheld traits in the character 
 of Martha that he had never been able to detect be 
 fore. She seemed to send out all about her an irra 
 diating influence, that bespoke the exalted purity of her 
 nature and the strength of its affections. 
 
 " But your father," said she, after a pause; "has not 
 the time expired during which he was to suffer imprison 
 ment ?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Arthur, thoughtfully; "he ought 
 to have been released last winter, if I have calculated 
 rightly." 
 
 It was surely a trying point to press, and Martha would 
 not have troubled him, except for the activity of her own 
 sympathies. .- 
 
 " And can not you discover him now ? Have you never 
 seen him since his release ?" 
 
 " No," was the answer. 
 
 And the conversation on that subject stopped there. 
 
 It was after tea on the same evening when Maitha 
 descried her father walking alone at his leisure down in 
 the orchard ; and she hurried off after him with a secret 
 at her heart which she wished to communicate. He 
 received her with his usual pleasant greeting, .observ 
 ing the smile that kept playing continually about her 
 mouth.
 
 A SECRET OUT. 365 
 
 " Now I have got at the heart of the mystery that 
 troubled you so, father !" 
 He stopped short, and looked inquiringly into her face. 
 
 " What mystery, my daughter ?" 
 
 " Oh, of Arthur's life. I know it all, now. I know 
 the whole. He has told me." 
 
 " Well, and what is it ?" His curiosity was not a little 
 piqued at her manner, as well as with her words. " I al 
 ways said, you recollect, that there was something out 
 of the ordinary way locked up in his life ; and it seems 
 you have at last found it out !" 
 
 " Yes, father ; he has this very day told me of it all." 
 
 " And pray what is it ? Sit down here on this rock by 
 the side of me, and tell me the whole of it. Am I not as 
 interested as you, my daughter ?" 
 
 So they seated themselves on a rock in the quiet 
 orchard, and Martha went through the narration. 
 Not a point that was given her was slighted or for 
 gotten. 
 
 " Is it possible is it possible that this is all so ?" said 
 Mr. Rivers, rising hastily to his feet on the conclusion of 
 his daughter's narration. 
 
 She looked up into his face. It wore an expression of 
 deep and powerful excitement. 
 
 " Why, father ? Does it trouble you ? Will it change 
 your feelings toward Arthur ?" She stood on her feet, 
 too, and had lain her hand upon his arm. " Shall you 
 wish that I had never seen him, father? Shall you 
 want " 
 
 " No, no ; nothing of that, ray child. It's nothing, now. 
 I could not help my feelings very well, you know. But 
 I have controlled them now." 
 
 This was all the answer she got from him. He in 
 stantly changed the topic, and drawing his daughter's
 
 366 A SECRET OUT. 
 
 arm through his own they walked away in the direction 
 of the house. 
 
 But the startled manner of her father troubled her 
 still. It weighed more and more heavily on her- heart. 
 Was it possible that he could not call down a blessing on 
 this proposed union now that he had unraveled the mys 
 tery of the young author's heart? It was this alone 
 that troubled her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 
 
 jAa the public trial, so momentous an event to Mr. 
 Dollar as well as to Duncan, drew near, the feeling of 
 the community enlisted itself more and more intensely 
 on behalf of each of the parties connected with the same, 
 and watched for the approach of the day that should de 
 cide the prisoner's innocence or guilt, almost as eagerly 
 as he did himself. People began to form themselves into 
 parties in relation to the subject, espousing such a view 
 as their instinctive feelings of sympathy or generosity 
 naturally ^suggested. Some thought the youthful prisoner 
 could be nothing less than a monster of brutality ; and 
 secretly congratulated themselves and the community 
 that he was to be put at length beyond the possibility of 
 further mischief and crime. Others again extended noth 
 ing toward his unhappy condition but the white arms 
 of their tenderest compassion, and hoped that even if he 
 were proved guilty which could not be made out be 
 yond every peradventure he at least might be spared a 
 cruel and ignominious death on the scaffold. 
 
 Mr. Dollar in no way relaxed his energetic efforts to 
 procure the condemnation of his nephew, and his sub 
 sequent punishment. Litense grief had in a degree given 
 way to intense hatred, and a burning desire for revenge. 
 His ordinary powers of mind seemed to have been sud-
 
 368 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 
 
 denly unseated, and their place usurped by the basest, the 
 narrowest, and most groveling passions. 
 
 He had engaged one of the ablest advocates in capital* 
 trials that the whole city afforded, and enjoined it upon 
 him over and over again to see to it that that this mur 
 derer of his son was not permitted to escape. Day after 
 day he rushed breathlessly into the office of his lawyer ; 
 and again and again he would ask him if he felt perfectly 
 certain of his ability to convict the prisoner. 
 
 " Recollect," he said, " that I employ you, sir, to assist 
 the attorney for the State ; but you shall so exert your 
 great talents that you shall feel sure of obtaining a ver 
 dict for me, even if you had no such assistance ! I want 
 you to take the whole responsibility of my case upon 
 your own shoulders ; if you gain it for me you shall be 
 paid whatever you desire, even if it is to the last dollar 
 of my fortune !" 
 
 With almost every visit, too, he would go through a 
 regular rehearsal of the several points of his story> seem 
 ing to fear lest something might be inadvertently over 
 looked and forgotten. All the probabilities and pos 
 sibilities of the young man's innocence he stoutly argued 
 down with his specious reasoning, battling with insane 
 energy against the very slightest hope of his final ac 
 quittal, or even of the commutation of his sentence after 
 it should be pronounced. 
 
 Ellen clung to the person and the fortunes of Duncan 
 through the whole of these trying circumstances with 
 heroic devotion. Each day she was regularly admitted 
 to his cell, and passed the hours allowed her there in the 
 sacred duty of comforting and strengthening his heart. 
 Her purpose was simple and direct. The deep love she 
 bore him deeper now by far in the great gulf of mis 
 fortune into which he had been plunged shone out in
 
 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 369 
 
 her self-sacrificing conduct with all the radiance of a 
 burning star. It could not b".t exalt its object, criminal 
 as he might yet be believed, by rt-ason of its own pure 
 and ennobling attributes. She shrank from sharing no 
 trial he was called to undergo. She made herself happy 
 in helping to carry the overwhelming load he was ordered 
 to sustain. At every turn of his lacerated feelings her 
 own quick and warm sympathies met him, ready with 
 their balm and oil to heal the wounds which she wept to 
 see so cruelly inflicted. 
 
 Further than this, she joined with him in writing most 
 consoh'ng and encouraging Avords to Ah'ce, entreating her 
 to remain hi quiet where she was, and directing her heart 
 to the only source of strength and sustenance on which 
 they could all confidently rely. " Alice, dear Alice, rt she 
 would write, " only be calm. Do not come to be a wit 
 ness yourself of our mutual affliction and suffering, but 
 pray for us both in the solitude of your own little cham 
 ber, and hold fast to your living belief in your dear 
 brother's innocence. God will never let the guilty go 
 nor the innocent suffer. This is what feeds my heart and 
 makes me strongp- than even our accusers !" 
 
 Ellen's fortune, too, was freely put to the sei'vice of him 
 she loved so devotedly, and the ablest counsel she could 
 command for his defense were immediately called to the 
 task. Besides this, the former employers of Duncan had 
 lost none of their old confidence in his integrity, and be 
 lieved not less at this time in his innocence than they did 
 in the wicked and selfish character of his accuser. And 
 they 'left no stone unturned by means of which his ac 
 quittal might be fairly secured. 
 
 The day of the trial c.%ne on. It was in early fall, the 
 pleasantest of all the seasons in the year. As he was con 
 ducted from his place of -confinement to the court-room, 
 
 16*
 
 370 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 
 
 he could not refrain from, casting his eye upward into the 
 grand autumnal sky, and his soul fervently thanked God 
 for the supreme love of beauty that was still left him. 
 His vision took one broad sweep across the sunlit heav 
 ens, and a thousand secret influences, that made him res 
 olute and strong, stole into his heart. He walked with 
 a firm step up the stone stairs that led to the court-room, 
 neither trembling, nor halting, nor betraying any con 
 fusion of feeling. He felt armor-proof against the boldest 
 charges, no matter whence they came, nor however 
 strongly they might be supported. As he reached the 
 dock and took his seat, he felt rather than saw the in 
 fluence of the gaze that was directed upon him; and 
 while it had not the power to unnerve or unduly abash 
 him, it did work to give a calm and strong serenity to 
 his demeanor, and caused the very placidity of his counte 
 nance to radiate nothing but an atmosphere of unsullied 
 innocence. 
 
 The judge was soon in his seat. The lawyers were at 
 their places within the crescent-shaped "fer, their books 
 and writing materials spread around them over its cover 
 ing of faded green baize. The officer called -the assembly 
 to order, and duly proceeded to open the court after the 
 legal form. The case was called. Forthwith began the 
 work of impanneling a jury, who were taken one by one 
 from the mass of the bystanders. Duncan was reminded 
 of his liberty to challenge peremptorily a certain number 
 of those called, but he seemed too indifferent to exercise 
 it, and could see no advantage in doing so, even if he had 
 been in the least inclined that way. 
 
 The attorney for the State opened the case for the 
 prosecution, and in his overweening zeal to add another 
 wreath to his own reputation by the sacrifice even of a fel 
 low-creature's life, who might, too, be quite as guiltless of
 
 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 371 
 
 the crime as himself, for aught he really knew, he went 
 far out of his ordinary course, and left the level ground 
 of plain statements and reasonable propositions for the 
 higher land and the more exhilarating air of appeals to 
 the feelings of the jury. 
 
 He proposed to prove in the course of this trial, that 
 for a long time previous to the commission of the murder, 
 a bitter feud had existed between the victim and the 
 prisoner ; that in addition to this fact, the prisoner had 
 had violent words with the father of the murdered man, 
 which were the cause of his being turned summarily out 
 of doors, and of his making sava*ge threats of revenge 
 against both Mr. Dollar and his family ; that on the par 
 ticular night when the young man lost his life, the prisoner 
 was seen in the near vicinity of the spot where the deed 
 was committed, with a heavy cane in his hand ; that, fur 
 thermore, he was seen in conversation with the deceased ; 
 and that that conversation was loud, and angry, and of a 
 violent and threatening character ; that the two parties 
 were not seen to separate ; and that the body of the mur 
 dered man was at length discovered not a great ways 
 distant from this locality ; from all which the inference 
 was irrefutable that he, and he alone, could be the author 
 of the crime. 
 
 That was the statement of the case in its distinct out 
 lines. Of course there were innumerable other minute 
 points and shades of testimony, that were made to sup 
 port and strengthen this carefully constructed frame 
 work, and to fill in compactly the crevices that so gen 
 eral a statement must have left open. Not a particle of 
 evidence that could by .distortion or false coloring be 
 made to bear against the prisoner, was suffered to go un 
 improved. The attorney for the State manifestly meant 
 to make the most of every thing he could lay his hands or
 
 372 LIFE IN TUB BALANCE. 
 
 his suspicions upon. Instead of standing up for the 
 holy and righteous claims of Justice, he rather seemed to 
 be mad with the same insane desire to convict the prisoner 
 at any and at all hazards, that spurred on Mr. Dollar him 
 self with such a fearful energy. 
 
 Duncan glanced with a look of mild sadness over the 
 faces of the throng, as this summary was rehearsed against 
 him, and his eyes lighted on those of Ellen ! She had 
 followed him even there. Crowds, and illy-ventilated 
 rooms, and the rude gaze of a multitude compassionate, 
 it might be, hi its very rudeness had no effect to break 
 down the strength of-the devotion that Avas able to carry 
 her through all yea, to the verge of the very worst and 
 darkest probability. There she sat ; her eyes fixed closely 
 upon the face of the prisoner ; surrounding him with the 
 cloud of her ever-moving, ever-living sympathies ; and 
 trying as best she could to strengthen his soul with the 
 silent magnetism of her serene expression and her calm 
 smile. He caught the meaning of her look of her unut 
 terable smile, radiating joy to his heart from her own, 
 and in an instant his nature rose superior to all the trials 
 of the hour rose above, far above all thoughts of other 
 men's judgment, and all fears of their vindictiveness ; and 
 he answered her smile. with one that broke out like a 
 bright halo over his face, and for the moment gave him 
 the aspect of a strong and noble martyr. 
 
 One by one the witnesses were called by the govern 
 ment, and questioned as to their knowledge of such facts 
 as went to substantiate the charge against the prisoner. 
 They gave their answers clearly and with distinctness, 
 from which the acute and sometimes protracted cross-ex 
 amination of the opposite counsel could not succeed in 
 swerving them a syllable. Each witness knew just so 
 much, and could testify to it ; and their united testimony,
 
 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 373 
 
 it was calculated, if put together by the skillful ingenuity 
 of the counsel for prosecution, would make a net-work 
 of guilt apparent around the person of the prisoner, 
 through which not even the most learned and adroit law 
 yers could assist him to escape. Certainly it was frankly 
 confessed certainly this would be a clear case of circum 
 stantial evidence ; but the circumstances were so strong 
 against the prisoner made up as they were of his open- 
 hatred of his victim ; of his defiant language to his father, 
 and his subsequent threats of vengeance against his family, 
 and of many other particles of proof that could readily 
 be turned to good account by the prosecution that he 
 could be convicted as easily and as fairly upon the 
 strength of them alone as he could by proof direct, posi 
 tive, and undeniable. 
 
 I do not wish to repeat the long and wearying progress 
 of the day's trial, going through the examination of the 
 several witnesses in their ^lurn, and dwelling with a. mi 
 nuteness that could not fail to be tedious to the reader, 
 upon the shades and lights that checkered the case from 
 beginning to end ; it will be enough to narrate the im 
 pressive event of its termination, and leave the rest for 
 the reader's warmer sympathies and deeper compassion. 
 
 The eminent gentleman whose services Mr. Dollar had 
 secured in connection with those of the attorney for the 
 State, made an effort on this occasion which was spoken 
 of as being beyond any in which during all his professional 
 career he had hitherto succeeded. The three hours' 
 speech he had addressed to the jury was confessed to be 
 a master-piece of forensic skill and burning eloquence. 
 At once he was pathetic^ind impassioned. He stirred to 
 tears by his tender appeals, or he aroused to indignation 
 by his earnest tones and his thundering declamation. 
 But no part of his address so manifestly touched the
 
 374 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 
 
 hearts of jury, judge, and spectators nay, of the prisoner 
 at the bar himself as the sad and desolate picture he 
 drew of the bereft father's hearth-stone : robbed in a 
 moment of all its light and joy ; buried in a cloud of dark 
 ness that in this life would never be lifted again ; strewn 
 recklessly and cruelly with the white ashes of a complete 
 devastation ; the pleasant old fires all burned out forever ; 
 the laughter dead and frozen ; and gloom pressing down 
 upon the wretched parent's heart, till it must press him 
 finally with its great weight into his lonely grave ! Few 
 eyes were dry when this appeal was made with such suc 
 cess to their sympathies. Its influence could scarce be 
 less than controlling upon the verdict about to be ren 
 dered. 
 
 But one of the two lawyers for the defense attempted 
 an open advocacy of the prisoner's cause before the jury 
 men, the other having confined himself to the manage 
 ment of the case during the course of the witnesses' ex 
 amination. There was no evidence to be produced in his 
 behalf, the labor of his counsel being confined to the rigid 
 cross-examination of the witnesses on the other side. As 
 their testimony could be but triflingly shaken, the coun 
 sel who stood up for Duncan before the jury, had little or 
 nothing to oppose to these circumstantial proofs, and this 
 plausible presumption to his client's guilt, save the un 
 aided efforts of his own talents and energy. 
 
 When his turn came to speak, it was already the second 
 day of the trial. He entered upon his labor with little 
 of the exhilaration and positive courage that betoken a 
 good cause, but felt obliged repeatedly to spur on his 
 energies to an effort he could not all the while help think 
 ing to be only mechanical. Of course his intellectual 
 strength imperceptibly oozed away, and he sat down at 
 last, confident that he had not, and could not, help the
 
 LIFE IN TIIE BALANCE. 375 
 
 cause of the unfortunate prisoner at all. Others saw it, 
 too ; and the influence of the fact reached the minds of 
 the jury a body whose intellects are very often sec first 
 in motion by their feelings, and whose opinions strengthen 
 with the positiveness of their prejudices The attorney 
 for the State summed up, claiming to have made out all 
 that he proposed at the outset, and calling on the twelve 
 men who sat before him to convict the prisoner without 
 hesitation of the crime with which he stood charged. 
 
 It was late in that afternoon in autumn when he closed. 
 It was still later when the judge finished his charge, and 
 the jury retired for consultation. The minute they were 
 gone the throng of spectators began a general buzz of 
 conversation, and many left -the stifled room for a breath 
 of fresh air. 
 
 There sat Ellen the heroine the devoted lover the 
 stern believer in the word of him to whom her heart had 
 been given watching every change in the proceedings 
 with an intensely eager interest, and throwing rapid 
 glances of encouragement to the young prisoner in the 
 dock. Her face was deathly pallid, and her lips showed 
 only white lines. There was at times a wildness in her 
 stare, as her eyes turned from the judge to the lawyers, 
 and from the lawyers to the face of Duncan ; but it came 
 and went with almost the rapidity of thought, stamping 
 none of its impulses on her otherwise composed features. 
 
 Duncan was calm oh, how calm ! His soul had braced 
 itself with one great effort against the very worst that 
 could come. He had fixed his resolution, and it was 
 founded in nothing but the firi|i conviction of his guilt 
 lessness. That resolution was to endure without a com 
 plaint or a murmur, to the bitter, bitter end. 
 
 The lamps were lighted, and the room again showed 
 signs of a fresh excitement. People looked eagerly in
 
 876 LIFE IN THE BALANCE. 
 
 > 
 
 the direction of the jury-room. Already the door was 
 slowly opening. <The intelligence was rapidly telegraphed 
 from one to another from the court-room to the hall and 
 the stairs leading out of doors and again the people came 
 pouring into the place. The sheriff preceded twelve 
 solemn-faced men, clearing a way for them through the 
 throng. Every eye was bent upon those ominous faces, 
 and every one was studying closely the probable verdict 
 in their dumb expressions. 
 
 They filed off slowly into their seats. The room al 
 ready was full, and could hold no more. Bar, and re 
 cesses, and windows, were all packed with the living 
 mass. They swarmed like insects about the crowds that 
 blocked and blackened the outer doors, eager to hear, if 
 they were not permitted to see. Every voice was hushed. 
 Even breathing seemed for the moment suspended. You 
 could have heard the buzz of a gauze-winged insect in 
 the reign of that cavernous and gloomy silence. The 
 lamps themselves seemed to burn but dimly, as if they 
 would not shed their light over a scene so full of dreary 
 wretchedness. 
 
 " Prisoner at the bar," called out the official ; " stand 
 up !" 
 
 Duncan rose to his feet, erect and self-possessed. All 
 eyes turned to him. 
 
 " Hold up your right hand !" 
 
 He did as he was bidden. 
 
 " What say you, gentlemen of the jury is the prisoner 
 at the bar guilty, or not guilty?" 
 
 " Guilty !" 
 
 It fell on every ear, low and sadly as that word was 
 spoken by the juryman, like the sound of doom. The 
 crowd fetched one long, deep breath. It was a relief to 
 know even the worst. Duncan sat down and bowed his
 
 LITE IN THE BALANCE. 377 
 
 *t 
 
 head to the rail before him. Ellen fell prostrate upon 
 the floor. 
 
 There was great confusion in a moment. A passage 
 was cleared, and stout arms bore the insensible girl out 
 into the air. She was placed in an adjoining room, and 
 the windows opened that the cool night wind might draw 
 in over her face. Restoratives were hurriedly brought, 
 and applied with unremitting attention. They chafed her 
 hands, her wrists, and her temples. And when life at 
 length came back again, and the colorless lips of the poor 
 sufferer found language into which to shape her groans 
 " Oh, Duncan ! poor, dear Duncan !" was all that could 
 be heard. 
 
 She opened her eyes, and saw a strange face bending 
 down tenderly over her own. "Be quiet, child !" said 
 the stranger. 
 
 It was Kate Trott ! She had heard, and seen, and felt 
 it all!
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE WORK OF A MAGDALEN. 
 
 A FEW weeks went by ; weeks of patient suffering to 
 the hearts of both Ellen and the condemned prisoner, 
 each one shortening the little span the law yet allowed 
 him to live. Every day Ellen passed several hours in 
 Duncan's gloomy cell, and lighted up the gloom with the 
 imradiating proof of her devotedness. 
 
 A loud, rapid, and nervous ring was heard one evening 
 at the door of Ellen's residence, that started up the maid 
 servant in alarm. She thought pretty active arms must 
 be in operation outside. 
 
 Taking another with her, she hastened to answer the 
 summons. 
 
 They saw only a woman standing on the steps. She 
 was dressed in faded clothes, with a limp and crushed 
 bonnet set on somewhat awry, and presented altogether 
 a picture calculated to challenge both ridicule and pity. 
 Her countenance, coarse as its expression might properly 
 have been thought, still bore manifest traces of sadness, 
 if not of undying sorrow. The ludicrous was so over 
 shadowed with the pitiful and the suffering that if one 
 had been inclined to smile, he must likewise have wept at 
 the same time. 
 
 Over her thin shoulders she had thrown a shawl that 
 she suffered to fall away from one of them and draggle 
 behind her. In her face were the distinct lines of vice
 
 THE WOKK OF A MAGDALEN. 379 
 
 <* 
 
 and dissipation. She had a look, too, that was anxious 
 and care-worn. Raising her shawl mechanically from the 
 step, she accosted the servants, who evidently were about 
 to shut the door in her face. . 
 
 " Stop ! stop !" she cried, with a quick gesture. " I 've 
 come for something that 's important ! very important !" 
 
 The scrvanfr who held the door half hesitated, so much 
 was she impressed with the stranger's manner. 
 
 Seeing that she had gained this much, and a little in 
 doubt whether she would be able peaceably to gain any 
 more, she threw herself bodily into the open crevice, ex 
 claiming as .she did so 
 
 " Now go for your mistress ! Do ye hear ? your mis 
 tress ! Be very quick, for there 's no time to be lost ! 
 Call her here now ! Do ye hear ?" 
 
 Still both servants stood firmly opposing her further 
 entrance into the hall. 
 
 " Who are you ?" one of them called out, in increasing 
 alarm. " What do you want here ? What do you 
 want ?" 
 
 " I tell you I want to see your mistress !" 
 
 " But you can't ; you can't ! Go out doors with you ! 
 I shall call for help ! Go back down the steps !" and both, 
 girls pressed with all their might against the door. 
 
 Making a powerful effort, however, in which soul and 
 body appeared to have collected all their forces together, 
 she pushed herself fairly by her opposers, and stood in a 
 menacing attitude, breathless and excited, beneath the 
 hall-lamp. 
 
 " Now tell me if this ain't where Miss Worthington 
 lives," said she, imperatively. 
 
 " Well, suppose 'tis ; it 's no place for such as you, and 
 you 'd better march yourself off down the steps as quick 
 as you come in."
 
 380 THE WORK OF A MAGDALEN. 
 
 " I sha'n't leave this house till I see Miss Worthing- 
 ton !" said the woman ; and she folded her arms with 
 an impulse that evinced only the most obstinate reso 
 lution. 
 
 " You won't see her !" as resolutely replied the girl who 
 helped in this angry conversation ; " and the sooner you 
 take your baggage out of this house the better it may be 
 for you !" 
 
 As she uttered these words, she stepped near the 
 woman, and laid her hand upon her shoulder, as if she 
 were about to venture upon the threatened process of 
 ejectment without further ceremony. 
 
 In a twinkling the stranger twisted herself away from 
 her grasp, and stood looking defiance at her opponents, 
 with her arms folded still tighter about her person. 
 
 *" I shall call the police, then," said the girl. " Help ! 
 help !" 
 
 The second servant likewise echoed the call. 
 
 Immediately a door was opened, and Ellen Worthing- 
 ton herself came hurrying into the hall. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ?" she asked them. 
 " What is the matter here ?" 
 
 " This horrible creature won't go out," answered one 
 of the servants. " She rushed in past us both, spite of all 
 we could do to keep her back ; and now she says she 
 won't stir a step till she sees you." 
 
 " Sees me !" exclaimed Ellen, in a voice that had lost 
 none of its soft melancholy since the great troubles of her 
 heart began. " What does she want to see me for ?" 
 
 As she spoke, she advanced a few paces nearer the 
 woman, and recognized her countenance. Pallor quickly 
 overspread her face. She had seen that strange pair of 
 eyes before. She well remembered all the circumstances. 
 
 The face was the same that was bending over her own,
 
 THE WORK OF A MAGDALEN. 381 
 
 when she first opened her eyes after her fainting-fit in the 
 court-room ! The stranger was Kate Trott^ 
 
 "I want to see you, my good lady," went on the 
 wretched creature, " and nobody but you ! I 've put it 
 off, and put it off, till I can't do it no longer ! It weighs 
 down too heavy on my heart ! Oh, when I see what you 
 suffered in that court-room, my conscience reproached 
 me so bitterly ! I can't sleep, dear lady, till I get this 
 matter off my mind ! I must . tell you the whole ! You 
 must knoAV it !" 
 
 Ellen was deeply interested in the earnestness of the 
 stranger's manner, and for a single moment hesitated. 
 
 " Let me free my mind to-night," added the woman, 
 " and it '11 be all over with ! Don't put me off! It '11 
 make you as happy as 'twill my own wretched self!" 
 
 " Follow me,- ,then," said Ellen, turning to lead the way 
 into a little sitting-room, where her talk could not easily 
 be overheard. And the woman walked on after her. 
 
 " If this is the \^ay such kind of folks get treated 
 here," grumbled one of the servants, " it 's no place for 
 the like of us It 's high time we were quit of the prem 
 ises !" 
 
 " Now what have you come to tell me ?" asked Ellen, 
 as soon as they were seated in the inner room. 
 
 " I 'm to be certain that you are Miss "Worthington," 
 answered the woman. 
 
 " I am that person," said Ellen. 
 
 " What I 'm a-going to say to you, my dear young 
 lady," began she, dropping her voice till it sounded om 
 inous and sepulchral, " you may depend on for nothing 
 but the sacred truth. It 's all true, if it 's the last thing 
 I ever speak !" 
 
 Ellen grew deeply attentive, and studied her visitor's 
 working features with aroused excitement and curiosity
 
 382 THE WORK OP A MAGDALEN. 
 
 " To come right to it, then : it 's all about that that 
 bloody murder! about nothing but that murder!' 1 ' 1 
 
 " What about it ? What do you know ?" quickly in 
 terrupted Ellen, her face reddening with the blood that 
 rushed rapidly over its surface. 
 
 " Don't hurry me, or I can't tell any thing. Only let 
 me take my own time. It 's been such a dreadful secret 
 to keep, I hav'n't known hardly how to keep it as long as 
 I have. I 'most wonder I hav'n't been crazy, and then 
 told it all before I knew what I was about." 
 
 She stopped, seeming to collect herself before she at 
 tempted to go on. 
 
 " What I 've got to tell you, dear lady, and what I 've 
 come a-purpose to tell you before I slept this night, is 
 what jest only one other livin' bein' besides myself 
 knows. If 'twas one of them little secrets that could be 
 kept, I never should tell it in the world. If I had n't seen 
 already with my own eyes how wretched it has made you, 
 and what a wretched creetur it was goin' to make you all 
 the rest o' your days, I never sh'd betray it to a livin' 
 soul. But I can't stand this. I 'd die my own self be 
 fore I 'd make such misery for another, and such a dear, 
 innocent one, too !" 
 
 A second time she paused, and then resumed, 
 
 " Miss Worthington," said she, in a tone hardly above 
 a whisper, " I know all about this murder!" 
 
 Ellen started. Now her face was white as marble. 
 She glared upon her visitor, as if with a single look she 
 would read the very secrets of her soul. 
 
 " I know, dear lady, what you don't know. Duncan 
 Morrow oh, you love him to distraction yet, I know 
 he ain't the guilty man !" 
 
 " I knew it ! I knew it !" cried Ellen. " Oh, that it 
 could only be proved ! Help me prove his innocence,
 
 THE WOKK OF A MAGDALEN. 383 
 
 woman, and all the money you ask for shall be yours ! 
 Duncan, I knew you told me the truth when you said 
 you were not guilty of this dreadful crime !" 
 
 "Yes, he did tell you the truth, as I happen to know; 
 and what is more, I can prove it for you both !" 
 
 Ellen got up and seized her visitor impulsively by 
 both hands, while she looked beseechingly in her face. 
 
 " Any thing any thing is yours, woman, if you will 
 only make your words good ! Speak ! speak quick ! tell 
 me the whole of what you know !" 
 
 Nothing could surpass the poor girl's excitement, when 
 she discovered thus unexpectedly that there was yet a 
 chance to save the life of her lover. 
 
 " How do you know that Duncan did n't do this deed ? 
 Do you know, then, who did ? Can you tell that ? Can 
 you clear him by what you have to tell ? Speak, woman ! 
 There is no time to be lost! Come Duncan not guilty ! 
 I knew it was so ! I believed all the time it was so ! 
 Do you know who is the guilty one, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know who he is," answered the woman, with 
 an effort that seemed to prostrate her energies. 
 
 " Who ? Then who ? Oh, do not keep me in this ter 
 rible suspense ! Take this dreadful load from my heart 
 this very night !" 
 
 The woman hesitated. Her thoughts did not rebel 
 against her purpose, but they were seething in the deep 
 caldron of her passions. Old feelings such as lay near 
 est her polluted heai't, and had long warmed her into 
 what enjoyment that heart was familiar with were se 
 cretly trying to assert their strange control again. She 
 could not, in a single moment, throw off what to her were 
 the only endeared memories of years. But though she 
 was staggering already in the conflict, she broke through 
 their chains at last, and with a convulsive effort her soul 
 gave up its secret to the world.
 
 384 THE WORK OF A MAGDALEN. 
 
 " I '11 tell you who did it !" cried she, in a tone of real 
 agony. " It was Isaac Crankey ! him that I 've known 
 well for years ! There, now, I 've told it all, and it can't 
 be unsaid again ! Let the innocent go free, and let the 
 guilty suffer ! I wash my hands of blood. Isaac did the 
 deed, and not the dear young man you love so well !" 
 
 As she spoke these words of such fearful meaning, she 
 bent down her head in her lap, burying her face in her 
 hands. No human being could understand the violence 
 or the pain 01 that struggle with her heart, that had at 
 last resulted in this important confession. 
 
 " Will you swear before a magistrate to what you have 
 told rne ?" asked Ellen, seizing her frenziedly by the arm. 
 " Will you do it this very night ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes ! Oh, any thing, every thing, but this 
 heavy load on my heart ! He has done it, and he must 
 bear it ! He told me what he was going to do before it 
 happened : he was going to put Duncan Morrow out o' 
 t the way because the other one wanted him to ; but he 
 made a mistake and the very one that planned the 
 wicked crime was the one to suffer from it all ! Oh, but 
 God's hand is in it ! I can see that ! How could I keep 
 such a secret, when I knew that the Almighty- himself 
 had determined it should come out as clear as the noon 
 day ! Oh, Isaac ! Isaac ! But the guilt is n't on me !" 
 
 And she wept and sobbed till the apartment was filled 
 with the echoes of her distress. 
 
 And was there no Providence in this event ? that he 
 who had first designed the crime should himself be its 
 victim ? And no punishment, either, for the father who 
 could plot so nefariously with a creature that he ought 
 rather to have raised from degradation by his example ? 
 
 Let the thoughtful answer.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE HANGMAN'S EOPE. 
 
 DUNCAN was speedily released by due process of law ; 
 Isaac Crankey was tried and sentenced to be hung. 
 
 When the murderer saw that the whole truth was 
 opened to the light, he admitted his guilt, and explained 
 how it was that he mistook the on young man for the 
 other. He did not mean to kill young Henry Dollar, he 
 said ; and therefore thought he should not be punished as 
 for willful murder. But the law said, No. Murder was 
 in his heart when he struck the fatal blow ; in his mad ; 
 haste he had only mistaken his victim ! 
 
 Old Mr. Dollar, fearfully stricken with the events of 
 the last few weeks, still trembled every hour the real 
 murderer was suffered to live, lest he might, in an un 
 guarded moment, give to the Avorld his own oonnection 
 with the affair. But the event showed that he knew not 
 the nature of even Isaac Crankey ; a being who, with all 
 his crimes heavy on his soul, still could keep honor unsul 
 lied, and still could preserve one side of his manhood far 
 more sacredly than he. 
 
 No ; Isaac thought, and thought truly, that Mr. Dollar 
 already had cause enough for repentance in the terribly 
 unfortunate issue of his own plan. It was unnecessary 
 that he should now add exposure to all the rest ; for the 
 dreadful secret was a far acuter agony for him to endure 
 
 17
 
 .jo THE HANG MAN'S ROPE. 
 
 than all the cruel inflictions with which the laws might 
 visit him. And Jacob Dollar lived on ; with this secret 
 all the time gnawing and festering in his bosom ; his heart 
 slowly breaking with the sorrow that no power could as 
 suage on this side the grave ! 
 
 Time went rapidly on. The unhappy prisoner counted 
 the days, and then the hours. It was already midnight, 
 just before the fatal morning that would usher in the day 
 of execution. 
 
 The condemned man still sat on the side of his bed in 
 the little cell, trying to shape and comprehend in some 
 degree the palpable reality that was around him. He 
 seemed unable to altogether understand his situation, let 
 him try ever so seriously. His thoughts were wandering 
 and bewildered quite broken up by the recoil of the evil 
 powers that had brought him to his present condition. 
 
 Even at that hour a clergyman was in his cell, talking 
 to him in a subdued voice, and laboring to smooth the 
 descent for him to the grave. Alternately he prayed for 
 the wretched prisoner and ofiered him what consolation 
 lay in his power. The poor man could hardly convince 
 himself that he deserved the summary punishment of a 
 murderer, for the blow that he dealt was not meant for 
 his victim, but for another. 
 
 " Well, if I 'm to die," said he, after a protracted fit of 
 sullen musing, " I must see Kate once more. But is it so 
 certain that I am to die ? I can't believe it myself. It 
 don't seem at all like it to me. I can't say as I feel any 
 different now from what I generally do." 
 
 He was leaning his head on his hand, and thoughtfully 
 gazing upon one particular spot in thfc floor. Such a be 
 sotted, inhuman, vice-seared expression as his countenance 
 ore, it would be difficult to find any where else, even in 
 the field in which he had been so long a laborer. His
 
 THE HANGMAN'S ROPE. 387 
 
 hair was tangled and matted, brushed helter-skelter about 
 his protuberant ^temples, and extremely coarse and why. 
 In places it was already turning gray. 
 
 Every time he looked up, which he did only with de- 
 liberateness and with a stupid and sullen stare, his great 
 eyes showed themselves swollen and bleared, as if they, 
 too, had assumed an unnatural expression. Now he gazed 
 at the clergyman present, now about the walls of his 
 dreary cell, and then asked vacantly if any body could 
 tell him where he really was. 
 
 No wonder that he was lost in the winding mazes of 
 his crimes at last. 
 
 His spiritual adviser took such occasions to try and im 
 press on him the fearfulness of his situation, and the ne 
 cessity of making the best account of every moment that 
 remained. 
 
 The clock struck. One ! 
 
 " To-day !" said he, looking up suddenly. 
 
 " Yes, to-day," solemnly answered the clergyman. 
 "Can you realize how short your time is?" 
 
 " Then I 'm to be hung, am I ?" continued the con 
 demned man, not heeding him. " Hung ! ha ha ha !" 
 
 And then followed a brief space of thoughtfulness 
 again, during which he might have been trying again to 
 take into his mind the meaning of his doom. 
 
 " Before all those people !" he exclaimed. " But won't 
 it be glorious ? To think how grandly I shall go off, and 
 all their eyes fixed on nobody but me ! Ah ! Isaac 
 Crankey '11 be in his element to-clay, if he never was be 
 fore ! To hang a man right up, now, by nothing at all 
 but his neck, between earth and heaven, without a single 
 thing for him to rest even the tips of his toes on, and that 
 cursed cord drawing tighter and tighter with your 
 weight, and closer and closer choke choke ! Ugh !
 
 388 THE HANGMAN'S ROPE. 
 
 how can I think of it without shaking ! It don't please 
 me one bit ! I really wonder how I shall feel, though !" 
 
 With this his own suggestion, he proceeded to clasp 
 both his great bony hands about his neck, pressing 
 them more and more tightly together, as if he had put 
 his neck, for the sake of experiment, in a vice. The trial 
 must in some measure have satisfied his curiosity, for he 
 immediately relapsed into his former fit of thoughtful- 
 ness, as if he might have possibly comprehended the 
 dread nature of the punishment he was so soon to suffer. 
 
 "But I must see Kate again," he repeated to those 
 around him. " Kate has been a good friend to me, from 
 the time I first knew her. Misfortune made us friends in 
 the first place, and we've been attached by that bond 
 ever since. Never in the world did she tell on me be 
 fore, and she never 'd done it now, only 'twas too great a 
 secret for her woman's heart to keep. That was jest the 
 whole of 't. I had n't ought to have expected she would, 
 either. But there's no help now for it. I've got to 
 suffer ; and there 's where this matter '11 end ! Tell Kate 
 I must see her, will you? I wouldn't fail to, for the 
 world. I 've got somewhat to say to her !" 
 
 They assured him that she should be brought into 
 his cell as soon as was proper in the morning, and that 
 he should be allowed at that time to take his leave 
 of her. 
 
 " And after that," replied he, " never never shall I see 
 her again! Is that really so? Well, poor Kate! at 
 least you'll remember me! I never thought 'twould 
 come quite to this, though I really could ri't say for cer 
 tain that 't would n'l ! But what 's the good of cryin' 
 about it now? What's past, is past. Let it all alone. 
 There 's no help for it, is there ? It was only one blow 
 with this risrht arm, and 't was all done. There was n't 
 
 O '
 
 THE HANGMAN'S ROPE. 389 
 
 any sufferin', nor any groanin', The life went out aa 
 quiet as it first come in !" 
 
 He paused again. 
 
 " Hang me by the neck ! Will they do that ? Can 
 they do that ? Take a man in full health, put an ugly 
 rope about his neck, and choke him to death ! Oh, what 
 will be the good of it all ! Will it do me any good ? 
 Will it help any body else ? Will it make a single soul 
 a whit happier ? Or carry any more sin out of the world ? 
 Or prevent any more from comin' in ? Oh, God ! that 
 I should ever come to it! To choke to choke to 
 chr>ke, with a rope !" 
 
 His anticipated physical sufferings seemed to have the 
 most terror for him. His mind was apparently busy with 
 nothing but these. 
 
 Later than this, he managed to fall into a slumber. 
 It was at best but a restless sleep, and could have 
 brought him very little refreshment. He awoke from it 
 at length, to make the discovery that he was in his cell 
 all alone. 
 
 " To-day !" was his first exclamation ; and in an instant 
 he sprang up, and sat upright on the side of his bed. 
 
 Such a swift tide of strange feelings as rushed violently 
 around his heart ! Such acute anguish as that imbruted 
 heart for at least one brief moment suffered ! Such a 
 mighty sweep of strong sensations over his brain blind 
 ing, and bewildering, and overwhelming it is only for 
 those in like situations to experience ever ! 
 
 "Then I'm really going to-day, am I?" lie repeated 
 slowly to himself, his voice sounding sepulchral in the 
 little cell. " I declare it does n't seem so to me ! I can't 
 help feeling I'm a goin' to live as long as other people 
 forever perhaps oh, I don't know what ! God help me ! 
 my head! my heart! Oh, how- faint I am! How
 
 390 THE HANGMAN'S HOPE. 
 
 close it is here ! Is it only this morning ? Has it at last 
 come ? I die on the gal-lows !" 
 
 Just at this juncture, he was interrupted in this fearful 
 train of musings by the entrance of the prison-keeper, 
 who came to bring him in his breakfast. Much more 
 than his ordinary allowance was oifered him on this morn 
 ing, and possibly some kind heart had provided a better 
 quality than usual, too. He turned round and surveyed 
 his meal, as it was placed upon the table. 
 
 " What 's the use ?" said he, after a moment's thought. 
 "I can't eat. Let her go at that. I shall have to die 
 pretty soon ; so what 's the good of 't all ?" 
 
 The keeper tried to soothe his feelings, urging him to 
 refresh himself with food, as it would give him more 
 strength to go through the trying scenes of the day. 
 And after a little, the prisoner finally did set up at the 
 table, and before he thought of it had made quite a hearty 
 meal. 
 
 An hour later, the clergyman who had hitherto attend 
 ed him came in again ; but this time he brought another 
 with him. It was Kate, the wretched outcast who had 
 betrayed him to the world. 
 
 " Oh, Isaac !" she cried out, the moment she laid her 
 eyes on his face, while she groveled on her very knees 
 before him, " oh, forgive me this once, Isaac ! I could n't 
 help it, you know ! I really could n't help it ! You 
 should n't have told me such a secret ! You should have 
 kept it all to yourself! It was too much for such as me 
 to keep ! And when I saw that innocent young man in 
 the dock, whose life was saved from your hand, in danger 
 of losin' it after all jest by my own wicked silence, how 
 could I keep your secret, Isaac ? How could I ? And 
 that dear young lady, too, that loved him as she loved 
 her own soul, and weepin' and moanin' day after day
 
 THE HANGMAN'S HOPE. 391 
 
 over his fate when all the time I knew, and you knew, 
 that; he was so innocent oh, how could I stand by and 
 not try what I could do to save her ! Jt was n't through 
 any hate I had for you, Isaac ; no no no ! But it was 
 for the pity I could n't help feelin' for them that was 
 a-goin' to suffer, when I knew they was n't guilty ! Oh, 
 but you shouldn't have told me the secret ! You should 
 have kept it all to yourself! You should have known I 
 could n't keep it ! No, Isaac, you could n't always keep 
 it yourself ! 'T would some day or other have come out ! 
 And why not now, as well as years hence before any 
 more wrong 's done to them that 's innocent of the whole 
 of it ? You must forgive me, Isaac ! I know you will 
 forgive me ! Won't you, Isaac ? Won't you say that 
 you will, before I get up off the floor here ?" 
 
 There stood now the stolid-looking prisoner in the 
 middle of the floor, folding his stout arms across his chest. 
 He appeared perfectly unmoved and immovable. His 
 breathing, to be sure, was deep, and sometimes irregular ; 
 but that was the only betrayal he made of the least feel 
 ing or emotion. 
 
 It was a moving scene, the meeting of these two vice- 
 hardened, sin-stained beings ; two who had lived together 
 in comparative harmony so many years ; whose love for 
 one another was as exalted and as, undoubted as it is pos 
 sible for that of such persons ever to be, and who still, in 
 the very face of the wide breach so suddenly made in their 
 sympathies, secretly clung to one another with a spirit of 
 devotion that was little short of tenderness itself. 
 
 She made another effort ; this time embracing his feet 
 with her arms, and raining her tears' plentifully on the 
 floor. Her hair fell down from its fastenings, .and hung 
 disheveled over her face and shoulders. Bitterly enough 
 did she bewail the necessity that drove her to the con
 
 392 THE HANGMAN'S ROPE. 
 
 fession she had made ; but with all the earnest tender 
 ness she could throw into her manner, she begged to 
 know how she could stand by in silence and see the inno 
 cent ones suffer. She wept because he had not taken the 
 advice she had at first given him, and kept himself free 
 from this crime altogether. She bewailed the terrible 
 fate that that very day awaited him, but besought him to 
 go to his end with a clean heart and with ill-will toward 
 no living man. And to close her appeal, she begged for 
 his forgiveness again for what she had been instrumental 
 in bringing about ; for nothing but his forgiveness, as he 
 hoped himself to be finally forgiven. 
 
 It would be needless to attempt to convey any idea of 
 the intensity of her manner, or the beseeching piteous- 
 ness of her voice, or the great cloud of sorrow that shad 
 owed her countenance as she went on with her petition. 
 This, she said, was her last and only remaining suppli 
 cation. Upon his granting her this single request hung 
 all the peace that in this world she could ever hope to 
 enjoy. 
 
 A long time it was that she strove so earnestly with 
 his heart. She kept importuning him most beseechingly 
 every moment. She seemed intent on finally extorting 
 his free forgiveness from him, or going to the gallows 
 with him herself! 
 
 He remained in his statue-like attitude as long as he 
 could. Obstinacy could hardly hold out any longer. It 
 must have been a heart of real stone that could be indif 
 ferent to such earnest appeals. 
 
 At length his chest shook and heaved irregularly. Lit 
 tle by little it grew convulsive. As she sobbed, so he 
 seemed to sob likewise. His figure slowly bent, like a 
 giant tree bowing before a high wind. His muscles all 
 gradually relaxed. And with one deep-drawn, groaning
 
 TIIE HANGMAN'S ROPE. 393 
 
 sigh, that made hot tears well their way up from his very 
 heart, he sprang forward, and lifted her to her feet. 
 
 " I do forgive you, Kate !" he cried, his voice tremu 
 lous with emotion. " I do forgive you all !" 
 
 She thresv herself instantly upon his breast, and there 
 she wept a long, long time. 
 
 " There 's a bunch of papers," said he, recalling every 
 item that he wished now to intrust her with after hia 
 death " you '11 find a little bunch of papers that belong 
 to me in that chest of mine ; it 's in the left-hand corner, 
 clear at the bottom. Keep them all carefully. They '11 
 be of consequence yet to somebody, perhaps. You'll 
 find my marriage-certificate among them, too. Ah, but 
 a bad man I 've been, Kate, and this is the end of a bad 
 life ! I should have loved my wife and child better, and 
 worked for their comfort in the world ; but I did n't, and 
 see where I am to-day ! You '11 not forget the papers, 
 Kate ?" 
 
 She promised him they should be carefully preserved. 
 And with a sorrowful leave-taking, indeed, she took her 
 departure from his sight. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Close by the prison-wall, in the adjoining yard, alread} 
 towered the gloomy gallows. The sun shone out brightly, 
 and the ominous structure threw down a long, dreary 
 shadow on the ground. It seemed as if the shadow made 
 the instrument of de'ath look still more repulsive and 
 hideous. 
 
 Persons those who were particularly privileged on 
 that day were already flocking in, crowding all along 
 the passages, in the angles and corners every where. 
 There was hardly a standing-place that was not occupied 
 to the full extent of its capacity. Every face was shad 
 owed with a degree of anxiety that gave the cramped 
 
 17*
 
 394 THE HANGMAN'S KOPE. 
 
 premises an appearance at once dull, dark, and spectral. 
 The very sunlight was toned down to a sad and sickly 
 brilliancy, making it gloomier even than if it had not 
 shone at all. 
 
 The people watched and waited patiently. One asked 
 another if he had seen the man when he received his sen 
 tence, and how he seemed to bear it. Another inquired 
 if the culprit would be likely to go through the trying 
 scene like a man ; and if he had a hardened look, or ap 
 peared to be at all timid in the face of his fate. 
 
 Some seemed solemnly occupied with such thoughts as 
 were, begotten of the scene ; but these were few and 
 isolated instances. Most were conversing freely with 
 one another, and at times quite cheerfully. All speculated 
 upon the probable manner in which the doomed man would 
 die ; and there were not a few in the world who would 
 willingly have laid wagers, this way or that, on the courage 
 or want of it that he would at the last moment exhibit. 
 
 At length a low buzz began near the door of the prison, 
 at which the criminal was expected to come out from the 
 inner apartment. Then the buzz broke and spread into a 
 murmur, that ran sullenly along the packed mass of hu 
 man beings. 
 
 A procession came slowly through the door, and filed 
 sadly along in the direction of the gallows past the crowd. 
 All faces were eagerly thrust forward from outstretched 
 necks to catch a glimpse of the prisoner. 
 
 He was clad in a white robe, in accordance with an old 
 custom, that hung loosely about his limbs, and walked to 
 his doom by the side of the clergyman who had been his 
 constant attendant from the day of his sentence. The 
 sheriff led the van, supported on either side by a deputy. 
 Only he and the prisoner and the clergyman mounted the 
 scaffold stairs, the prisoner between the other two. Even
 
 THE HANGMAN'S HOPE. 395 
 
 at this last moment he seemed to step firmly as he went 
 up, without a shudder, and with not the least betrayal 
 of fear. He must now have given up hope, and nerved 
 hime!f for his final struggle. 
 
 Why need I go through the rehearsal of a scene, the 
 like of which is almost any week in the year to be wit 
 nessed over the broad face of our land ? Why relate 
 those few and halting last words of the dying man ? the 
 last prayer, falling so solemnly on the hearts of those who 
 listened and witnessed ? the sight of mental agony of 
 bodily suffering ? 
 
 The deeply-moved mass of people suddenly stood silent, 
 as if judgment were that moment passed not only upon a 
 poor guilty wretch, but likewise upon them. On a single 
 object all eyes were intently fixed. It was the swinging 
 body of the criminal, whose struggles and whose crimes 
 were in this world forever at an end. Some fetched deep 
 sighs unconsciously. Some turned away their faces, and 
 sickened at the revolting and inhuman spectacle. 
 
 He died as all such die. His fearful end read no lesson 
 to those who were allowed to witness it, save, perhaps, 
 one of stunning, paralyzing awe. It deadened the heart, 
 and unconsciously besotted its finer feelings. Out of it 
 sprang as fruit no pure, lofty lesson of right, no impress 
 ive idea of justice or of the beauty of well-doing that is 
 the growth only of love. 
 
 Isaac Crankey could plot crime no more. His busy 
 brain was asleep. His hand was stretched stiff at his side, 
 never, never to move itself again. 
 
 But Jacob Dollar was he any easier, now that he 
 knew the criminal and his dreaded secret had perished 
 forever ? 
 
 Could you have asked the heart of the man, dear read 
 er, what, think you, would have been its answer ?
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A HAPPY MAKEIAGE. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL and bright above all the days in the autumn 
 of that year was the day of the marriage of Ellen Worth- 
 ington and Duncan Morrow. It was the intention of 
 both to have the ceremony as privately conducted as pos 
 sible, yet that determination was hardly sufficient to keep 
 away from the joyful scene many who still loved the 
 bride tenderly. 
 
 The sun seemed to salute the earth with a holy kiss 
 that morning, and the air blew as blandly up the town 
 streets as it blows over the gardens of Italy. The select 
 bridal party were already gathered at Ellen's residence, 
 exchanging congratulations with one another on the pleas 
 ant event about to follow. 
 
 Within, the scene was highly animating. The delight 
 ful morning sun, streaming into the opened rooms through 
 the looped drapery of the windows, gilded every object 
 on which it fell, and kindled spontaneously feelings of 
 secret joy in every heart there. A morning sun is al 
 ways pleasant; but such a sun, when beaming brightly 
 on a bridal scene, and the two about to be united just 
 emerged from the very darkness of desolation, too, is 
 the giver of a glory that shines from the rays of scarcely 
 any other. 
 
 All who were present felt that the dark cloud had been 
 lifted now. Its incubus was removed from their hearts,
 
 A HAPPY MABEIAGE. 397 
 
 Only bright sunlight was over them and around them. 
 It had finally chased all the shadows away. 
 
 Ellen came into the presence of her friends, fondly 
 leaning on the arm of him she loved above all others. 
 She wore a serene smile for every one, which she gener 
 ously bestowed upon them all as she entered; and it 
 quite perceptibly gladdened her heart to feel that it was 
 returned with such a frank and ready cordiality. 
 
 She was dressed without any art unless perfect sim 
 plicity may be called art her hair tastefully parted over 
 her forehead, with a single orange blossom for its only 
 ornament her person attired in a neat traveling habit, 
 to be all ready for the little tour they contemplated start 
 ing on immediately and her face glowingly alive to the 
 influences of the morning and the hour. Her appear 
 ance instantly suggested grace, and refined intelligence, 
 and true womanly dignity. 
 
 And to have seen the face of the youthful bridegroom 
 at her side, would have been to disbelieve that he could 
 be the same one who, not long ago, had sat sadly in the 
 prisoner's dock, listening in silence to the wickedly woven 
 story of his own guilt ; the same who had afterward stood 
 up and heard, with unchanging countenance, the verdict 
 that sought to destroy his life at a single cruel blow, arid 
 whose pale features betrayed the hidden anguish that 
 might even before that tune have consumed him. 
 
 He stood erect, wearing the impress of a noble manli 
 ness. The sufferings he had .recently endured served to 
 develop more noticeably those traits that ennobled his 
 character, and that had drawn to him first the sympathy 
 and then the admiration of all who knew him. In truth, 
 at this moment he really stood on higher, prouder 
 ground than before the mischance that for a time threat 
 ened to overwhelm him with ruin.
 
 898 A 1IAPPY MARKIAGE. 
 
 They plighted their vows solemnly before the clergy- 
 man, and in the presence of that little assembly. They 
 received the good man's blessing on their heads, trusting 
 hopefully in the still unexplored future. They would be 
 faithful now, forever. No change might overtake and 
 surprise them in the hereafter no diiferences could 
 creep in between heart and heart no fears were to let 
 themselves down like dark clouds about their rosy hori 
 zon. It would with them always be the glorious sun 
 shine, of which the golden sunshine of this happy morn 
 ing was but a faint and fading promise. 
 
 After receiving the oft-repeated congratulations of 
 their friends, and reciprocating each kindly-expressed 
 wish with all the fervor of their feelings, they partook 
 of the refreshments that w r ere provided, and took their 
 leave. Ellen had left her own home ; but no wanderer 
 ever went toward home any happier. 
 
 For nearly a week the newly-married couple were en 
 gaged in traveling among the beautiful scenery our land 
 offers on every side. They steamed up the lordly Hud 
 son, and looked down upon its silvery surface from the 
 lofty heights of the Catskills. They sailed the quiet 
 length of sweet Lake George, and dreamed pleasant 
 dreams together among the scores of little islands that 
 emboss its bosom. They caught the roar of " the sound 
 ing water" at Ticonderoga, and rambled among the ruins 
 where a brave soul sent its imperious summons to a ter 
 rified enemy. And down the St. Lawrence ; and through 
 the gateway of the hills of \ 7 ermont; and by the. banks 
 of winding rivers, skirting their lengthening streams for 
 hundreds of miles ; and into calm and pleasant villages, 
 whose streets were flaming with the autumnal fires among 
 the maples, and walnuts, and elms : until at last they 
 reached that delightful old spot, doubly dear to both of
 
 A HAPPY MAEKIAGE. 399 
 
 them now, Draggledew Plain. Old Hector Hedge was, 
 as usual, standing in the tavern-door holding on by the 
 lintels as they drove by. And not very long after the 
 little town knew that Duncan Morrow and his bride hud 
 arrived. It was great news there. 
 
 They drew up before the door of the little nest where 
 the dumb girl lived with her protectress. Duncan jumped 
 to the ground, and helped his bride out after him. 
 
 Alice was at the window when they drove up. The 
 moment she saw her brother's form, she ran out through 
 the door in the wildest delight, and clasped him tenderly 
 about his neck. Oh, what would she not at that moment 
 have given could she express to her brother the tumultu 
 ous emotions that moved her so deeply ! What joy 
 would hers have been could her tongue have been that 
 moment loosed and her ears unstopped ! She laid her 
 head on his breast, and glittering tears rolled down her 
 cheeks. They were tears of pure thankfulness and delight. 
 
 At length Duncan roused her; and, taking her hand, 
 placed it in that of his beautiful bride. Alice looked at 
 her a moment through the mists that swam in her eyes, 
 an instantly an expression of recognition broke out over 
 her countenance. She remembered that face ; she well 
 remembered the visit Ellen had made before to her 
 home ; but how could she have suspected then that the 
 stranger was so soon afterward to come there as her 
 brother's bride ! 
 
 As soon as the excitement of arrival was a little past, 
 Duncan proposed to Ellen that they should all three 
 walk over and see her friends, the Riverses. This was 
 early the next morning. So they made ready, and after 
 a pleasant excursion found themselves at the gate of Mr. 
 Rivers's little elysium. 
 
 The two sisters welcomed their old friend with a most
 
 400 A HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
 
 earnest cordiality. The recollection of the great trials 
 through which she had just passed quickened their 
 friendly sympathies for her immeasurably, and they 
 seemed to receive "her almost as one who had been 
 raised from the dead. They all shed tears of joy to 
 gether, and their embraces and congratulations were 
 really affecting. 
 
 Ellen presented them to her husband. It must be con 
 fessed that she did so with not a little degree of sensible 
 pride and satisfaction. The girls had known him before, 
 but only through his sister. He took the opportunity, 
 moreover, to thank them for their friendly interest in his 
 unfortunate relative, and for the tender sympathy they 
 had extended her when her heart was nearly broken 
 with its grief. 
 
 And Alice stood and looked alternately at the face of 
 her brother and his bride, with an expression of the deep 
 est delight. Her own face was eloquent. The speech 
 that Heaven had wisely forbidden to her lips, seemed 
 breaking out in lines of living light all over her fine coun 
 tenance, till the intelligent and radiant glow of her fea 
 tures* gave her an appearance that was hardly less than 
 ethereal. 
 
 Days went by with them, and all were superlatively 
 happy. The dark stream of their troubles had been 
 crossed in safety. The cloud that so long and so threat 
 eningly had hung over them, had all blown away from 
 their sky, and the sun now shone out more brightly than 
 before. Ellen's preference was to remain in the quiet of 
 the village for some time yet ; and, of course, nothing 
 could have given either her husband or her friends any 
 greater satisfaction than such intelligence. 
 
 Mr. Holliday had frequently met the new party at the 
 house of Mr. Rivers, since their arrival, at which timo
 
 A HAPPY MARRIAGE. 401 
 
 Martha could hardly help envying the newly-married pair 
 their happiness ; while she wondered also, how soon she 
 might realize the whole of her own dearest dreams. And 
 Mr. Rivers himself, when he could gather them all to 
 gether in his little parlor, seemed more vivacious than 
 he had been since his removal into rustic retirement. A 
 new activity had infused itself into his spirits ; and he cer 
 tainly appeared as happy as the happiest, the bride and 
 groom even riot being excepted. 
 
 Things had gone along in this smooth way for a little 
 time, when he suddenly conceived the plan of absenting 
 himself from home for a few days, giving out that he was 
 compelled to go into town on business of an important 
 character. It was rare that he went into town, since his 
 leaving it with his family, and such were occasions only 
 of great importance to his own affairs. 
 
 On the fourth day of his absence, Duncan and*his bride 
 and Alice, and Mr. Holliday, were all assembled at the 
 house of the girls, where they were engaged in what, in 
 rural expression, is termed " passing the afternoon." 
 They were in high spirits, every one of them. Alice, 
 too, as the varying expressions of her face sufficiently be 
 trayed. Arthur had already conceived a strong attach 
 ment for Duncan Morrow, and discovered qualities of a 
 most lofty and sterling character in him. It seemed, in 
 truth, the pleasantest of all the meetings they had yet 
 had together. 
 
 They were discussing quite animatedly among them 
 selves the project of making an excursion into the woods 
 for nuts on the morrow, and dwelling with peculiar de 
 light on the beautiful landscapes that at this season of 
 the year are unrolled to the eye of the true lover of na 
 ture when the gate very unexpectedly opened from the 
 road, and two men walked toward the piazza.
 
 402 A HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
 
 " There 's father !" exclaimed Martha, at once. 
 
 " Yes, an I a man with him !" added her sister Mary, 
 " Who is it ?" 
 
 Both the girls scanned the stranger with an earnest 
 gaze, and finally Martha ran to meet her father at the 
 door. She received his kiss with great pleasure ; but the 
 moment she fixed her eyes on the stranger's face her 
 own countenance turned very pale. 
 
 " Come, go in again, Matty," said her father, leading 
 her gently back by the hand. " I shall be with you there 
 in a few minutes." 
 
 And the girl returned to her friends, though with a 
 more thoughtful look on her face than when she went out. 
 
 Presently Mr. Rivers entered the room, and spoke to 
 them all. The stranger still followed him closely, and 
 waited m silence till he had addressed the whole of the 
 little company ; though it was certainly observable that 
 his eyes did fasten themselves eagerly upon the two 
 young men present, whose countenances for a moment he 
 appeared to be studying with intense anxiety. 
 
 Martha and Mary both caught the look of that strange 
 man, arid in an instant recognized it as one they had seen 
 but a very little time ago. It was the old book-peddler, 
 who had so abruptly left them when their father appeared 
 to him across the piazza ! And now their father brought 
 this same man home with him ! What a strange incon 
 sistency ! There must be a mystery locked up in the 
 matter somewhere ! 
 
 They did not fail to observe that he was better dressed 
 than before, and that that despairing look of sadness, once 
 brooding all the while over his face, was now relieved in 
 some measure by a gentle smile. It gave him quite a 
 new aspect in their eyes, if it did not really change his 
 character.
 
 A HAPPY MAEEIAGE. 403 
 
 "Mr. Holliday," said Mr. Rivers, advancing toward 
 the young author in the presence of them all, "I had de 
 termined that this should be a new day in your life. I 
 have learned your secret that you have hitherto concealed 
 from every one so religiously, and endeavored to make 
 the very best use of my knowledge. Others have suffered 
 as well as yourself. Let this day put an end to all un- 
 happiness. This stranger, whom I have brought home 
 with me is your father ! Surely you ought to know one 
 another again !" 
 
 " Arthur ! Dear Arthur !" sobbed the old man, clasp 
 ing his son in his opened arms. " Can you forget and 
 forgive the wrong I have done you ?" and he laid his 
 gray head on the young man's shoulder, and wept like a 
 child. The young author's amazement, and the astonish 
 ment of the sisters, can only be imagined by thg reader. 
 
 Not then was the story all told t northe mystery wholly 
 made plain ; yet it was explained at last. It was this : 
 that Mr. Brindall an assumed name had for seventeen 
 years suffered the legal punishment of his crime, and was 
 now but a few months released from prison. His sad and 
 trying expei'ience, first as an apple-dealer, and then as a 
 traveling book-merchant, the reader has already had. 
 
 But there was still another fact connected with his 
 crime. Mr. Rivers himself was the merchant whose name 
 he had forged, and who was now the first, after the seam 
 stress Fanny Ware, to overlook his fault and restore him 
 to his only living relation ! And yet again the old man 
 was doubly surprised to find not only that he was freely 
 forgiven, but that his son was to marry the daughter of 
 the very man he had so wronged !
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 GOOD FANNY WAKE. 
 
 
 
 ARTHTTK HOLLIDAY had recently published his second 
 book, and it was a success. 
 
 Authors are now and then fortunate, even if their 
 efforts as a general thing make no very important impres 
 sion. They may be obscure enough for years, and even 
 their best friends be unaware of their existence ; yet oc 
 casionally, in more frequent instances now than used to 
 be the case, one of them reaches the finer fibers of the 
 public heart, and sti-aightway he becomes a marked can 
 didate for the generous reception of dollars, and sym 
 pathy, and fame. 
 
 Arthur, just at this critical time, happened to be one of 
 the fortunate ones. He had written a book that came 
 over the reading world with delight. It seized hold 
 strongly on their deeper sympathies those that underlie 
 all the common characteristics of men and carried them 
 completely away on its rapidly running current. 
 
 His publishers wrote him a formal letter of congratula 
 tion on his success a habit, by-the-by, that very few 
 publishers with any visible signs of wisdom-teeth are 
 addicted to and extended to him, unsolicited, better 
 terms for his services in the future. Another contradic 
 tion of the wisdom-teeth theory. 
 
 Readers bought his work eagerly, and devoured it
 
 GOOD FANNY WAKE. 405 
 
 with avidity. Critics alluded to it in highly flattering 
 terras, which fact, inasmuch as he had published anony 
 mously, gave the toiling and hopeful young author a 
 great deal of encouragement. Large editions were run 
 rapidly through the press, and copies ordered on all sides 
 by dealers, long before it was possible to get them ready 
 for delivery. 
 
 "Ah," said Arthur to himself, as he sat alone in his 
 quiet little study, and contemplated these unexpected 
 fruits of his labor, " but I may hope ! I may still hope ! 
 That, at least, is something !" 
 
 And indeed it was something. It is a great deal, to 
 any youthful aspirant who perseveringly unites industri 
 ous labor with a fervent and ennobled ambition. It is 
 the bread that sustains him by the way. It is the staff 
 he may confidently lean upon, as he climbs so patiently 
 up the rugged sides of the hill. 
 
 The father of Arthur had, at the son's urgent desire, 
 taken up his abode in the little house with him, where his 
 mind seemed gradually settling down into a state of re 
 pose and enviable contentment. He busied himself in 
 doors and out, and helped his son build up plans and 
 lay out prospects for the future. The heavy burden of 
 his troubles he seemed to be slowly unpacking from his 
 shoulders, and not the most distant allusion was ever 
 made by any one of those in the secret, to the story of 
 his former crime and punishment. Poor man! he had 
 dearly atoned for all the wrong he had ever done. 
 
 One wedding in a neighborhood usually begets another. 
 The example that was so perpetually set by the daily 
 presence and companionship of Duncan and Ellen, oper 
 ated with a wonderfully magnetic power on two other 
 hearts. 
 
 Prospects were bright even to brilliancy. Every thing
 
 406 GOOD FANNY WAKE. 
 
 looked well at present. The broad future smiled, and 
 offered its largess already spread out in its lap. Why 
 wait for a more favorable time? Why hope for one 
 more prosperous ? 
 
 Mr. Rivers's little rooms, therefore, were filled, on the 
 pleasant morning that witnessed the marriage of Arthur 
 and Martha ; and of all who had been asked to join the 
 little assembly, none could be supposed to be any happier 
 than the young bride. It was not her lot to be taken, 
 like many other brides, far away from home ; she was not 
 trembling, even while she was forced to confess her hap 
 piness, because she must leave the best and dearest of 
 friends behind ; it was not a bridal like an April day, half 
 smiles and half tears; it produced for her nothing but 
 undivided delight, and tilled her heart only with joy. 
 
 Arthur's father was there, and he looked round on the 
 scene with eyes that kept filling with tears. It was with 
 him an excess of pleasure; something so far beyond what 
 he had ever expected to witness, while he himself was a 
 participator in it all. 
 
 And of course Duncan and his bride were there, with 
 showers of affectionate wishes for those whose union they 
 had come to witness. And so was Alice, her sweet face 
 radiant with an expression that never leaped from tongue, 
 nor lingered on lips. And so was good Mrs. Polly too, 
 alive with her sympathies, watching all the proceedings 
 of the occasion with attentive eyes, and fondly believing 
 she had more cause for gratitude than them all ; in the 
 thought that Alice, at least, was not going to leave her. 
 
 It was a pleasant wedding, as such generally are, and 
 passed off to the satisfaction of the several parties con 
 cerned. Martha soon went to live with her husband at 
 the little cottage in the bushes, where she expected to 
 pass a winter as she had never passed one yet. Mary
 
 GOOD FANNY WAKE. 407 
 
 was close by her. Her father, too, was right at hand. 
 Her dear old friend, Ellen, had concluded to close her 
 house in town, and spend the whole winter in the same 
 box with Alice and Mrs. Polly ; and no news could have 
 been pleasanter than that. Martha felt that she had 
 abundant cause for congratulating herself on the pleasant 
 prospects that opened before her. 
 
 Some few weeks after this event in the quiet annals of 
 the village of Draggledew Plain, Arthur and his father set 
 out together for the city. As soon as their journey was 
 completed, and before stopping any where to take re 
 freshments, they hastened to Mr. Brindall's late abode. 
 He opened the door himself, leading his son up the back 
 stairs that commanded such a view of the huddled little 
 area. Fanny sprang from her chair, uttering a cry of joy. 
 
 " Why, father !" she exclaimed, seizing his hand with 
 both her own. But the instant she paw that a stranger 
 was with him, and a young man, too, her manner lost 
 very much of its intensity, though none of its frank 
 affectionateness, and a deep color stole to her face. 
 
 " Fanny," said the father, " this is a bright day for me, 
 and for us all. This is my son, Fanny." 
 
 She greeted the young author modestly, yet heartily, 
 and then begged both of them to seat themselves. She 
 was in a maze of perplexity already, from only the few 
 words Mr. Brindall had spoken. 
 
 The father began then, and opened to the generous- 
 hearted girl the secret that, since her acquaintance with 
 him, had been the canker of his happiness. He told her 
 frankly of his crime, committed years ago, and of the 
 weary days and nights of his atonement for it ; of his ac 
 cidentally carrying books to sell to the house of the very 
 man whom he had wronged, and of there falling in with 
 his own son, although then totally unknown to him as
 
 408 GOOD FANNY WARE. 
 
 such ; of the generous forgiveness of Mr. Rivers, and 
 finally of the happy marriage of his daughter to his child ; 
 "to my child, Fanny," said he-; "only think of the 
 Providence there is in it !" 
 
 Fanny's surprise knew no limits. She only looked it 
 from her eyes ; she could not utter it in words. 
 
 " And now," began Arthur, " I must tell you, in the 
 first place, that I have come to thank you from the 
 bottom of my heart for your generous sympathy for 
 my unfortunate father. But for you, my dear girl, I 
 knew not what might have resulted to him from his 
 unhappy state of mind. Neither of us can thank you 
 sufficiently." 
 
 " No, indeed ; no, indeed !" interrupted the old man, 
 in a trembling voice that was full of emotion. 
 
 " We at least are going to try to show you our grati 
 tude," continued Arthur. 
 
 " Oh, sir !" modestly protested Fanny, " it was nothing 
 for me to do ! Any body else would have done the same 
 thing !" 
 
 " But it seems that no one else offered to do the same 
 thing, and you must therefore ever remain dear to our 
 hearts. I have a proposal to make to you. You must 
 be obliged to work very hard here, and can not more 
 than secure a living at that. I am permitted, through 
 my wife, to offer you a pleasant home in the family of her 
 mother, and I am likewise desired to urge you to accept 
 it. If you do, be assured that you will confer lasting 
 pleasure on the hearts of more than ourselves here." 
 
 "I don't know," hesitated the girl, stammering and 
 blushing with the confusion that had suddenly overtaken 
 her. 
 
 "Ah, but we want to know," said Arthur; "and I 
 can't bear to think of your disappointing us."
 
 GOOD FANNY WAEE. 409 
 
 " No, Fanny," added his father. " No ; don't disap 
 point us. You must go !" 
 
 He succeeded in getting her to follow him into the 
 room just across the narrow entry his own room for 
 merly where he detained her alone for a long time. 
 Arthur could hear distinctly the words of his father, as 
 he earnestly plead with her on the matter ; but the girl 
 said little that was audible. 
 
 Mr. Brindall we shall still call him by his assumed 
 name to our story's end came back at length, and his 
 eyes were read, as if he had been weeping. His face 
 looked flushed and much excited. 
 
 Then Fanny herself came in, and took two or three 
 idle turns across the floor, as if she saw some thing that 
 dreadfully needed " putting to rights" in a further corner ; 
 and smoothed out the spread on the little table with the 
 palm of her hand. 
 
 " You 're going, I hope, are you not ?" persisted 
 Arthur, for he was fully determined not to be put off. 
 
 " Well," faltered Fanny, turning round and holding on 
 by the table, " I don't know. I ought n't to ; but I sup 
 pose I must." 
 
 " Yes, you must ! you must !" the young man broke 
 forth, with much earnestness. ' 
 
 " So you must !" echoed his father, rubbing his hands. 
 
 " If I can only hope to make others happy about me !" 
 said Fanny, a mist swimming in her bright and beautiful 
 eyes. 
 
 " Then if that is the only condition," said both father 
 and son together, " the matter is settled !" 
 
 And Fanny Ware left her dismal rooms that looked 
 out only on that dreary area, and went to live as one of 
 the family at the more pleasant house of Mr. Rivers, in 
 the country. 
 
 18
 
 410 GOOD FANNY WARE. 
 
 The poor seamstress had cast her bread upon the 
 waters, in befriending the wretched man who had looked 
 in vain into other human faces for sympathy ; and now, 
 after not many days either, it had returned to her again 
 abundantly.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 OLD NATHAN GRTJBB AND HIS ERRAND. 
 
 IF my good reader has n't already forgotten that there 
 ever was such a character, and if moreover, he can with 
 a little effort recall the fact that an old man who rejoiced 
 in that name was an inmate of the poor-house at Epping 
 at the time of the death of Gabriel's mother, I should be 
 happy to call his attention to the same individual once 
 more. 
 
 Soon after the murder of Henry Dollar, and the subse 
 quent arrest and trial of Duncan Morrow, together with 
 the part Ellen so bravely enacted on his behalf, the intel 
 ligence of these things reached Epping. Such news 
 always travels more swiftly than any other ; and it is apt, 
 too, to penetrate into corners and out-of-the-way spots, 
 where better intelligence might never think of going. 
 
 The very day Nathan Grubb heard the name of Miss 
 Worthington mentioned in connection with that of the 
 suspected criminal, he set his wits busily at work to learn 
 if certain conjectures that floated dizzily in his brain could 
 be supposed to have any definite meaning. What those 
 conjectures were, the reader will directly know for him 
 self. 
 
 He studied and puzzled for days. Several times he 
 was surprised by some brother pauper at his old chest 
 he called it his " chist'" overhauling musty and rusty
 
 412 OLD NATHAN G R TJ B B 
 
 papers, tying them very carefully up, and then hiding 
 them away again. While he was engaged about his little 
 errands in the barn, or the field close by the house, or 
 the garden, he was seen quite often to pause with his hoe 
 in his hand, to tip up his hat, and shake his old head very 
 ominously. Oftentimes, too, he was overheard in an in 
 teresting conversation with nobody but himself, in the 
 natural course of which many inquiries of a secret charac 
 ter were sagely put, and by the same lips, with a know 
 ing shake of the head, as sagely answered. 
 
 He was troubled about something; that was plain 
 enough. 
 
 All at once he disappeared. No rocket, all ablaze, 
 ever went out in blank darkness any more suddenly than 
 old Nathan Grubb went away from the Epping poor- 
 house. Mr. Hardcastle was at a sore loss to understand 
 what it could mean ; and Mrs. Hardcastle only said she 
 was " glad on it," and she wished " from her soul, that ajl 
 the poor wretches would take it into their heads to go 
 off together, and so make one job on 't !" 
 
 Mr. Grubb, too, went away in the night. That alone 
 gave the deed a character of mystery. And starting in 
 the night as he did, when the sun rose the next morning 
 he had gone quite a piece on toward the smokes and din 
 of the great city. Gabriel was there ; at least so he sus 
 pected, for he had long ago heard of the sudden leave he 
 took of Mr. Nubbles and his family, and he thought of 
 no other place to which such poor waifs of fortune ever 
 go. And full of faith on this important point, he walked 
 on. 
 
 His first object was, to find the orphan. The plans he 
 had laid Avith such care and exactness in the silence of the 
 old country poor-house, he found quite driven from his 
 head in the sudden noise, and clatter, and rush, that dis-
 
 AND HIS ERKAND. 413 
 
 tracted him in the city. He discovered that it would re 
 quire some considerable time in the outset, to get some 
 thing like a comprehensive idea of his work, and of the 
 locality in which it lay. 
 
 But fortune rather took him under her protection, and 
 he began to feel as if his labor might not prove altogether 
 fruitless. By accident or good luck, he pitched his tent 
 and made his headquarters exactly in the purlieus where 
 Gabriel and little Jane, and a regiment of little castaways 
 beside, were hived. Day after day he sauntered among 
 them all, yet no Gabriel had he seen yet. He almost felt 
 tempted, before he got through, to give it over alto 
 gether. Then he thought of the results that hung on his 
 perseverance, and his energy instantly renewed itself. 
 The trial for the murder of Henry Dollar, too, was pro 
 gressing at the same time ; and that kept his thoughts 
 more active than ever, especially as Miss Worthington's 
 name was daily mentioned every where in connection 
 with it. 
 
 Duncan had been liberated, however, and Isaac 
 Crankey had already swung for his crimes before old 
 Nathan Grubb had made any perceptible progress. 
 
 One day he passed a little ragged urchin in the narrow 
 street, and turned around mechanically, according to his 
 custom, to read his countenance. This time he paused 
 longer, and looked closer than ever. The boy himself 
 looked up in return, rather puzzled to know what such 
 an unusual inspection might mean. 
 
 " Gabriel ! is that you ?" said old Mr. Grubb, staring 
 at him fixedly. 
 
 The child gave him an instant look of recognition, and 
 held out his hand to be taken by his old friend of the 
 Epping pooi'-house. 
 
 " Now how come you here ? Where 've you been all
 
 414 OLD NATHAN GRUBB 
 
 this time, I want to know ? Who brought you here ? 
 Tell me all about it, Gabriel ! You don't know how 
 much I've worried for you, ever since you run away 
 from Mr. Nubbles's !" 
 
 So, as they walked slowly along, Gabriel went through 
 with a straigtforward narrative of his progress to, and 
 life in the town. 
 
 " But do you like this as well as you did at Mr. Nub 
 bles's ?" asked his friend Nathan, very compassionately ; 
 for none are more compassionate than the very poor. 
 
 " Yes," said Gabriel ; " I like any thing better than 
 living there !" 
 
 " Or than the old poor-house ?" 
 
 Gabriel hesitated. All the old memories swept over 
 his heart. 
 
 " But you 're dreadful poor ! How lean you look ! 
 Where do you live ? Who takes care of you ?" 
 
 "I did live with Isaac Crankey ; he Avas the man that 
 first got me away from Mr. Nubbles. But he's dead 
 now. He 's the man they 've just hung !" 
 
 Old Nathan started in affright. " Is that so, Gabriel ? 
 And you 've been livin' all this time with that wicked 
 murderer !" 
 
 Yes it was really so. This was but a single one of the 
 many strange things the world sees every day. 
 
 " And who have you lived with since he was put into 
 prison, then ?" 
 
 " With Kate Trott. She was an old friend of his ; and 
 she 's adopted me for her own child." 
 
 Nathan Grubb continued to walk on, still leading the 
 orphan by the hand. He grew silent and deeply thought 
 ful. Few words were spoken now, and even the occa 
 sional questions of Gabriel were unanswered. 
 
 Finally the old man stopped short.
 
 AND HIS ERRAND. 415 
 
 " Now I want you to tell me, Gabriel," said he, " as 
 you would answer to a dear old friend of your mother as 
 well as yourself, do you like to stay where you are ?" 
 
 The boy looked down at the ground. 
 
 " No, you don't ! I see you don't ! Well, jest see 
 here, now ! Should n't you a good deal rather go and 
 live somewhere else, in some pleasant place, than stay 
 where you are ?" 
 
 " With you, Mr. Grubb ?" he innocently asked, look 
 ing up quickly in his face. 
 
 " With me ? Well, we 'd see about it. But at any 
 rate, with somebody that 'd be as kind to you as any little 
 body like yourself could wish. Should n't you rather go, 
 than stay where you are ?" 
 
 " I don't like staying here," answered Gabriel. " It 's 
 a bad place. There 's bad people all round. I remember 
 what my mother said to me before she died, and then I 
 think what sort of a life I am living here ; and it makes 
 me very sad. I wish I could go somewhere else, Mr. 
 Grubb, where better people are. I do indeed !" 
 
 "Then you shall, dear boy!" said the old man, with 
 a very fervent emphasis. 
 
 And that same day they bade a final adieu to the quar 
 ter that had detained Gabriel so long, and took their de 
 parture for scenes and persons more in sympathy with 
 the wants and wishes of his heart. Mr. Grubb would not 
 hear to such a thing as going back to Kate Trott's to get 
 what few clothes the boy might have, but persisted in 
 getting out of town as fast as he could. 
 
 But before he really shook off the dust of his worthy 
 feet, he wandered just at dusk to a house about which he 
 had already walked many times. It was a handsome 
 residence, and situated in a most respectable quarter of 
 the city. After reaching the steps with Gabriel, he pro-
 
 416 OLD NATHAN GEUBB 
 
 ceeded to lead him up. The boy was bewildered, and 
 silently wondered what it meant. 
 
 Nathan rang the bell, and inquired if Miss Worthing- 
 ton lived th<jre. "Yes, she did." Was she at home? 
 " No, she was n't," with a long stare at himself and his 
 youthful companion. Could he ask where she was? 
 "Yes, she had just got married, and was then on her 
 wedding-tour. She wouldn't be back home in some 
 time." 
 
 The old man held up his disengaged hand in surprise. 
 He began to think his plans were baffled at almost every 
 turn. 
 
 "Would the girl please to tell him who she married ? 
 If it was Mr. Morrow ? "It was Mr. Morrow ;" and he 
 would be likely to visit his native village with his bride, 
 before their return. 
 
 Instantly the right idea found its way into Mr. Grubb's 
 brain ; and thanking the servant for her kindness, he 
 walked with increased briskness down the flight of steps, 
 still holding on by Gabriel's hand. He seemed deter 
 mined at least not to lose him. 
 
 Although night was upon them, the old man did not 
 think it advisable to remain longer in the city ; so he 
 Vegan a sort of forced march with his little companion, 
 steering his course direct toward the open country. 
 
 It happened to be a moonlit night, clear and beauti 
 ful. Every object was penciled in a distinct outline upoi* 
 the ground, and the light of the moon was white as silver 
 The few trees along the streets threw down the slender 
 network of their leaves and sprays on the pavements, 
 making almost fairy grottoes among the shadows through 
 which they walked. The youthful imagination of the boy 
 was kindled with every thing that he Saw.
 
 AND HIS ERRAND. 417 
 
 They passed the limits of town life, and emerged upon 
 long roads,' narrow and dreary, skirted by few houses, 
 and those far apart, and more and more hidden in the 
 leaves. The sight of them, sleeping so soundly in the 
 shadows, while the white moon shone so pleasantly over 
 every thing else, tended rather to infuse a spirit of 
 melancholy into the boy's heart, and carried his thoughts 
 vaguely back to mother, home, the blessed country, and 
 a host of objects of which he might never before have 
 practically known. So dimly are our real thoughts 
 sometimes seen in the sheen of the moonlight. So like 
 long-forgotten dreams, dance old memories and fancies 
 intermingled, through the shimmering network of the 
 moonbeams. 
 
 All night long they traveled on ; and though Gabriel 
 grew weary before the morning dawned dull and gray 
 in the east, yet he made no complaint. Old Nathan now 
 and then asked him if he was tired, but he bravely turned 
 it off with an answer of apparent unconcern. 
 
 They stopped and got a frugal meal in the morning at 
 a quiet farm-house, and begged for permission to sit and 
 rest themselves awhile in the kitchen, which was granted 
 them. Gabriel very soon fell asleep in his chair, where 
 he continued sleeping till he was awakened again by his 
 companion. "I might let you sleep till night," said 
 Nathan, " but it 's better not to, here. We ought to be 
 goin'." And bidding their kind hostess good-morning, 
 they struck off into the road again. 
 
 All day they traveled on, sometimes managing to catch 
 a ride on a cart, occasionally stopping in some sheltered 
 spot by the road-side to rest their weary limbs, and beg 
 ging what food they wanted as they went along. Tired 
 as the orphan was, he was not so tired that he could not 
 
 18*
 
 418 OLD NATHAN GKUBB 
 
 enjoy most deeply this new sense of freedom. Oh, how 
 his heart expanded, as he looked over the* broad land 
 scapes, and felt that among such as these he might hope 
 to spend all his days away from crime, away from wicked 
 people, in the lap of bountiful and beautiful Nature ! If 
 he had any one secret wish connected with the city on 
 which he had turned his back, it was that he might never, 
 never behold its stony streets, or its people, again ! 
 
 For four successive days they kept on their way, man 
 aging about their rest and refreshment as they had be 
 gun. The people were every where kind, and seemed to 
 feel a strong sympathy for their condition. No door was 
 ever coldly shut against them, and no hand refused them, 
 of such as it had to give. 
 
 It was rather early on the morning of the fifth day after 
 their departure from the city, when they arrived at 
 Draggledew Plain. This was the focus of all old Nathan's 
 hopes and plans. They had already begged a breakfast 
 a mile or two back, and Nathan said he felt fresh and 
 ready for his work. As yet he had not told Gabriel the 
 plan he had been nursing in his mind, but the boy was 
 made to believe that his kind old friend was going to 
 take him into the country somewhere, and provide him 
 with a permanent and happy home. The orphan's limbs 
 were swollen, and somewhat stiff, from the severe cold he 
 had taken in the rain ; but he made no complaint. The 
 heart had courage to support both, itself and the body 
 then. 
 
 Just as they reached the gate of the little cottage 
 where Alice Morrow lived, Nathan stopped. "I'm goin' 
 in here," said he ; and the boy followed him up to the 
 door. He knocked, and Duncan himself made his ap 
 pearance.
 
 AND HIS ERRAND. 419 
 
 " I want to see her that was Miss Worthington," said 
 Nathan, very earnestly. " I 've come a great ways, and I 
 must see her this morning !" 
 
 Duncan bestowed on himself and his traveling com 
 panion a searching look. 
 
 " You can see her, I suppose," he replied ; " come in 
 with me." 
 
 The man and the boy had been seated but a moment 
 when Ellen came in. Nathan rose from his chair, and, 
 still holding his hat in his hand, told his errand : 
 
 " You are Miss Worthington that was, I s'pose ? Yes ? 
 well, I 've studied this many and many a day for months, 
 to find ye." 
 
 " Me !" exclaimed the bride. 
 
 " Yes, you." 
 
 Duncan waited to know why, no less than his young 
 wife. 
 
 " Wait a minnit," said the old man, " and I '11 tell ye. 
 It's jest here, now. Last winter, in the very dead o' 
 winter, this little boy's mother died in the old poor-house 
 over to Epping. I was livin' there myself at the time ; 
 and I s'pose I live there now, that is, when I 'm to home. 
 On her dyin' bed, that boy's mother b'egged me to take 
 care of him. I promised her as well as I could ; but 
 what could I do ? I, a pauper ! Well, and she give me 
 a couple of letters that had been written to her years and 
 years before, when she was nothin' but a girl unmarried 
 that had been written to her by a sister o' hers. She 
 said that them letters might be useful sometime in helpin' 
 the dear boy along through the world, and keepin' him 
 out o' sufferin'. And I 've got 'em yet. I always kept 
 'em as sacred as any treasure. 
 
 " The Selectmen of the town o' Epping thought 'twas
 
 120 OLD NATHAN GRUBB 
 
 ftest to bind the boy out to service ; and so they did. 
 They put him out to Mr. Nubbles a man that lives 
 somewhere round here on a place they call Worry witch 
 Hill ; and I should n't wonder myself if 't was a worry- 
 witch sort of a spot, indeed ! He staid there awhile, and 
 then he went away ; he '11 tell you himself sometime, 
 perhaps, what he went *vay for, and who he went with, 
 and all about it. At all events, I went off to the city, 
 determined to hunt him up. I 'd made his mother a 
 solemn promise, and I felt as if I was bound by it to the 
 end. As good luck would have it, too, I found him in 
 the street, not but a few days ago ; and we 've walked 
 from that time to this, till we 're right before you here !" 
 
 Ellen could hardly repress an exclamation of surprise, 
 that one who was so young and looked so frail, should be 
 exposed to the fatigue of so long a journey on foot. 
 
 " Now I want you to read them letters, marm, if you 've 
 a mind to," and he proceeded to draw them from the 
 depths of a pocket somewhere about his old coat, and to 
 deliver them into her hand. 
 
 Ellen took them, and read them attentively. The old 
 man watched her countenance eagerly during the perusal. 
 Alternately her face was burning with color, and pale 
 with surprise. She extended both hands, and exclaimed 
 in a voice of excitement 
 
 " Why, these letters were written by my own mother !" 
 
 " Yes," added Nathan, bowing, " and to her own and 
 only sister !" 
 
 "Gabriel? Is this Gabriel?" asked Ellen, advancing 
 toward him hurriedly. 
 
 " That 's Gabriel," said Nathan. " His mother went by 
 the name of Mrs. Vane, while she lived over at Epping 
 poor-house ; but that never was her. name. Her married
 
 AND HIS EBEAND. 421 
 
 name was Rossiter. That was her husband's name, she 
 told me." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I 've heard my mother say that ! I 've 
 heard the whole story long ago, but never knew what 
 had become of my poor aunt. And so she died in the 
 poor house ! And this is my own cousin ! the only rela 
 tion I have left !" and she put her hands affectionately 
 on Gabriel's head, and assured him that he should want 
 home and friends no more : 
 
 " Who was he living with, when you found him in the 
 city ?" asked Duncan^ interested deeply in this unexpected 
 discovery. 
 
 " He had been living with Isaac Crankey, sir, he said ; 
 but since he he died, a woman he called Kate Trott took 
 him in her charge." 
 
 Duncan turned pale as death. He looked round upon 
 Ellen, and she was trembling in every limb, 
 
 So very, very close had been their connection with this 
 murderer ! 
 
 Arrangements were at once made to give little Gabriel 
 a quiet home with Mrs. Polly ; and his old friend Nathan 
 was provided for, too, with all thoughtfulness beneath the 
 same roof. It would have been hardly fair to separate 
 them now. In the pleasant village of Draggledew Plain, 
 therefore, so near the scenes of his earlier and bitter ex 
 periences, he dwelt among kindred and friends, in whose 
 sympathies he might find sustenance for his own as long 
 as he lived. His had been a blasted life till now : hence 
 forth it was to start forward with a new vigor, and 
 blossom with the many promises of a rich fruitage, 
 as the days of manhood cast their long shadows before 
 him. 
 
 There are but one or two other personages of whom
 
 422 
 
 we wish to speak, and that very briefly and our story 
 is told. 
 
 The Nubbles family went down hill at a galloping pace. 
 Mr. Nubbles drank with his friend Jo Rummins pretty 
 nearly all the time. So that it was not a great while 
 before the former, managed to invite a visit from that 
 terrible disease, known as the. delirium tremens, which 
 carried him off in a tempest of madness and terror too 
 dreadful to bo described ; and the latter, hearing the sad 
 news, fell shortly after into a state of hypochondria, from 
 which he obtained relief at last only.by suspending himself 
 by his neck from the ceiling of his desolate kitchen, where 
 he was found by the villagers not until several days after 
 ward. To this day they shun his house as a pestilence ; 
 and little children as they go by on the still road, shudder 
 at the tale that was told them, and hurry on as if afraid 
 still of seeing his ghostly face peering at them through 
 the windows. 
 
 As for Mrs. Nubbles, and Kit, nothing was left them 
 but the poor-house. And to the poor-house they went ; 
 the same spot from which, but so short a time before, 
 little Gabriel went forth in tears, as the apprentice-boy of 
 the husband and father ! A strange mutation, but not 
 less just than strange ! 
 
 Mr. Dollar's heart gave him no rest. Duncan and 
 Alice were greatly surprised, one day, to receive a com 
 munication from his own hand, in which he set forth that 
 he had fully restored to them the amount of their claim, 
 interest included, and hoped that they would be happy 
 the rest of their lives. For himself, he said that he could 
 find peace nowhere again but in the grave. He desired 
 that they should never attempt to approach him, for thence 
 forward he resolved to be known of no living person.
 
 AND HIS ERRAND. 423 
 
 And accordingly he took up his weary walk through 
 the world as a wanderer, and is to this day trying in vain 
 to hurry away from the thoughts that, like vague and 
 bodiless phantoms, rise up behind him on his path, and 
 will rise up, till he has purged his heart forever of their 
 awful presence. 
 
 The world will offer him now its pity ; but for all that, 
 he can never cease to be his own persistent and inexor 
 able accuser ! 
 
 THE END
 
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