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 QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET 
 
 MARY CATHERINE LEE 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 <ar&e Rtoersi&e prcstf, Camlri&Qe 
 1889
 
 Copyright, 1889, 
 BY MARY CATHERINE LEE. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass , V. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Company.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY ... 1 
 
 II. THE LONG VOYAGE 22 
 
 III. PICKING UP A NATIVE 43 
 
 IV. NEWPORT 66 
 
 V. THE GOLDEN LINK 81 
 
 VI. THE ENTERING WEDGE 92 
 
 VII. "LOST! LOST!" 100 
 
 VIII. PEL'TIAH'S Two VISITORS 107 
 
 IX. DRIFTED UPON 'SCONSET 121 
 
 X. "WHAT'S FOR THEE, THEE' LL HAVE" . . 133 
 
 XL AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE " .... 144 
 
 XII. WILHELM'S SUBSTITUTE 165 
 
 XIII. A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED . . . .174 
 
 XIV. STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME .... 192 
 XV. THE GHOST OF OBED SWAIN 207 
 
 XVI. THE BLOSSOMS 210 
 
 XVII. AN END 230 
 
 XVIII. WHAT PAUL HAD TO TELL 236 
 
 XIX. BENJAMIN BOOTH'S STORY 245 
 
 XX. THE TURNING OF THE TIDE .... 254 
 
 XXI. THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE ... . 260 
 
 2037249
 
 iv CONTENTS. 
 
 XXII. THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER . . . 274 
 
 XXIII. CAPTURED 288 
 
 XXIV. KITH AND KIN 304 
 
 XXV. BY RACHEL GARDNER'S QUIET BEDSIDE . . 307 
 
 XX VL THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP 314
 
 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 
 
 IN Nantucket town, on one of the streets which 
 is more properly restrained, more certain than 
 others where it wants to go, stands a house more 
 ample than its fellows, and farther back from the 
 cobble-stone pavement, so as to give it a few feet 
 of grass plot in front, when other houses stand 
 flush upon the sidewalk. It is a drab house, 
 well furnished with drab' shutters, inside and out, 
 whereas most of the Nantucket houses have no 
 shutters at all. 
 
 These differences give it an honorable distinc- 
 tion. It is a foregone concession that the people 
 who live there are to be very highly regarded. 
 
 Three generations of Swains had passed quiet 
 lives under the roof of this exceptional dwelling, 
 and the fourth was represented by one little girl, 
 Miriam Swain, some twenty odd years ago. 
 
 Nantucket town is the slowly pulsing heart of 
 Nantucket island, and its history is the history of 
 other hearts, hope, the high tide of full expe-
 
 2 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 rience, and at length placid repose. Alas for that 
 repose since the world has come to buy it, and its 
 contagious fever has started the calm pulse into 
 abnormal throbbing! Alas for that sweet and 
 wholesome serenity ! 
 
 More than two hundred years ago the Puritans, 
 having fled from persecution, became themselves 
 oppressors, and put to flight some Quakers of 
 Plymouth Colony, who sought peace and refuge 
 in that almost desert place. 
 
 The spirit of peace itself may be said to have 
 founded the old town, which in later times, after 
 a hundred and fifty years of busy enterprise, slept 
 on its tranquil harbor, dreaming of the past, and 
 quite content with an early and comfortable de- 
 cadence. Through its bland atmosphere the in- 
 frequent stranger walked in those days as if spell- 
 bound, so entrancing was the calm, and seemed to 
 sleep while he waked, and knew not whether he 
 saw or dreamed he was seeing queer old home- 
 steads and dear old people, who beamed upon him 
 with loving kindness from regions of waxen neat- 
 ness if he only had the happiness to be ever so 
 remotely related. Sometimes these old homes 
 looked stiff and uncordial, with a thoroughly pru- 
 dent air, but they were always sweet and simple, 
 always and altogether delightful with the purest 
 essence of hospitality at heart. 
 
 This is as they were years ago, before the inva- 
 sion of the summer visitor. Some of them remain 
 BO to this day.
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 3 
 
 And the summer visitor has, perhaps, not yet 
 appropriated those miles of open moorland, wild 
 and heath-covered, that stretched beyond the town, 
 whose gently undulating surface was broken at 
 long intervals by clumps of odorous pines. Far 
 apart stood the ancient farm-houses, and lonely, 
 but sweet, were the pastures, far from human hab- 
 itation, where fat sheep and lambs grazed, and if 
 they had each borne a golden fleece, it would have 
 seemed, as you looked at them in those solitudes, 
 that they were safe from any Jason. 
 
 Following the deeply-rutted, sandy roads that 
 straggled across the moors, you would have found 
 a quaint little fishing village. The fishermen's cots 
 stood in zigzag rows, and the doors had wooden 
 latches. Their bright little dooryards blinked at 
 you cheerily, and the inmates of the cots peeped 
 at you wonderingly through the tiny greenish win- 
 dow panes, or around the corner of a doorpost. 
 In one of these dooryards stood the figure-head of 
 a ship, an heroic female statuaire, clothed in 
 gorgeous hues, and bearing aloft a standard. This 
 came ashore after a night of storm, and a bas-re- 
 lief representing some flying creature, which gar- 
 nished, not to say covered, the front of one cot- 
 tage, was also the figure-head of some unhappy 
 ship, towed home by fishermen. The whole vil- 
 lage glistened and smiled with trophies which the 
 false sea had cast at its feet. 
 
 At one end of it stood the very patriarch of 
 town pumps, looking as discouraged as if all the
 
 4 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 debts that have been charged to town pumps, since 
 ever town pumps were, had come back upon this 
 one, as the original and last-remaining and most 
 responsible one of all. 
 
 One day a boy was tugging at the handle of this 
 pump, making it shriek and groan with weary 
 protestations, and pour forth what might have 
 been a flood of tears, so thoroughly unhappy 
 seemed that ancient fountain; and the boy ap- 
 peared to be in perfect sympathy with it, for 
 floods of tears poured also down his pale cheeks, 
 and great sobs shook his thin chest. 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " he moaned with every tug at the 
 pump-handle, as if the burden of life were far too 
 heavy for him. 
 
 He was one of those trophies with which the 
 sardonic sea had enriched the little fishing village 
 some years before. From one of the ill-fated ships 
 that came ashore there, were saved two sailors and 
 this child. John Dagget, a fisherman, said, " Leave 
 the boy here. I shall need one to help me a-fishin' 
 byV by. I'll make a fisherman on him." 
 
 But the child was frail, and cried, and refused 
 the strange food of the fisher-people. A sad child, 
 foreign in every way to those stern toilers of the 
 sea, they came to despise him, and the boy became 
 sullen as well as sickly. As it seemed evident 
 that he would never be fit for a fisherman, he was 
 frankly pronounced a burden that they would 
 gladly be rid of, and John Dagget applied to the 
 overseers of the poor at Nantucket to have him 
 admitted at the town farm.
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 5 
 
 Miriam's father, Obed Swain, one of these 
 overseers, harnessed up Jerry one fine morning, 
 and jogged off " 'cross island " to see this peculiar 
 case of a boy who was n't wanted. Boys, to him, 
 seemed a very rare and choice article, partly be- 
 cause in Nantucket there were three or four fem- 
 inines to one masculine, and principally because 
 the only child Heaven had bestowed upon him was 
 one precious little girl, and although he would not 
 have changed her for all the boys on the island 
 and the main-land together, yet he would have 
 been most thankful for a son. A great warmth 
 crept into his heart as he thought of a boy who 
 belonged to nobody, whom nobody wanted, and as 
 he drove on to the fisher village, his mind received 
 a suggestion, a leading of the spirit, he called 
 it, and by the time he came within sight of the 
 town pump, his mind was very clear as to what he 
 would do with this underrated article. 
 
 The poor fellow, who was mingling his tears 
 with those of the pump, wiped his eyes with his 
 sleeve, and gulped down his sobs, as he saw some 
 one approaching, and was very busy stooping over 
 to rinse out his bucket when Obed Swain called 
 out, 
 
 " Whoa a, Jerry ! Will thee tell me, my lad, 
 winch is John Dagget's cottage ? " 
 
 The boy stared up astonished at this unaccus- 
 tomed tone and Obed Swain's beneficent face. 
 
 " What ! thee ain't a-crying, not this fine 
 morning, I should hope," said Obed. "What's
 
 6 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 the matter, my son? Anything I can do for 
 thee?" 
 
 The words " my son " tasted sweet in Obed's 
 mouth, and they were the open sesame to the 
 boy's suppressed woe. He threw himself on the 
 ground and shook with misery, and filled the air 
 with moans. Obed stepped out of the "shay," 
 and stooping over him pressed his hand gently on 
 the boy's head. 
 
 " My child," he said, " tell me, thy friend, what 
 is the matter ? " 
 
 " O-o-o, e-e-e-very thing ! " 
 
 " Everything, hey ? Umph, this is the worst 
 case I ever did see. There, take my handkerchief, 
 my boy, and wipe th' eyes and th' nose and let 's 
 begin somewhere to make everything right again. 
 Whose boy is thee ? " 
 
 " N-n-no-nobody's ! " 
 
 "Nobody's? Why thee ain't the loy that 
 lives with John Dagget ! " 
 
 "Ye-yes, I be." 
 
 " Well, then, thee get right up and get into my 
 shay, my son. Thee 's nothing more to cry about. 
 Thee 's somebody's boy from this minute ; that 's 
 to say, thee 's my boy." 
 
 Directly the boy was seated in the corner of a 
 real equipage a fine equipage for Nantucket. 
 He could not remember that such an extraordi- 
 nary thing had ever happened to him before. 
 His grief gave place to wonder, and his sobs 
 hushed themselves into long quivering sighs.
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 1 
 
 " What 's thy name ? " asked Obed. 
 
 "Joe." 
 
 " Joseph what ? " 
 
 " That 's all only Joe." 
 
 " Does thee remember thy father and mother? " 
 
 "N-no. I dunno," replied the boy, looking 
 wistfully out to sea. 
 
 Obed stroked his smooth face in silent satisfac- 
 tion, gazing at the sea too. And the sea smiled 
 back upon them blandly, as if it had been the best 
 of friends. 
 
 At this time Dame Dagget, since something was 
 taking place that she did n't know all about, threw 
 her apron over her head and came forward. She 
 wore a face which was also bland, like that of the 
 sea, and took pains to show that she, too, had been 
 the best of friends. 
 
 " For a gentleman's boy there was n't no fault 
 to be found with him," she said ; " but he was 
 dretful sing'lar 'bout his victuals, and was n't the 
 sort of boy for fisher-folks to keep. Look at them 
 hands ! " she added scornfully, pointing at the 
 boy's long, thin fingers. " No, she did n't know 
 about the child's belongings more than Obed Swain 
 did himself, except why, yes; there was that 
 thing he had on when they took him, and there 
 was the bit of a ring on one of his fingers, 
 she 'd got 'em laid away somew'ers. She 'd look 
 and see." 
 
 Away went the dame, and returned with a lit- 
 tle embroidered flannel wrapper fluttering in one
 
 8 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 hand, and a tiny bit of gold pinched between her 
 broad thumb and finger. " She kept them care- 
 fully," she said, " thinking some of his folks might 
 come a-looking for him. It was well known, 
 it was in the newspapers, that a child was saved 
 off the Aurory." 
 
 Obed put the ring into his wallet, tucked the 
 little wrapper into his capacious pocket, and took 
 his seat in the chaise with the look of a man who 
 has made a successful stroke. 
 
 Directly the boy was sailing away in a land- 
 boat, as the carriage was to him, from all his woes. 
 Over fields came the soft lowing of kine, and the 
 scent of pines, and neath, and bayberry bushes; 
 over sea came the fainter and fainter murmur of its 
 waves. He sailed slowly above the little yellow 
 star flowers that made the roadside golden, and lie 
 might have been sailing above the stars themselves, 
 he was so bewildered and so happy. His head 
 dropped lower and lower until it rested, with the 
 helpless trust of unconsciousness, against Obed's 
 arm. 
 
 Miriam Swain, while her father was ploughing 
 'cross island, sat on a low stool, having said her 
 lessons to Aunt Hepsy, reading for diversion the 
 life of Ann Millet, a young person who began to 
 have " leadings " at the age of four years, who 
 never cared for play, never laughed, and always 
 waited to be " directed " before she even washed 
 her hands ; whose wonderful piety led her to pass 
 all her leisure hours in devotion, and who died at
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 9 
 
 the age of thirteen, an accomplished saint. Every 
 book which came into Miriam's hands was of this 
 same general nature, for it was selected for her by 
 Aunt Hepsy, who had charge of her education, 
 and Aunt Hepsy was resolved to leaven the nat- 
 ural mind of that naughty Miriam, who cost her 
 many a groan, with such leaven as should work 
 out her unsaintly tendencies, and make her wor- 
 thy of her precious privileges, of which she, Aunt 
 Hepsy, was the chief. 
 
 Miriam shut the " Life of Ann Millet " with a 
 discouraged sigh, and wondered why it was neces- 
 sary to be so dull and sickly in order to be good. 
 It was n't altogether her fault, she reasoned, if 
 those wonderful leadings had n't come to her ; it 
 was a matter quite out of her control, like the 
 trouble about her hair, that would crinkle and fly 
 out into loose locks round her face, in spite of all 
 Aunt Hepsy could do, by brushing and combing 
 and straining it back tighter and tighter every day. 
 
 Resigned to this conviction, she went and stood 
 by the window where the summer breeze came 
 lazily in, waving the white dimity curtains, and 
 looked across the backyard, a spot of immaculate 
 neatness, where the short grass spread out from 
 the broad doorstone to the edge of " the bank," 
 that is, the abrupt slope of the ground to a much 
 lower level. Beyond, she could look over the 
 roofs of the houses that were on the streets " un- 
 der the bank," to the blue waters of the harbor, 
 and see the Nantucket steamboat when it rounded
 
 10 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 the Point and came in to port. Although she 
 might see it every day, she never lost the feeling 
 of excitement with which she watched it returning 
 from what, to her, were unknown regions, about 
 which she had dreams. As she stood watching 
 for the boat and dreaming her dreams, she hummed 
 softly to herself, as she had heard her friend Pel'- 
 tiah Groves do. 
 
 " There, there ! Don't thee make that noise, 
 Miriam," said a measured voice from the next 
 room. 
 
 "She don't know it's singing" said Miriam, 
 smiling to herself. " Now, who 'd ever think that 
 that little bit of a sound, come to call it singing, 
 was worldly and sinful ? " 
 
 Aunt Hepsy's firm, almost noiseless footstep 
 moved on from room to room, and presently her 
 deep voice called, " Miriam ! " 
 
 Miriam, quickly obeying the summons, presented 
 herself before Aunt Hepsy, who stood with an in- 
 quisitorial air before a tumbler of wild flowers and 
 grasses, that Miriam had meant to place in her 
 own room to brighten its austere plainness, and 
 make it look like cousin Ruth's room, but which 
 she had imprudently left on the dining-room table. 
 
 "What's thee saving these weeds for?" Aunt 
 Hepsy desired to know. 
 
 "I I thought they were pretty," replied Mir- 
 iam, blushing. 
 
 " Thee go give them to the cow that 's what 
 they're for and don't thee go bringing litter 
 into the house again," was Aunt Hepsy's decree.
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 11 
 
 While Miriam was offering her unwilling sac- 
 rifice to the cow, she seemed to be throwing over 
 the fence a great deal besides the flowers, and the 
 cow, grazing on the farther side of the little piece 
 where she was pastured, added to the bitterness of 
 the occasion by her stupid indifference. Miriam 
 frowned upon the cow, and was about to waste 
 some consideration upon the old riddle, " Why 
 don't we continue to be happy? " when she heard 
 Jerry's footsteps and the rattle of the old chaise, 
 and her elastic spirits seized upon happiness itself, 
 and left the riddle unsolved, as she hurried to 
 meet her father. 
 
 She drew back and stood in silent amazement, 
 however, when she saw get down from the chaise, 
 after her father, a ragged, barefooted boy, with 
 great shocks of light hair all out of place, and no 
 hat at all. The boy also drew back and looked at 
 Miriam anxiously, trying to screen himself behind 
 Obed. 
 
 " Thee go call Rosanna, Miriam," said Obed. 
 
 Miriam hastened to find Rosanna, as a possible 
 step towards an explanation, but she was still more 
 bewildered when Rosanna, after receiving sortie 
 directions and a large parcel of things which Obed 
 had bought, disappeared with parcel, boy, and all. 
 
 Obed then called Miriam to listen to the story 
 of a boy whom nobody wanted, nobody loved, 
 whom he had found weeping because there was no 
 place for him in the world. Tears came into Mir- 
 iam's clear eyes.
 
 12 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Oh, father, /love him, and 1 want him," she 
 said, and when, in course of time, Rosanna re- 
 turned with the boy shining and fresh from his 
 bath, hair neatly cropped and brushed, with clean 
 linen, whole jacket and trousers, and brand-new 
 stockings and shoes, Miriam went to him, and 
 with the tears hardly dry on her lashes said, with 
 timid earnestness, 
 
 "/love thee, and I want thee" 
 
 Poor Joe stood confounded by this new wave in 
 the tide of peculiar circumstances in which he had 
 been already nearly drowned. He met Miriam's 
 impulsive overture with a look that was pitiful in 
 its bewildered helplessness. Such doings as these 
 were too remarkable for him to understand. 
 
 Miriam turned away, crushed and disappointed. 
 
 " He does n't love me" she said with quivering 
 lip. 
 
 " Ye - yes I do too," gasped the boy, and then 
 shrank into himself again, with sudden terror at 
 having made such a bold and hazardous venture. 
 
 " Then," said Miriam, brightening, " I shall be 
 very good to thee, thou '11 see. I shall give 
 thee the very prettiest and best of my two new 
 kittens, to begin with, the one named Solomon. 
 I 've lost a good many kittens," she added with a 
 sigh, meaning, no doubt, to imply that having had 
 sorrows of her own she was the better qualified to 
 sympathize with an unhappy boy like him. " Come 
 and I '11 show thee their graves." 
 
 She took the boy's hand, and drew him along
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 13 
 
 with her out of the open door, round into the prim 
 garden at the right of the green backyard, where 
 sage and summer savory, balm and mint, boneset, 
 catnip, and pennyr'yal were getting the better of 
 a few flowers, and when they reached a secluded 
 corner in the extreme lower end, she paused and 
 pointed to a row of little earthy protuberances, 
 each with a shingle stuck up against it, and each 
 decorated with one cinnamon rose. 
 
 " There they are," she said, waving her hand 
 over them with impressive solemnity. "It's 
 worldly to have gravestones and flowers for them, 
 but " (in a confidential tone) " I do like worldly 
 things ! Aunt Hepsy says it 's a sin to make such 
 a fuss over cats, but th' sees, she don't know what 
 it is to love cats very much and have 'em die. 
 Those two are Esau and Jacob. I called them so 
 because this one was always getting the messes 
 away from that one. That one 's Nebuchadnezzar, 
 because he used to eat grass, and I think that's 
 what killed him. Grass is n't good for cats, thee 
 knows. That one I called Rosanna, because it 
 was black, and those three are Faith, Hope, and 
 Charity. The other two died before they had 
 any names, and I wrote some lines ebbytoffs I 
 believe they call 'em to put on their grave- 
 stones. Thee can't read 'em, I know, they 're 
 wrote so bad. This one says : 
 
 ' Under this stone a kitten lies, 
 
 Its mother's pride and hope ; 
 Before it had opened its eyes, 
 It into the grave did drop.'
 
 14 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 And the other : 
 
 ' This pretty little kitten, 
 
 Of eight days old, 
 By death it was smitten, 
 Caused by a great cold.' " 
 
 All this impressed Joe immensely ; not so much 
 the nine dead cats, however, as the girl, not so 
 old as himself, who could talk so much, could read 
 and write and make ebbytoffs, and, in short, knew 
 about so many things of which he had never heard. 
 He gazed, speechless, at the nine lumps of earth. 
 Miriam was pleased. His silence seemed sympa- 
 thetic. She imagined him sharing her regret, and 
 felt her tender heart drawn to him with another 
 impulse of affection. Reaching up on tiptoes, she 
 kissed Joe's thin cheek, and Joe returned the 
 caress, after a fashion. 
 
 The superabundant tenderness of Miriam's 
 heart, which had hitherto overflowed upon kittens, 
 rejoiced more and more in this new object ; and 
 a hundred kindly influences poured like rain and 
 sunshine upon the object himself. The bruised 
 plant revived and held up its head with a timid 
 joy that was almost as pathetic as its misery had 
 been. 
 
 The untutored mind and misused body of this 
 poor child, who had lost his place in life, needed 
 large amendments, and Aunt Hepsy felt that she 
 was the one being qualified to make them. To 
 begin with, he was no longer allowed to be Joe, 
 but was called upon to support the reputable name
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 15 
 
 of Joseph John Gurney, 1 and to complete his re- 
 spectability the name of Swain was added by 
 Obed. 
 
 Aunt Hepsy rejoiced with peculiar satisfaction 
 in a new opportunity to train up a child in the 
 way it should go. She considered that her most 
 remarkable gifts lay in that direction. Being a 
 spinster herself, she had looked to find a field for 
 her talents in her brother Obed's family, but un- 
 fortunately for the scope of those talents, and 
 Miriam, the field had been limited, for Elizabeth 
 Swain had supplied her with but one case to ex- 
 periment upon, and died. Miriam very reason- 
 ably felt that such powerful forces, all brought to 
 bear upon one small child, were a good deal too 
 much for the child. 
 
 But Aunt Hepsy devoted herself with uncom- 
 mon zeal to Joseph John's education, which di- 
 vided the pressure most agreeably. Miriam had a 
 feeling of relief that was akin to liberty, that 
 was liberty itself compared with former things. 
 While Joseph John was saying his lessons she 
 could often slip out and execute some fascinating 
 plan which had once been too difficult for accom- 
 plishment. The window of Belinda Cottle's little 
 millinery and fancy goods store offered fruitful 
 suggestions, and Joseph John's extremity was her 
 opportunity. 
 
 One day, Aunt Hepsy was at her wit's end try- 
 ing to demonstrate to Joseph John why it was n't 
 
 1 The founder of that division of Friends called Gurneyites.
 
 16 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 correct for him to say, "Will you let me take 
 thy pencil?" and Miriam slipped up-stairs with an 
 eager look which showed that this was an impor- 
 tant moment to her. She gathered together cer- 
 tain things that had been previously laid away in 
 anticipation of such an opening, and was soon ab- 
 sorbed in creating the expression of an ideal. She 
 was so deeply engaged that she did not hear Aunt 
 Hepsy's step on the stairs. Who could have heard 
 it when she wore such abominably soft slippers ? 
 Poor Miriam started up with a flushed face, and 
 held her hands behind her when the door slowly 
 opened and Aunt Hepsy stood before her, the im- 
 personation of fact. 
 
 " What 's thee doing, Miriam ? What is 't thee 's 
 got in thy hands ? " she demanded, with a dread- 
 ful calmness that was worse than a thunder clap. 
 Her keen eyes, aquiline nose, and the high poise 
 of her head made her look like an eagle. 
 
 Miriam knew the revelation must come, so she 
 held forth at once what in the name of won- 
 der ? Her little plain bonnet with a huge bunch 
 of cherries fastened on one side, and atop of these 
 a fire-red bow ! 
 
 This was too much for words, and it was accord- 
 ing to Aunt Hepsy's principles to use few words 
 at any time. Groans answered every purpose. 
 
 Miriam knew full well what was to be done. 
 Aunt Hepsy, swelling with suppressed emotion, 
 led the way in silence to her room, with the cap- 
 tured bonnet in her hand, and Miriam followed 
 with downcast eyes.
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 17 
 
 On a shelf in that room were some books which 
 represented the rod to Miriam, and the rod was 
 never spared. 
 
 Whenever she committed an offense, she was 
 required to read aloud to Aunt Hepsy for an hour 
 from one of these. If the offense had been mod- 
 erate, Aunt Hepsy handed her " No Cross, No 
 Crown," or Barclay's "Apology," or "The Jour- 
 nal of Thomas Chalkley," but if it had been un- 
 commonly heinous, "The Sinner Awakened" was 
 the penalty. They were severe looking books, in 
 which all the s's were /'s, and Miriam had as 
 much as she could do not to call sin, fin, which 
 would have seemed very absurd, for who ever 
 heard of a man groaning under the burden of his 
 fins? 
 
 Aunt Hepsy took down " The Sinner Awak- 
 ened," and handed it in awful silence to Miriam, 
 who proceeded to look for the place where her last 
 transgression had left her. It was n't really so 
 bad as it used to be, for Joseph John was there ; 
 he would be sorry, and it is in the feminine nature 
 to enjoy being the object of sympathy. Even if 
 Aunt Hepsy went so far as to make her stay and 
 meditate after " The Sinner Awakened," Joseph 
 John would come and whisper through the key- 
 hole and tell her what figures the hands on the 
 clock were at, so that she could guess the time 
 and know how much of her captivity was past. 
 She had done him a similar favor. But Miriam 
 had not learned all of human nature, its capa- 
 bilities and shortcomings.
 
 18 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 In the midst of her humiliation Joseph John 
 came and looked in at the door. Aunt Hepsy's 
 back being turned, he looked at his leisure, and 
 saw the little dove-colored bonnet lying on the 
 table, with its comical decorations, and understood 
 the whole predicament. Miriam glanced up at 
 him, and he was laughing ! actually laughing with 
 delight, and she so mortified and troubled ! 
 
 This was too much. Miriam hid her face in 
 ' The Sinner Awakened " and wept. Aunt Hepsy 
 saw in this unusual demonstration an evidence of 
 repentance. 
 
 " I am gratified," she said, in a measured, sol- 
 emn tone, and after due reflection, " to know that 
 thou hast seen thy error and art concerned. Take 
 those bedizenments off th' bonnet. I shall leave 
 thee to the silent working of the better mind." 
 
 Saying which, Aunt Hepsy went out and shut 
 the door. Whatever Aunt Hepsy did seemed to 
 say, " I know what 's right ; not only so, I also 
 practise what I know." She was doing severely 
 right when she imposed a penalty. She was doing 
 severely right when she remitted the penalty. 
 Her lenity, even, had an air of strictness which 
 robbed it of any cheering effect. When she closed 
 the door upon Miriam, the child was more miser- 
 able than before. In addition to all the rest, she 
 felt guilty of having gained her reprieve upon a 
 false supposition. She wanted to tell Aunt Hepsy 
 that she was not crying about the bonnet, but she 
 could not. The real cause of her tears was a mat-
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 19 
 
 ter upon which she was too keenly sensitive to 
 make it a subject of discussion. But, after all, 
 wasn't she sorry about the bonnet? She was 
 sure of it, especially as things had turned out. 
 
 She tore the bedizenments off her bonnet, and 
 threw them out of the window, threw the poor 
 bonnet, I am sorry to say, into a corner of the 
 room, and leaning her arms on the sill of the open 
 window, and her head on her arms, grieved that 
 she had been born into such a disappointing world. 
 
 Joseph John, meanwhile, was impatient of the 
 time he was obliged to wait for his playfellow. 
 Lessons were over, and there was no computing 
 the pleasure that was being lost. He watched the 
 clock until the hands had gone over the ordinary 
 space allotted to Miriam's penances, and then went 
 softly to take another peep. He opened the door 
 carefully. What was his surprise to find the usu- 
 ally wide-awake Miriam bowed down in that ab- 
 ject fashion. 
 
 "Miriam, why Miriam! " he said. "Why don't 
 thee come and do something ? We can take a lit- 
 tle cruise to the mill. Come ! " 
 
 Miriam shook her shoulder away from his touch, 
 and made no response. 
 
 "What's the matter? Why it ain't the lun- 
 nit!" said Joseph John, in a tone which implied 
 that he should hope she would scorn such weak- 
 ness. 
 
 " It 's thou ! " said Miriam. 
 
 "Me!"
 
 20 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Laughing, when I wanted thee to to be 
 sorry." 
 
 " What thee want me to be sorry for ? " 
 
 The old foolish feminine demand for tender- 
 ness ! The old masculine short-sighted obtuse- 
 ness ! 
 
 Miriam in despair and desperation got up, 
 snatched her bonnet from the corner, ran head- 
 long down stairs, and letting herself out at the 
 front door, darted down the street. Away she 
 flew, through a crooked lane, down another street, 
 until she came to a house even more remarkable 
 for its exceptional respectability than the Swain 
 house itself. It actually had a projecting facade 
 and Doric columns, and Nan tucket took pride in 
 it, though pride was a vice which its owner ab- 
 horred upon strictest principles. 
 
 Miriam disappeared between the Doric columns, 
 through the big front door, and appeared suddenly 
 before two persons who sat mending linen, 
 beautiful fine snowy linen, in a room where every- 
 thing seemed to belong by right of kinship to the 
 pure linen. An angel in spotless raiment would 
 hardly have seemed out of place there, and might 
 have lingered long without fear of defilement. 
 
 The elder of these two persons was a woman 
 with a sweet classic face and bands of smooth gray 
 hair, though she looked as fresh and fair as the 
 morning, the morning, when it dawns in a 
 silvery mist and gives promise of a long bright 
 day, for she was clad in soft and sober-hued
 
 THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW BOY. 21 
 
 garments, like that morning mist, but she held 
 underneath a world of sunshine and gladness. 
 The other was a pretty blonde girl of about nine- 
 teen. 
 
 Miriam flashed in upon them, panting and 
 flushed, and, throwing her bonnet into one chair 
 and herself into another, announced herself 
 thus : 
 
 " I 've run away, Aunt Dorcas. I 've come to 
 stay!"
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 
 
 AUNT DOECAS and the fair young girl dropped 
 their work and gazed upon Miriam with the puz- 
 zled look with which one accepts a joke that is n't 
 quite plain. 
 
 " Look at that face, mother ! " said the girl. 
 
 " My dear ! Why need thee have run so, and 
 got so heated?" asked Aunt Dorcas. "Here, 
 take this fan and keep quiet till thee gets thy 
 breath." 
 
 Miriam took the round feather fan with pictures 
 on it of soft -looking Chinese ladies, incredible 
 birds, and impossible flowers, held it off to get 
 the full effect of the long silken tassel swinging 
 from its carved ivory handle, and fanned herself 
 with subdued satisfaction. The lustrous feathers, 
 the glancing colors, and the dancing tassel offered 
 some consolation. She surveyed them as she 
 waved them with an air of chastened melancholy, 
 and gradually became calm and cool. 
 
 " Now suppose thee tells me what the running 
 away means," suggested Aunt Dorcas. 
 
 " Nothing pertickler," said Miriam, examining 
 the fan with a scrutinizing frown, her head on one
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 23 
 
 side, like a connoisseur of fans. " I only want to 
 stay here," she added, bringing the fan up quickly, 
 so that only a pair of earnest hazel eyes, a white 
 forehead, and very frowsy auburn hair showed 
 above the feathers. 
 
 " What for ! " Aunt Dorcas asked. 
 
 " I need a change." 
 
 Aunt Dorcas and her daughter laughed. 
 
 " Thee no need to laugh, cousin Ruth," said 
 Miriam, opening her eyes very wide, and shutting 
 them again with a snap. " When thee wanted to 
 go to Philadelphia, thee said everybody needs a 
 change sometimes." 
 
 " I confess, there was another uneasy person," 
 assented cousin Ruth. 
 
 " I should think so ! " said Miriam, with an em- 
 phatic nod, which seemed to fix the charge of 
 uneasiness chiefly upon cousin Ruth. 
 
 " What about father and Aunt Hepsy?" pur- 
 sued Aunt Dorcas. 
 
 " Father 's gone to Yearly Meeting, and I make 
 Aunt Hepsy groan.'' 
 
 " There 's Joseph John " 
 
 "Aunt Dorcas, do let me stay," cried Miriam, 
 dropping herself beside Aunt Dorcas. " Let me 
 stay a week ! " and she said it with her arms 
 round Aunt Dorcas, and looked so eager, that 
 Aunt Dorcas, who felt a compassion for the child, 
 kissed the flushed cheek, patted the frowsy hair, 
 and said, 
 
 "I should like nothing better, dear, if Aunt
 
 24 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Hepsy is willing. I 'm going to see her directly, 
 and I '11 speak about it." 
 
 Miriam, hopeful of success under these circum- 
 stances, for Aunt Dorcas had a way of persuading 
 even Aunt Hepsy, gave Aunt Dorcas a cordial 
 squeeze, privately thought she guessed Joseph 
 John would be sorry now, and hoped much from 
 the probable remorse that would follow his lone- 
 liness. 
 
 Leaving the future to work out its own results, 
 she felt inclined to accept the solace of the hour, 
 and floated about the charming room, gazing at 
 the beautiful and curious things that always made 
 her wonder about the strange lands from whence 
 they came. There was a sandal-wood writing- 
 desk a miracle of dexterous carving ; lacquered 
 and curiously inlaid boxes, which being opened 
 disclosed soft pictures upon rice paper, and sent 
 forth subtle odors upon which her fancy took 
 wing ; great jars, small and large vases, cabinets 
 full of dainty shells, and a cupboard with glass 
 doors, where she could see the best china. The 
 ships that had sailed from Nantucket to all the 
 chief ports in the world, to carry oil and candles 
 to market, had brought back such treasures as 
 these, and the old island was rich with the pro- 
 ducts of far-away, mysterious lands. 
 
 Miriam's fancy had never roved so freely by in- 
 vitation of these foreign odors and objects, and 
 she at length resolved to take a trip to foreign 
 lands herself. After dinner she would go on a
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 25 
 
 "cruise," as Nantucket people call a walk, and 
 play it was a voyage to China. 
 
 Aunt Dorcas had meantime folded up her snowy 
 apron, put on her bonnet, in which her face looked 
 like a flower within its sober calyx, and throwing 
 a gauzy silk shawl over her handsome shoulders 
 tripped away to see Hepsy Swain. 
 
 Miriam finished floating about, and cast anchor 
 in a big easy chair near cousin Ruth, where she 
 curled herself up and watched her cousin's nimble 
 fingers weaving the fine threads in and out on the 
 glossy snowdrop linen. They were having just a 
 nice quiet prittle-prattle together, when suddenly, 
 close behind Miriam's chair, there exploded such 
 a tremendous " Boo ! " that she jumped like a 
 jack-in-the-box. She was obliged to go round and 
 look on the floor behind the chair for an explana- 
 tion of this unexpected attention. There, snick- 
 ering and crouching, was a long, lank boy, who, 
 when confronted, burst into a laugh that sounded 
 like the whinny of a horse, and showed so many 
 enormous teeth that he looked like a pitiless de- 
 vourer. To substantiate this impression, he held 
 in his hand a huge piece of gingerbread, which 
 had several large semicircular gaps in its edge. 
 
 " It 's Paul ! " said Miriam, with a dismayed 
 look, retiring into the big chair again. 
 
 Paul was Ruth's brother, but Miriam had 
 scarcely seen him for two years, for he had been 
 at the Yearly Meeting School at Providence, and 
 she took care to remain at home during his vaca-
 
 26 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 tions. This was a special and unexpected appear- 
 ance, however, which found her wholly unprepared. 
 Paul had suddenly graduated from the Providence 
 school, with a distinction not in the least due to 
 the excellence of his scholarship, although that 
 was very great. The proprietor of a china-shop 
 had threatened to burn the foot-ball of the Quaker 
 boys if it bounced so near his windows again, and 
 when it went still further and bounced into his 
 shop, he threw it into his stove, which resulted in 
 an explosion that blew up the stove, and made a 
 commotion in the school as well as the china- 
 shop. It could never be proved who was the Guy 
 Fawkes in this gunpowder plot ; but, following a 
 natural sequence, Paul had the credit of stuffing 
 the ball. This was, in fact, a mistake, but Paul 
 accepted his sentence of dismissal with the resig- 
 nation of a boy who had deserved it many times 
 before. He was frequently spoken of on Nan- 
 tucket as a " regular scamp," and yet you could 
 never hear a person say he disliked Paul. 
 
 " Th' don't seem rejoiced to see me," he said, 
 rising to the occasion, as one might say, and tak- 
 ing his place directly opposite Miriam, where he 
 rapidly multiplied the gaps in his gingerbread, 
 and stared at her with great, protruding eyes. 
 
 " Now Paul, th' knows th' has no business to 
 bring gingerbread into the sitting-room," said 
 cousin Ruth. 
 
 " Don't th' bother, Friend Busybody ; nobody 's 
 got any gingerbread in the sitting-room," returned
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 27 
 
 Paul, stuffing in his last mouthful and pulling 
 from his pocket a pair of spectacle bows destitute 
 of lenses, which he fixed upon his long nose, and 
 then gazed alternately through and over them at 
 Miriam, who turned away and persisted in over- 
 looking him altogether. 
 
 " Thee ain't very civil, now," the atrocious boy 
 went on, pulling his chair up beside Miriam's. " I 
 want to have a little conversation with thee. It 's 
 a long time since I had the pleasure. How 's thee 
 been since I saw thee last ? " 
 
 Miriam remained dumb and looked out of the 
 window. 
 
 " Oh, very well, if I 'm to be treated in this 
 fashion I shall go, that 's all." 
 
 Seizing Miriam's bonnet and squeezing his head 
 into it, he tied the strings in a crazy-looking knot 
 under his chin, and with his spectacle bows wildly 
 askew, flounced out of the room with the appear- 
 ance of lofty dudgeon. 
 
 " Oh," said cousin Ruth, " he is like an angel 
 when mother is here, but he 's enough to wear out 
 the patience of an angel when she is away." 
 
 " I 'm glad he 's gone ! " Miriam said, with a 
 heavy sigh. 
 
 " He '11 be back again, I '11 promise thee. He 
 won't waste any time." 
 
 Miriam began to think she had jumped from 
 the frying-pan to the fire when she ran away from 
 Joseph John. She had a great mind to go home 
 again. But that would mean an inglorious failure.
 
 28 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 She must accomplish her purpose. She vould 
 stay until tea-time, at any rate. It really began 
 to seem that by tea-time she should want to go 
 home and see how Joseph John felt. She imag- 
 ined him very sorry and wanted to comfort him. 
 
 She was roused from a vision of Joseph John's 
 penitence and her own magnanimity by hearing 
 the delightful motherly mew and purr of a cat, 
 and the fine little squeal of kittens, which ap- 
 peared to come from the entry. This touched 
 Miriam's tender spot. With an eager bound she 
 reached the entry too soon to hear cousin Ruth's 
 warning, " Don't go it 's only Paul ! " and 
 rushed directly into the face of that bad boy, 
 who stood arrayed in an astonishing costume, con- 
 sisting of a large brown table cover, gathered in 
 round his waist by a string to represent the skirt 
 of a gown, a drab shawl pinned smoothly over his 
 chest in the most precise and proper fashion, Mir- 
 iam's bonnet and the spectacle bows as on last ap- 
 pearance. He marched into the sitting-room with 
 long-drawn face, took his seat with solemnity, and 
 after twirling his thumbs in a meditative manner 
 for a few seconds, with an appearance of compos- 
 ing his mind, arose with great deliberation, and in 
 the sing-song drawl once peculiar to the tuneful 
 exhortations of the " rising seat," 
 
 " Ranging the gamut in a single word, 
 
 And touching every discord ou the way," 
 he thus held forth : 
 
 " My friends, since I have been setting
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 29 
 
 here, I have been deeply impressed with this sol- 
 emn truth : I ain't treated as I 'd oughter be. 
 No, my friends, though I 'm much too good for 
 this world, I ain't appreciated ! The scornful nose 
 is elevated at my approach ! Let me warn you, 
 my frivolous hearers, to turn from the error of 
 your ways, and show me greater consideration and 
 respect. Oh, my children, the time will come 
 when you will wish you had let me eat ginger- 
 bread in the setting-room and been more civil 
 and obliging every way. But it isn't too late, 
 now is a good time to begin. Now, to-day, this 
 very hour, I entreat you to listen to the warning 
 voice, and atone for your past shabbiness by allow- 
 ing me to turn a few somersets in this inviting 
 spot." 
 
 With a sudden whirl and squat he made a 
 " cheese " with his table-cloth skirt, turned two or 
 three somersets in the open space in the middle of 
 the room, touching his hands but not his head, out 
 of regard for Miriam's bonnet, and then, kissing 
 his hand with a bow, thus revealing some slight 
 acquaintance with the sawdust ring, he vanished 
 once more into the entry. 
 
 Cousin Ruth had given an occasional covert 
 glance at these scandalous performances, with a 
 disdainful air of not stooping to notice what she 
 could not prevent, but Miriam stared with broad 
 unwinking amazement at those never-before-seen- 
 or-heard-or-thought-of enormities. 
 
 " Is n't he dreadful ! " she said, sinking with a
 
 30 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 limp kind of helplessness into a chair when he had 
 gone. 
 
 "He's a shocking bad boy," assented cousin 
 Ruth. 
 
 " Has he come to stay ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; all summer." 
 
 Miriam remembered that not two hours before 
 she had announced herself as having come to stay, 
 but she now resolved that she would go humbly 
 home when night came, whatever Aunt Dorcas's 
 message should be, and she had scarcely come to 
 that conclusion when the front door opened sud- 
 denly and a sound of fierce barking and growling 
 came from the entry, accompanied by the scuffling 
 of feet, as if a desperate struggle were going on 
 there. Poor Miriam, who was mortally afraid of 
 a dog, was about to fly for refuge to the back re- 
 gions of the house, but cousin Ruth held her, say- 
 ing* 
 
 " Don't thee understand ? It 's only Paul." 
 
 Happily Aunt Dorcas was not long away. There 
 was a long interval of peace, which seemed fright- 
 fully ominous, and Miriam moved about uneasily 
 and looked out of the windows. What should she 
 see but Aunt Dorcas coming up the street, leaning 
 on the arm of that terrible boy, who was much 
 taller than his mother, and who bent his head to 
 listen to what she was saying in such a gentle way 
 that it was hard to believe he was the same boy 
 she had looked upon with dread. He shortened 
 his long strides to accommodate his step to his
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 31 
 
 little mother's, took a parcel she was carrying, and 
 looked as proud and pleased as the most senti- 
 mental lover could have done. And Aunt Dorcas 
 appeared to be the happiest and most entirely sat- 
 isfied of mothers. 
 
 When they came in, Paul took his mother's 
 shawl and bonnet, handed her a fan, and perfected 
 his wonderful transfiguration by seating himself 
 with a book in his hands in the very chair which 
 had lately supported him in his folly. Miriam 
 could no longer believe she had seen him turning 
 somersets in the middle of that serene and orderly 
 room. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Aunt Dorcas, " thee may 
 stay a few days." 
 
 "I I guess I must go home to-night," said 
 Miriam, looking anxiously at the texture of the 
 pocket handkerchief with which she had been 
 wiping from her forehead the dews of the last 
 warm, exciting hour. 
 
 Aunt Dorcas attributed this change to a feeling 
 of diffidence in regard to Paul, who really seemed 
 quite an imposing boy when he was behaving him- 
 self. 
 
 "Oh, I want thee to stay and see Paul," she said, 
 to bring Miriam into familiarity with the idea. 
 " What does thee think of my great boy ? " she 
 added, reaching over and patting Paul's great paw. 
 
 Paul took his mother's hand in his, and smiled 
 as he read on, but whether the smile was a re- 
 sponse to her, or an indication that his book was a
 
 32 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 funny one, or whether he caught a mental glimpse 
 of Miriam's opinion is altogether uncertain. 
 
 Aunt Dorcas looked up for an answer, and Mir- 
 iam felt compelled to give one. 
 
 "Oh, all boys are perpost'rous," she said, "but 
 there 's a difference in boys.'' 1 
 
 They all laughed at the vagueness of the re- 
 ply, and answered the summons to dinner. 
 
 During the moment of silent grace, Miriam, by 
 some unlucky fascination, felt compelled to look 
 at Paul, who met her gaze with such an alarming 
 squint that, in utter confusion, she said she would 
 n't have any jelly with her meat, when jelly was 
 the particular thing she wanted. 
 
 This making the acquaintance of her cousin 
 Paul was an experience so uncomfortable that she 
 resolved to escape it at any price, and by the time 
 dinner was finished she had decided how she would 
 do it. She would take that voyage to China. 
 
 It was growing cooler, Aunt Dorcas had gone 
 to take a nap, Paul was swinging in a hammock 
 behind the Doric columns, absorbed in a thrilling 
 book, and Miriam said to cousin Ruth, " Fare- 
 well, I 'm going on a voyage to China." 
 
 " Farewell," said cousin Ruth, returning the 
 little hand-pressure with understanding, for she 
 was used to Miriam's dreamy make-believes, and 
 often came down from the height of her nineteen 
 years and made believe with her, " farewell, and 
 I hope thee '11 take a fast steamer, so as to be back 
 by tea-time."
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 33 
 
 "Well, I don't know," Miriam replied. " China's 
 the best place to take tea in, is n't it ? But I 'm 
 going home to tea. Farewell." 
 
 Miriam had a passion for wandering on the 
 shore and sitting in the boats that lay hauled up 
 there. She often sat for hours gazing out to sea, 
 and watching the white sails going on and on, 
 wondering to where, and it was a greater satis- 
 faction to wonder where, and dream that they 
 were going to touch at charmed coasts, where 
 birds with gay plumage, like those on Aunt Dor- 
 cas's fans and boxes, nestled among golden fruits 
 and gorgeous flowers, and all the breezes were 
 laden with such odors as were shut up in those 
 boxes, it was a far greater pleasure to suppose 
 this, than it would have been to know that these 
 white-winged wanderers were going down to Penn- 
 sylvania after coal, or coming from Cape Cod with 
 cargoes of salt codfish. 
 
 When Miriam shut the back gate that opened 
 from Aunt Dorcas's trim garden into a sandy lane, 
 she looked up and down as if considering which 
 was the best route to China, and then turned up 
 the lane in the direction of her favorite haunt, the 
 North Shore. The lane brought her into a region 
 of scattered houses, on the outskirts of the town, 
 overlooking the open downs, and on a breezy ele- 
 vation stood a weather-beaten old windmill, swing- 
 ing its arms in the face of the wind and telling it 
 to '* Come on, come on," if it wanted a fight with 
 him.
 
 34 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 "I must stop and say farewell to Amos Tuttle, 
 and tell him I 'm going to China," said Miriam. 
 
 Amos Tuttle, the miller, was a great friend of 
 Miriam's. One of her chief pleasures was to pay 
 him a visit at the mill and hear him spin his bright- 
 colored yarns. He was a good, honest soul, who 
 had got what good he could out of life, philosoph- 
 ically and actually ; had tried nearly all parts of 
 the world, as a seafaring man, in his youth ; had 
 made a little fortune as a digger in a California 
 gold mine, and lost it all as a proprietor in the 
 same ; had canvassed the United States with a 
 patent washing-machine ; had himself invented a 
 remarkable combination of mop-handle, window- 
 brush, carpet-stretcher, and garden-squirt ; had 
 lived on a cattle-ranch out on the prairies and been 
 attacked by Indians ; had come home when he was 
 growing old as poor as he was born, and was at 
 last rewarding an ungrateful world by grinding its 
 corn in the old mill. 
 
 Miriam climbed up to the open mill door, and 
 found Amos dozing over a sedative old newspaper, 
 with his glasses slipping off his nose, and she 
 thought it would be a capital joke for him to 
 wake up and start with surprise at seeing her 
 there. So she stood quietly watching the golden 
 grains slide from the hopper to the stone, and 
 there, losing all separate existence, pour in a 
 blended stream into the great box below. As 
 the meal went on pouring, the glasses went on 
 slipping, and presently down they dropped on the
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 35 
 
 newspaper, and Amos gave the start Miriam had 
 looked for, much to her delight. 
 
 " Oho ! " said he, " here 's that little brown 
 bird agin. Hop in and set awhile, won't ye ? I 
 was gitting drowsy a bit; a little chat '11 rouse me 
 up, I expect." 
 
 " Why, thee was as sound asleep as ever was," 
 said Miriam, with her quiet little laugh. 
 
 ''Asleep ? Oh, no, I wa' n't asleep," Amos avowed, 
 starting up and picking up his glasses with uncom- 
 mon alertness; "I never sleep in the daytime 
 not I. I was a -thinking about a boy 't swum 
 in down to Floridy after alligators' eggs, 'n' he 
 got a good parcel on 'em, and was a-comin' off 
 grand with 'em, when he heered a rousin' snap 
 close behind him. ' What 's that ? ' says he, 
 a-lookin' round, an' there abaft on him, about s-o 
 fur off, was a live alligater, an' that snap would a' 
 ketched that air boy if it had n't been for a snag 
 that the reptyle run agin." 
 
 " He did n't catch him, then ? " 
 
 " Which did n't ketch who ? " 
 
 " The alligator did n't catch the boy, did he ? " 
 
 " Not he. The boy caught the alligater. He 
 snatched up that gun o' his'n an' shot him smack, 
 and the last time I see that boy he was travelin' 
 out West with a valise made out o' the alligator's 
 skin, made it himself, an' alligator's skin '11 
 be the fashion for valises some day, see if 't ain't." 
 
 " He was a smart boy, was n't he ? " Miriam 
 was thinking of Joseph John. She was very
 
 36 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 much afraid he would be one of those .same 
 smart boys, and place himself far beyond her 
 reach. 
 
 " Yes," responded Amos, " he was a smart boy, 
 but he wa' n't nigh so smart as a girl I knew." 
 
 In this way Amos would run on and tell story 
 after story by the hour. 
 
 " Tell me about the girl," said Miriam, taking 
 a long breath to be ready for another pull. 
 
 " Well," Amos began, in a very different tone, 
 " this girl had n't no mother, an' her father had n't 
 no other but her, an' he set a gret store by her. 
 He was a sea cap'n, an' he could n't bear to go off 
 'n' leave his little one to home an' not see her for 
 years, so he used to take her to sea with him, an' 
 all she knew he lamed her, an' most o' that was 
 navigatin' an' them sort o' things, an' she took to 
 'em 's if she 'd been a boy, an' loved the sea an' 
 the ship like an old salt. One day, when she 'd 
 got to be a good deal of a woman, the ship was 
 a-runnin' off Pernambuc', steerin' straight for 
 home, an' the cap'n was took sick so 't he 
 could n't hold up his head. Wai, he was wor- 
 rited, for the fust mate he 'd cut sticks 'n' cleared 
 when we put into Ryo, an' the second mate was 
 an onsartin' chap that could n't be trusted to sail 
 the ship nohow. The cap'n worrited till he was 
 wuss by it, an' then his darter, says she, * Why, 
 father, / can sail the ship,' says she. ' So you can, 
 Lyddy,' says he, an' she did. Th' wa' n't a man 
 aboard that dared to say she could n't, when she
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 37 
 
 come up and took command. I tell ye, that girl 
 had her hands full, with the ship an' father, too ; 
 but she pulled 'em both through 's if she 'd been 
 a commydore an' a physic doctor too, an' brought 
 'em both to port with every timber safe 'n' sound. 
 Ah, Lyddy ! " Amos breathed a heavy sigh, 
 looking out over the lonely moor through the lit- 
 tle mill window, as if that unbroken waste might 
 represent his own desolation. 
 
 " Is she dead ? " Miriam asked, softly. 
 
 Amos shook his head slowly. " I do' know," 
 he said, " Life is curious ! " and then turning 
 slowly back to the present, " Well, well," he 
 added, briskly, " the corn 's all out o' the hop- 
 per ! " 
 
 This crisis of things recalled Miriam to her pur- 
 pose. 
 
 " I 'in going to China to-day," she said ; " I 
 stopped to say farewell." 
 
 " Chiny, h-ey ? What 'ee goin' to Chiny for ? " 
 
 " To see things," said Miriam, making ready by 
 pulling her little scoop bonnet forward from its 
 place on the nape of her neck to its other place 
 over her eyelids. 
 
 " Why, you don't know nothing about Chiny," 
 said Amos ; " what set ye out to go there ? " 
 
 " I do know all about China," returned Miriam. 
 " The- empire-of-China-is-very-extensive-and-has-a- 
 larger - population - than - any-other-country-in-the- 
 world. The - inhabitants - are - called-Chinese. 
 They-are-a-proud-vain-people-and-believe-all-other-
 
 38 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 nations-to-be-inferior-to-themselves. The - empe- 
 ror-of-China-is-called-' The-Son-of - Heaven.' In- 
 China-very-small-f eet-are-thought-to-be - the - chief- 
 beauty-of- women. The-great-wall-and-the-grand- 
 canal-are-noted-works. The-porcelain - tower - at- 
 Nankin-is-a-remarkable-building. Tea-is-the-leaf- 
 of-a-shrub-that-grows-principally-in-this-country." 
 
 " Whew ! " whistled Amos, when Miriam had 
 rattled off this rigmarole, " why, ye must 'a' been 
 there ! " 
 
 "No," said Miriam, "not yet. I learned that 
 in my g'ography, and there are pictures, besides. 
 And Aunt Dorcas Haddon 's got a lot of things 
 from China. I know by them, 'specially by the 
 smell of them, that things are very nice in China." 
 
 " Haw, haw," laughed Amos ; " well, some is, 
 and some is n't ; but I '11 resk but what you '11 find 
 them that is. Wish ye good luck, an ye '11 come 
 round 'n' see us when ye git back 't the island, 
 won't ye ? " 
 
 " Of course," Miriam answered, shaking hands 
 with Amos, who delighted in humoring the vision- 
 ary child he a visionary child himself. 
 
 Again the little dreamer turned her face to- 
 wards China. The slender figure, tall for a girl 
 of twelve, with its straight brown gown and its 
 prim bonnet, gliding over the sober moor, pausing 
 to gaze before at the sea, or backward with up- 
 lifted hand shading her eyes, made a lovely Bough- 
 tonish picture, in which softness and severity, set- 
 ting aside their mutual contradictions, were hap- 
 pily united.
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 39 
 
 The wild moor stopped abruptly in face of the 
 wilder sea, and knelt meekly before it by way of 
 a sandy cliff, that slanted away to the shore. 
 
 When Miriam came to the brow of the cliff, 
 she fairly chuckled with delight. There was not 
 only the flashing sea, with its miles and miles of 
 blandishment, and the white sand of the shore, on 
 which she loved to lie, but there was somebody's 
 brand-new blue and white dory. It was just near 
 enough to the water for the waves to wet its keel 
 as they came rolling in, and it was carelessly tied 
 to a stake. 
 
 " Ah," said Miriam, speaking to some imagin- 
 ary companion, for all her life she had been used 
 to wandering about alone and addressing her con- 
 versation to the people of her fancy, "ah, the 
 ship is all ready, we must start right off ! " 
 
 She scrambled down the cliff and climbed into 
 the dory. A coat lay in the bottom of it. Ap- 
 parently somebody meant to come back soon. 
 Seating herself in the stern of the boat with her 
 back to the shore and her face to the sea, so that 
 she could see nothing but sky and sea, she leaned 
 over, watching the waves come curling in, and 
 listened to their voices saying, " Hush, h-u-s-h, 
 h-u-s-h," and the time slipped away unheeded. 
 The boat began to shiver a little, then to lift itself 
 a trifle, as the coaxing waves came farther and 
 farther in. By and by it gave a joyful bounce, 
 and yielding wholly, was lifted from the sand to 
 the lap of the caressing waves. Miriam was in
 
 40 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTVCKET. 
 
 ecstasies. She jumped now and then to make the 
 boat bounce all it could. The motion of the water 
 gave her the sensation of really sailing out to sea. 
 She rested her chin on her arms and gave herself 
 up to the delight of fancying her voyage was 
 truly begun. On, on she seemed to go, and she 
 had no need to bounce the boat, it bounced itself 
 beautifully. Oh, what a thrill she felt as she rose 
 and dipped again. 
 
 " Right across there is Spain," she said; " Aunt 
 Dorcas says so, and when she was a young girl, she 
 used to own property in Spain. I heard her tell 
 cousin Ruth. And cousin Ruth must have some 
 now, for she said to Aunt Dorcas, ' Oh, when the 
 wind is right, 1 can smell the grape-blooms in 
 my vineyards over there.' I should n't think she 
 could. What pleasant places vineyards must be ! 
 Nothing but grapes aud nice smells everywhere. 
 We can stop in Spain as well as not. And we 
 can go by France, too, and Italy. Aunt Hepsy 
 says they are wicked places, France and Italy, 
 and sometimes she says the whole world 's 
 wicked, but I don't see 's 'tis. Why, I can't 
 see the sand through the water ! How dizzy I 
 feel" 
 
 She raised herself and turned her face towards 
 the shore. " Oh ! Oh ! " 
 
 She brushed her hand across her eyes to dispel 
 an illusion. It could n't be ! It could never be 
 that the old home she had run away from was flit- 
 ting away from her. Yet it seemed to be with-
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 41 
 
 drawing itself, and between it and the little boat 
 the sparkling waters seemed to laugh at her, as 
 they spread themselves broader and broader, and 
 pushed her farther and farther on. It was like a 
 nightmare. She could not cry out nor reach out, 
 but she knelt in the bottom of the boat, benumbed 
 and stifled with great heart-throbs. 
 
 There was Aunt Dorcas's house, there was the 
 mill, and she could see an end of the old drab 
 house itself, could see the window of her own little 
 room with its snowy curtain flapping in and out, 
 as if waving her a farewell, while she was " slid- 
 ing sliding sliding into the great desert, where 
 there is no tree and no fountain." 
 
 " Oh, father, Joseph John, Aunt Hepsy ! Oh, 
 Aunt Dorcas and cousin Ruth ! " she moaned. A 
 child's moan in that infinity of space ! 
 
 Yet she had fine, firm nerves and a strong little 
 soul, and in her blood was the calmness of gener- 
 ations of ancestors who had kept themselves in 
 check and made serenity their religion. The first 
 thing a Quaker child is taught is self-command. 
 
 When the first shock was over, she shouted and 
 waved her bonnet, watching eagerly for some one 
 to appear, but there was no sign of life on all the 
 shore, and the old town looked over the cliff at 
 her with a grim and cruel unconcern. 
 
 There was no hope, then, from the shore, but 
 there were vessels passing up and down, and Mir- 
 iam began to look out for help from one of these. 
 She could see sails, and they comforted her with
 
 42 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 a sense of companionship and of succor that was 
 sure to come. Each sail was a security, a ground 
 of hope. The sea, too, was very calm, and lulled 
 her until she was passively content to float there 
 for a while and wait for the friendly help of which 
 she felt assured. The sun came down and rested 
 on the waters with the little bark, then dipped 
 and dipped and seemed to dissolve and redden all 
 the sea. There were long streaks of pink in the 
 sky ; a gull flew over her with blushing breast, 
 and the cheerful sails flushed into rose tints, too. 
 One of them was coming nearer and nearer. Mir- 
 iam pulled the coat towards her and rolled it up 
 for a pillow. She fixed her eyes upon the ap- 
 proaching sail and waited very patiently. Out 
 of the tender sky a star looked down. A feel- 
 ing of peace possessed her. The light sea-cradle 
 rocked her gently to and fro. By and by, in the 
 darkness, a schooner passed so near that it made 
 the little cradle rock hard. But the child slept 
 on.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 
 
 THE yacht Juno, belonging to Mr. Asterly Vin- 
 ton, had borne off distinguished honors at the 
 summer regatta in Buzzard's Bay, and was trans- 
 ferring its owner, with a party of guests, to New- 
 port. 
 
 There was Mr. Asterly Vinton himself, a social 
 idol ; there was a noble Englishman, of course, 
 and two or three indigenous specimens of fash- 
 ionable manhood, who considered themselves and 
 were considered by others to be rival idols with 
 Mr. Vinton ; there was Miss Grace, sister of Mr. 
 Vinton, and two Newport belles, with a chap- 
 eron more fascinating than the belles; and last, 
 but most important of all, there was Beatrice 
 Vinton, or Betty, as she was called, Mr. Vinton's 
 little daughter. 
 
 They had come aboard the Juno in New Bed- 
 ford harbor, at five o'clock in the afternoon, had 
 dined there in a way befitting the various sorts of 
 excellence which they represented, and sailed out 
 of Buzzard's Bay when the sun's rays were so hor- 
 izontal that they shot under the awning of the 
 Juno, glowed upon perishing ices, and made the
 
 44 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 lavish flowers droop that were already faint with 
 giving. 
 
 Again and again, as they sailed gallantly down 
 the bay, a laugh from the gay groups on the deck 
 startled the sea-birds on placid little islands. At 
 sight of desolate Cuttyhunk, Bartholomew Gos- 
 nold and his hardships were cheerfully called to 
 mind, and their own luxury was enhanced by fan- 
 cying the barren, hard lives of those strange people 
 who lived upon the rough, beaten shores of the 
 main-land. Lightly they spoke of hardship and 
 mental destitution, of plodding and painstaking to 
 worthless ends, for these seemed to them all that 
 could come of living in a region where, as they 
 believed, the utmost height of intelligence was 
 something concerning whales. Mr. Vinton told 
 amusing stories of those queer people, and the 
 distinguished foreigner felt himself very far from 
 home. 
 
 Betty Vinton listened. 
 
 "Aunt Grace," she said at length, drawing 
 near to Miss Vinton, " what do the boys and girls 
 do in these lonesome places ? " 
 
 " I 'm sure I don't know," Miss Vinton an- 
 swered. " There may be some branch of natural 
 history that will help you. I 'm sorry to say I 
 can't." 
 
 " I should like to take some of them to Newport 
 or New York and let them have a good time," 
 Betty said, looking with pitying eyes upon Matta- 
 poisett, or Falmouth, or whatever little town they 
 could see just then.
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 45 
 
 " I dare say they think their times are better 
 than yours. Oh, there are worse places than these, 
 my dear. There is Nantucket, leagues away from 
 the main-land, just a waste of sand and dry grass, 
 with no living creatures on it but seamen, fisher- 
 men, and gulls, they say ; and in the winter it 
 freezes up so that people can never get to or from 
 it, and for weeks, and I don't know but months, 
 they know nothing except what happens on their 
 own sands." 
 
 " But they have missions there, don't they? " 
 
 " Missions ? Why they 're not exactly hea- 
 then. There are very excellent, respectable peo- 
 ple among the inhabitants, I believe." 
 
 " Well, what I want to know is about the chil- 
 dren ! I want to stop there. Do you think we 
 can?" 
 
 " I should hope not ! " Miss Vinton said fer- 
 vently. 
 
 "I shall ask papa to take me there, then. I 
 must carry some of those poor things away and 
 let them have one good time," said Betty, in a 
 strong gust of benevolence. 
 
 " No doubt you will if you want to," Miss Vin- 
 ton said, raising her plump chin to that point 
 which indicates disapproval. "At present, sup- 
 pose you go and ask Maria to bring me a shawl, 
 it is growing chilly ; and you 'd better get a 
 sacque yourself." 
 
 Betty swept away like a tropical bird, her black 
 eyes full of the snap of resolution. She had un-
 
 46 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 numbered and unbounded enthusiasms, and her 
 latest was an enthusiasm for charity. She be- 
 longed to a Child's Charitable Guild in New York, 
 and her whole impetuous soul had been aroused by 
 the discovery that there were suffering children in 
 the world. She had not as yet a distinct idea of 
 the nature of their sufferings, or the nature of real 
 suffering at all ; but having conceived a universal 
 interest in juvenile unhappiness, she was eager for 
 a chance to do something about it, and that some- 
 thing must be something large. There was noth- 
 ing her mind could invent which was out of 
 Betty's reach, however, if it were only within the 
 bounds of human possibility. Every wish of hers 
 her fond papa stood ready to execute, and if she 
 had proposed to transfer Nan tucket from the 
 bosom of the Atlantic to the heart of the pond in 
 Central Park, Mr. Vinton wouldn't have given up 
 the hope of carrying out such a proposal until he 
 had made sure there were really insuperable objec- 
 tions in the matters of incompetent engineers and 
 obstinate authorities. It promised well for the 
 poor children of Nantucket, who vainly imagined 
 themselves to be happy, that Miss Betty Vinton 
 was disposed to take up their cause. 
 
 Betty got on that portion of her plumage called 
 a sacqne, and went aft to take a peep at her fa- 
 ther's cigar and see what the prospect was of hav- 
 ing a discussion with him. She found her chance 
 a good way off yet, and after sauntering about in 
 an aimless way for a while, she perched herself
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 47 
 
 upon a coil. of rope near Captain Baxter, the cap- 
 tain of the yacht. 
 
 This good-natured individual, with a passive 
 hand in his pocket and an active hand on the 
 wheel, was taking a thoughtful survey of his na- 
 tive shores. 
 
 " Well, Miss Betty," he said, feeling that it was 
 polite to say something, " what do you think of 
 these purts ? " 
 
 " They 're ra-ther pretty," said Betty, with a 
 lenient air, " but I heard somebody say a while 
 ago that such dull places made people a prey to 
 melancholy." 
 
 " I wanter know," said Captain Baxter, with 
 mild dismay. " There must be some mistake 
 about that, for I was born and brought up in 
 these parts, and 1 never heard of it." 
 
 " Oh, were you born here? " asked Betty, eagerly. 
 " Then maybe you know about Nantucket." 
 
 Captain Baxter smiled a wise smile, and replied 
 that he guessed he did, some. 
 
 " I 'm going to ask papa to stop there," Betty 
 proceeded ; " I 've got an important plan." 
 
 Captain Baxter regarded Betty with the amused 
 look he would have bestowed upon a gay young 
 oriole that had proposed to bring its important 
 plans into relation with state affairs. 
 
 " It 's a dismal place, Nantucket," Betty ob- 
 served, to lead him out on the subject. 
 
 " Well," returned Captain Baxter, willing to 
 concede something, " there is consid'rable mourn- 
 ing there, off an' on."
 
 48 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Mourning ? What about ? " 
 
 " They lose a good many friends, the folks 
 there." 
 
 " Lose them ? How ? " 
 
 "Lose 'em overboard. They go to sea, you 
 know, and fall out o' the riggin', or get swamped 
 in a gale, or killed by whales, and there ain't a 
 house on the island, I expect, but what 's got a 
 mourning piece hangin' up in the front room." 
 
 Captain Baxter wavered in his opinion as to 
 when an \-n-g might be properly introduced at the 
 end of a word. 
 
 " A mourning piece ! " exclaimed Betty. 
 
 " A picture with a black frame, you know, of a 
 fine moniment with a large weepin' wilier hangin' 
 over it on one side, and a weepin' widder on the 
 other, with her face in a good-sized handkerchief. 
 It says on the moniment, ' In Memory of So-and- 
 so Lost at Sea.' I've seen lots of 'em that had 
 a dozen names on 'em. Fast as the youngsters get 
 big enough, they go off to sea, and then up goes 
 their name on the moniment, prob'ly. Yes, I ex- 
 pect there ain't a place where they make a reg'lar 
 business o' mourning more 'n they do to Nan- 
 tucket." 
 
 " What ridiculous people ! " said Betty. " What 
 do they persist in going to sea for ? " 
 
 " Why, somebody 's got to ketch whales, or else 
 you would n't have no sticks to your umbrels, nor 
 bones to your dresses, nor oil to grease your in- 
 gines with."
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 49 
 
 " Well," said Betty severely, " I should let the 
 people that wanted those things get them for them- 
 selves. / would n't go and drown myseH in the 
 sea, for the sake of other people having umbrellas 
 to keep themselves dry." 
 
 "Now that is a comical way of lookin' at it. 
 If Nantucket people could come to see it in that 
 light, they 'd go down to New York and own rail- 
 roads and live on kewpons instid. That 'd be a 
 change for 'em." 
 
 " That 's what I mean to tell them," said Betty. 
 
 " Goin' to try to enlighten 'em some, hey ? " 
 
 " Oh, I want to make the children happy, that 's 
 all, and show them that there are nicer places 
 than that dreadful island, where they won't have 
 to go to sea." 
 
 " Marv'lous man ! " exclaimed Captain Baxter, 
 " you '11 ruin the whalin' business complete ! I 
 hain't the least doubt they '11 give right in an' say 
 ' is 'nough sight better to live down to New York 
 an' sail round in a harnsome yacht in pleasant 
 weather, than 't is to live on Nantucket, or ketch 
 whales the year round." 
 
 " How many of them could we carry on the 
 Juno, do you suppose ? " 
 
 " Oh, stow 'em pretty close and I guess we 
 could carry thirty or forty, day 'n' night : but for 
 just a day's sail we could carry two hundred easy 
 enough." 
 
 " I should like to carry them all. Are there 
 more than two hundred in all ? "
 
 50 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " I should say there was. I ain't good at guess- 
 in' at children's censuses. I ain't sure but they 
 come up to thousands." 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Betty at the expanding pros- 
 pect, " what a big island ! I shall have to get 
 papa to help me arrange things. There he is 
 now! " and Betty alighted suddenly from her perch 
 and flew away chirping, " Here, papa ! I 'm 
 here ! " not doubting that the person her father 
 was looking for was her own self. 
 
 Betty attached herself more entirely to her fa- 
 ther, and was more in his especial care, because 
 of her mother being a chronic nervous invalid, 
 who was almost always away from home trying 
 some new cure, and when she was at home she 
 was not able to endure much of Betty's society, 
 just as she could not bear tonics. 
 
 " I want to speak to you about something very 
 particular," said Betty, pulling Mr. Vinton aside 
 with an air of importance. 
 
 " Well, Betsy Baker, what is it ? " and Mr. Vin- 
 ton seated himself close beside Betty. " Is it a 
 plan to send perfumes to the children of the Lap- 
 landers?" 
 
 " Mercy, no ! You 'd better not try to guess ; 
 I '11 tell you," said Betty, stretching her neck so 
 as to reach her father's ear. " I want to stop at 
 Nantucket, and get some of the dismal boys and 
 girls there, and take them about, to let them see 
 what nice places there are in the world, and how 
 many good times. They don't know anything 
 about it."
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 51 
 
 Betty began and finished with a very coaxing 
 pat on her father's shoulder. 
 
 Mr. Vin ton's moustache curled up more and more 
 as he listened, and his teeth shone through it in a 
 very cheerful way. 
 
 " What ! those web-footed youngsters ? " he said. 
 " They could n't live away from their own sand and 
 sea-weed any more than a fish could live out of 
 water. They 're used to it, and they like it." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! I see you don't know anything 
 about it," said Betty, spreading herself a little 
 upon the strength of her superior information. 
 "Hoiv can they like to live in such a dreary place? 
 If they do, I 'm sure it 's very good and patient in 
 them, or it 's because they don't know any better. 
 If they knew how much nicer the rest of the world 
 was, do you think they would stay there and be 
 frozen up every winter, and as soon as they are big 
 enough be sent to sea and drotvned?" 
 
 " Why, how came my little butterfly to know 
 so much about the Nantucketers ? " 
 
 " Captain Baxter told me, and Aunt Grace." 
 
 "And what am I expected to do about it ? " 
 
 " Well, I should like to go there and see what 
 we could do. You would n't like to stop there 
 now, would you ? Oh, I wish you just would!" 
 
 " No, my dear, but you shall go there. W r e '11 
 run down some day, and you shall see for yourself 
 that these little sandpipers of Nantucket are really 
 the happiest children in the world." 
 
 Betty tried to convince herself that she should
 
 52 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 n't be sorry to find them so, but she was loath to 
 give up the agreeable hope of being a benefactress, 
 and said rather dubiously, " Oh, we shall see," 
 as she reluctantly let her father slip away again 
 to his guests, and then she too sat and watched 
 the silvery sails turn rosy, and the sun go down 
 into the flushed sea, and the same star that looked 
 from a tender sky upon the little Nantucket girl 
 smiled upon her; the same sweet evening that 
 brooded over the lonely sea-rocked cradle spread 
 its soft wings and took in Betty too. An hour 
 later and she also slept, and dreamed she saw the 
 Nantucket desert blossoming as the rose. 
 
 There was hardly time for a dream, though, be- 
 fore the short summer night had flown. You 
 could see the tips of its black wings disappearing 
 in the west, while in the east the early dawn just 
 peeped through violet bars. 
 
 The Juno had lain becalmed nearly all night, 
 but with the morning breeze she had started on 
 again. 
 
 Confused sounds troubled Betty's slumber. She 
 stirred uneasily and tried to hold on to Nantucket. 
 Her face rose like another dawn above the silken 
 coverlet. There was a lively stepping round and 
 shouting on deck, and one white-robed figure be- 
 fore her was asking another what could be the 
 matter. 
 
 " We 're putting about ; something 's wrong ; 
 hope nobody 's overboard," said a third ghostly 
 presence. " What a shame to have to heave to 
 and lose this wind ! "
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 53 
 
 Then Miss Vinton's voice called to Maria to get 
 dressed and go on deck as soon as possible and see 
 what was the trouble. 
 
 Betty by this time sat up, as wide awake and 
 ready to soar aloft as any lark. She heard a sound 
 that she knew. They were letting down the 
 boat. She resolved at once to soar as high as the 
 deck, at any rate. 
 
 She slid quickly out of her berth, put on her 
 wrapper and slippers, and peeping out of the sa- 
 loon-door she heard the voice of one of the idols 
 shouting up the companion-way, " What is it?" 
 
 " We 've picked up a native," Mr. Vinton's voice 
 responded from the deck. 
 
 " Papa ! papa," Betty sung out, " may I come 
 up ? " 
 
 " Do, Betty," said Mr. Vinton. " Get dressed 
 and come up directly." 
 
 " Mercy sakes, Miss Betty ! " called Maria, hav- 
 ing heard Betty's voice, and coming down the 
 stairs with a series of bobs and lurches determined 
 by the rolling of the yacht. " Do let 's get your 
 twilet made and come and see the queer little thing 
 that 's come aboard ! She 's drifted away from 
 home all alone in a little boat, and she thinks it 's 
 evening." 
 
 This news created a little sensation throughout 
 the yacht. In the excitable Betty it produced 
 such spasmodic action as made everything turn 
 the wrong way about, and tie up where it wanted 
 to be untied, or vice versa. That " twilet " of
 
 64 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 hers was a wonderful sleight-of-hand performance, 
 but Betty came out of it looking really a work of 
 magic, and when she flashed up like a small piece 
 of fireworks, and appeared suddenly before the 
 stray little native on deck, who was, of course, 
 no other than our little Quaker girl, Miriam's 
 eyes blinked with the brightness. 
 
 It was n't Betty's pretty yachting suit, on which 
 sparks of fire seemed to slumber in dark blue 
 ashes, nor the gay little hat beneath which Betty's 
 hair blew about in soft clouds, nor any of Betty's 
 dainty belongings, marvelous as they seemed to 
 Miriam, that dazzled her, but it was Betty herself, 
 and her airy way of swimming along, and the 
 bright glance which she darted here and there, 
 and finally fixed upon her. In all her dreams 
 Miriam had never dreamed of anything half so 
 beautiful as Betty. 
 
 And Betty thought there never had been such 
 a droll-looking little body as Miriam. The sober 
 gown, nearly touching her ankles, made her look 
 like a very small woman, but the sweet face, with 
 its wondering eyes and tender, quivering lips, was 
 like a baby's. 
 
 "Mahomet needn't go to the mountain; the 
 mountain has started to come to Mahomet," said 
 Mr. Vinton to Betty. 
 
 "Now what does that mean, papa?" Betty 
 paused to inquire. "Don't give me riddles to 
 guess ! " 
 
 " Why, this little girl appears to have come all
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 55 
 
 the way from Nantucket, to save you the trouble 
 of making a voyage there. She finds it such a 
 tolerable place that she is particularly anxious to 
 get back at once." 
 
 " Nantucket ! Oh, you dear child ! " exclaimed 
 Betty in a motherly tone (she was perhaps half 
 a year older than Miriam), " I 'in sorry you were 
 drifted away, but how glad I am we found you ! 
 Were n't you frightened? Do tell me all about 
 it!" 
 
 Miriam told the story of her forced voyage very 
 simply, without seeming conscious of the danger 
 she had escaped. She had gone to sleep watching 
 the approaching sail, and when she awoke, there 
 it was just beside her, as she supposed. The 
 long sleep had seemed a little nap, and she was 
 amazed when they told her it was morning. 
 
 Miriam's Quaker speech sounded very odd to 
 Betty. Everything about her was so odd, in fact, 
 that Betty was greatly delighted, as if she had 
 discovered a new species of being from an abso- 
 lutely new world. 
 
 " I 've heard about Nantucket," she said. " I 
 suppose it 's rather a gloomy place." 
 
 " Oh, no, not Nantucket town ! " 
 
 " Are you sure you like to stay there ? " per- 
 sisted Betty in a very skeptical tone. 
 
 " Why, ye-s," Miriam answered slowly, consid- 
 ering the matter for the first time. 
 
 " Is n't it dull and sandy and perfectly awful 
 winters?" Betty went on, in a manner which 
 meant, "Now don't deny that!"
 
 56 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " It is sandy, and it is n't as nice winters as it 
 is summers, and before Joseph John came i" was 
 lonesome sometimes, and a good many times I 've 
 thought I 'd like to see the rest of the world," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 " Oh, I '11 show you a good piece of it," said 
 Betty with satisfaction. " Who 's Joseph John ? " 
 
 Then Miriam told Betty about Joseph, and 
 presently she had told her about them all ; her 
 father, and Aunt Hepsy, and Rosanna ; Aunt Dor- 
 cas, and Uncle David, and cousin Ruth; touching 
 lightly upon Paul as a subject to be avoided, and 
 giving sketches of her "cruises" over the moors 
 and on the shore, of Amos Tuttle and his stories 
 and the old mill, of Pel'tiah Groves, another old 
 friend of Miriam's, and of various other places 
 and people and things that lay within the narrow 
 compass of her quiet island life. Betty feared that 
 tilings had not been correctly represented to her, 
 Miriam's pictures were so cheerful. She hardly 
 dared to tell her she had been planning an expe- 
 dition to rescue her and her fellow victims from 
 an unhappy destiny. 
 
 " Don't all the boys go to sea and get drowned? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " No, not all. A good many do, but there are 
 some left." 
 
 "Now, what makes them do it?" demanded 
 Betty, as if that were the trying question, after all. 
 
 " They like it, I guess. They need n't if they 
 did n't. They might stay at home and dig graves
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 57 
 
 like Pel'tiah Groves, or grind corn like Amos Tut- 
 tle, or sell things." 
 
 " Oh, I thought they had to go, every one of 
 them," said Betty, and then she yielded herself to 
 the conviction that there was n't much of an open- 
 ing for a benefactress on Nantucket, and concluded 
 to make the most of this individual case. Miriam 
 needed her now, surely, and she presently remem- 
 bered that she was not making the most of her 
 opportunity. 
 
 "Do come," she said, " and let Maria braid your 
 hair, and " Betty hesitated, taking in Miriam's 
 general appearance with a speculative look. " Ma- 
 ria will make you nice again," she continued, 
 " and you shall soon have breakfast, for we 're al- 
 most home. Where 's your hat ? " 
 
 " My bonnet must have blown away," said Mir- 
 iam. " I could n't find it." 
 
 " And you ought to have a sacque," pursued 
 Betty. "It's chilly on the water; you ought to 
 have worn one." 
 
 " I did n't expect to be on the water, thee 
 knows," said Miriam, submitting to Betty's pat- 
 ronage quite gracefully. 
 
 " Oh, of course not. Well, you can have my 
 sou'wester hat and jacket, if you don't mind wear- 
 ing them," said Betty. 
 
 " Shall I get to my home pretty soon ? " Mir- 
 iam asked anxiously, the undercurrent of trouble 
 that had been in her mind rising to the surface. 
 " They '11 feel so badly when they know 1 'm lost."
 
 58 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 "Papa '11 send word. He'll telegraph right 
 away, and we '11 carry you home. Papa and I '11 
 take care of you. Now don't you worry." 
 
 Maria, meantime, had brought a shawl and a 
 cup of something Betty called " booee-yong," 
 which Miriam drank and thought it tasted like 
 beef tea. 
 
 " My stars ! " said Maria, " the child 's chilled 
 through. There ain't much danger of taking cold 
 of a summer night on salt water, if you have n't 
 got anything but the sky over you for a coverlet, 
 but it 's the salt that saved her. She 'd 'ave got 
 her death o' cold if the sea was fresh water. Oh, 
 the ways of Providence is wonderful ! " And this 
 good Presbyterian, who had been Betty's nurse 
 ever since she was born, could n't have been shaken 
 a hair's-breadth in her belief that everything had 
 been so minutely as well as grandly ordered for 
 us, that the very sea, for instance, had been made 
 salt from the foundation of the world, to the end 
 that Miriam might not take cold. 
 
 You should have seen Miriam holding reception 
 when all the passengers of the Juno appeared on 
 deck, each and every one " the glass of fashion." 
 Whoever had an eyeglass put it up and inspected 
 the little maiden. To this day she remembers 
 some of the questions she answered and the re- 
 marks she puzzled over. They were all kindly, or 
 meant to be. At any rate, considering these peo- 
 ple had understood the inhabitants of Nantucket 
 to be web-footed, and to have scales on their backs,
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 59 
 
 the fact that they left those particulars uninvesti- 
 gated offers plenty of ground for saying so. 
 
 " How do you account for that unruffled man- 
 ner ?" asked one of the idols of one of the belles. 
 " She's as modest as can be, but not the least em- 
 barrassed. She can't have had any breeding to 
 speak of." 
 
 " Oh, it 's the Quaker manner, you know," an- 
 swered the belle ; " they are serene from principle 
 and then from habit, and serenity, of course, is 
 the soul of a good manner." 
 
 "Pity they are dying out, then, that sect, 
 their influence is wanted in this country amaz- 
 ingly, to correct the national flurry," observed an 
 idol, whose father had earned a great deal of 
 money for him, so that he had been able to devote 
 himself to the cultivation of an Anglican manner, 
 and who had lived abroad so much that he was 
 constantly mistaking himself for a European, re- 
 serving nothing of his birthright but the right to 
 find fault with Americans to their faces. " Amer- 
 ica is painfully crude and rough," he added, with 
 a sensitive shiver. 
 
 " I 'm not going to be put down as crude and 
 rough," Mrs. Payne, the charming chaperon, de- 
 clared. " I protest for myself and my country. 
 To be sure, the wine of life in America is still in 
 the fermenting stage, but where will you find, in 
 Europe, a child brought up in obscurity that 
 would have such a deportment as this child's ? 
 How beautifully she bears her terrible adventure,
 
 60 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 the present excitement, and her contact with un- 
 usual things. I call it positive refinement and 
 polish," and she appealed to the eminent English- 
 man. 
 
 " Ah, yes," he allowed, " it is fair to say that 
 refinement, or something of that sort, is diffusive 
 and general in this country, to a fault." 
 
 " I understand," said Mrs. Payne ; " the fault is 
 that it does n't belong exclusively to a few. For 
 my part I should like the world, society, life, 
 to be like an excellent pudding, with all the 
 sweetness and flavor and fruit evenly distributed, 
 and everybody to have his choice as to whether he 
 would eat it with sauce or without." 
 
 Of course there was a little outcry at the would- 
 be radical Mrs. Payne, and it was agreed to be a 
 misfortune, even by Mrs. Payne herself, in a gen- 
 eral way, for such people as were destined to 
 forego the sweetening and flavor and sauce to get 
 an accidental taste of it, because it made the rest 
 of their pudding distasteful to them. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Payne thoughtfully, " I 
 should like to try an experiment with a good 
 wholesome nature, and find it ready to return to 
 the plain pudding with relish. The right sort of 
 nature gives a flavor of its own to everything, a 
 finer flavor than art can compound." 
 
 " You 'd better join Betty's expedition," said 
 Miss Vinton. "She proposes to gather up the 
 children of Nantucket, and take them into the 
 world to give them a taste of pudding with
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 61 
 
 " Really ! Is that Betty's last whim ? No, I 
 should n't care to make such a general experiment ; 
 but I long to try an individual case." 
 
 " If I 'm not mistaken, you '11 have an oppor- 
 tunity by establishing an intimacy with Betty," 
 repeated Miss Vinton, who thought she could 
 foresee the results of Betty's whim, followed up 
 as it had been by this interesting case in point. 
 
 Mrs. Payne declared she meant to cultivate 
 Betty. 
 
 Meantime the sun had come up, as usual, and 
 only the familiar assortment of adjectives is wanted 
 to show that he never came up with greater credit 
 to himself. The rocky shore drew nearer and 
 broke out here and there with houses and clusters 
 of houses. There was the sound of surf speaking 
 in whispers, and presently they rounded a corner 
 and came into Narragansett Bay. There was the 
 ruined Fort Louis, the Dumpling Rocks, and a 
 gloomy structure that Betty said was Fort Adams, 
 and then had to tell Miriam what a fort was. 
 " And there 's Newport ! " she added, pointing to 
 the large gathering together of houses and spires 
 that rose and curtesied to the bay. 
 
 " Newport I Why, my father 's in Newport, at 
 the Yearly Meeting ! " said Miriam, staring at 
 Betty with eyes that looked like a double-faced 
 town clock in a very breezy tower. Betty re- 
 turned the stare, with eyes that looked like another 
 view of the same. 
 
 " Why did n't you tell me ? " she cried. " Now
 
 62 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 he '11 find you, or you '11 find him, and he '11 go 
 and carry you home, so that papa and I can't do a 
 thing ! " 
 
 Betty was disconcerted, but Miriam was radiant 
 with satisfaction. 
 
 " Oh, I 'm glad this is Newport ! " she said. 
 " I shall see Newport my own self I What will 
 they say when I tell 'em I 've been to Yearly 
 Meeting especially Aunt Hepsy ! And what 
 will father say when he sees me I " 
 
 Miriam visibly dilated at the prospect of aston- 
 ishing so many people. But Betty was aggrieved, 
 and told her father, with an appearance of injury, 
 that the little Nantucket girl had got a father in 
 Newport ! Mr. Vinton, for his part, thought that 
 was a capital arrangement, and promised to hunt 
 up Obed Swain directly, but Miriam was, of 
 course, to stay with Betty until her father was 
 discovered. 
 
 Fancy Miriam landing at Newport under Betty's 
 wing, and in Betty's jaunty sou'wester hat and 
 jacket ! It was so warm when they came ashore 
 that the jacket was superfluous ; but Miriam felt 
 the contact with such a pretty thing to be so agree- 
 able that a little extra warmth was no considera- 
 tion whatever. 
 
 Having never seen anything finer than old Jerry 
 in her father's " shay " and the two-wheeled carts 
 of Nantucket, she was all alive to the glories of 
 the grand equipages that waited on the wharf, flat- 
 tering the morning sunshine by borrowing gleams
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 68 
 
 of its brightness. There was Betty's phaeton and 
 ponies, and Miriam was seized with awe of the 
 resplendent tiger, and amaze at Betty, who took 
 the red ribbons and touched up the ponies in her 
 ready breezy way. They rolled off over the smooth 
 road so easily that Miriam, whose experience of 
 deep ruts and sand and cobblestone pavements had 
 made driving a horse and driving a nail associate 
 ideas, each a matter of overcoming resistance, 
 felt her heart leap to her throat again and again 
 at the new sensation. 
 
 It is vain, however, to undertake to tell of Mir- 
 iam's sensations. She had more in the course of 
 an hour than could be described in a week by a 
 person of average ability. 
 
 Imagine the little Nantucket mouse set down 
 at very short notice in a charming Newport villa, 
 and I need n't tell you that she had all the vari- 
 ations of wonder and delight that a child with 
 longings for the beautiful a child all fresh and 
 alive could have. 
 
 She had n't time to recover from the outside 
 glories of a wide deep lawn, with far glimpses of 
 gorgeous flowers, before the beautiful house was 
 upon her, with new bewilderments. 
 
 Not the least of these was Betty's own room, 
 where Miriam was taken along, like some favorite 
 cat, when Betty went to make ready for breakfast. 
 And besides Miriam, there were Bijou and Figaro 
 and Nip and Nabob, Betty's beloved dogs, who 
 pranced and danced and devoured Betty, or tried
 
 64 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 to, and strained their powers to the utmost to see 
 which could bark the loudest, partly in welcome 
 to Betty, and partly in defiance of Miriam, until 
 Betty gave the command, " Down ! down ! lie 
 down ! " when each chose some favorite nook and 
 curled himself up, watching out of the corners of 
 his eyes to make out, if he could, what was the use 
 of that other girl there. 
 
 Betty's lovely nest, with the gauzy cloud of 
 white drapery hovering over it, flushed like a sun- 
 set cloud with pink, made Miriam hold her breath. 
 That can't be a bed ! " she said to herself, " and 
 yet it 's got pillows." And then the pictures, and 
 all the pink and precious and pretty things there! 
 Imagine a young bee with its longing instinct for 
 the rose, settling down for the first time into a 
 world of roses ! 
 
 " Now while I 'm in the dressing-room you can 
 be looking at my books," said Betty, pointing to 
 some low shelves. " Do you like books ? These 
 are the ones / like best, on the upper shelf. Down 
 there are the stupid ones, all about little girls that 
 burst into tears whatever happens, or little girls 
 sitting at windows and saying, ' There 's a cow ! 
 How interesting!' I shall be back soon. I'm 
 only going to have my bath." 
 
 So Betty flitted away, and Miriam took down 
 one of the books that Betty liked best. It was 
 Laboulaye's Fairy Book. Miriam had never had 
 a glimpse of Fairyland before. 
 
 Now to have discovered Newport and Fairyland
 
 PICKING UP A NATIVE. 65 
 
 in one day, all before eight o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, you would suppose was enough for one girl, 
 would n't you ? 
 
 But no ; before the day was over, Miriam must 
 needs turn out to be a discovery herself.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NEWPORT. 
 
 MIRIAM had gone as far as the Castle of the 
 Chinking Guineas with Violet, the daughter of 
 Beppo, in her search after Perlino, and was breath- 
 ing long sighs of emotion over the fairy fantasy, 
 alas, Aunt Hepsy and Ann Millet ! and it 
 seemed to her there was nothing too wonderful to 
 be true. Considering her own adventures, it was 
 easy to believe in the story of that young girl of 
 Paestum. And, besides, it was all there in print. 
 Anything in print must, of course, be true. 
 
 This point of faith and experience she had 
 readied when Betty made her appearance again, 
 and added ground to her faith by being the most 
 wonderful thing yet, and as real as flesh and blood 
 could make her. 
 
 It happened that when Betty was in process of 
 dressing, Maria had said to her, " Miss Betty, 
 that 's a real little lady, that child, if she is old- 
 fashioned and queer, and had n't you ought to have 
 asked her to have a bath and get freshed up a bit 
 too?" 
 
 Come to think of it, Betty was sure she ought, 
 and she made a graceful apology to Miriam, adding
 
 NEWPORT. 67 
 
 " You see, I never had any person to take care 
 of before, and I forgot. But you '11 have time," 
 she added ; " you and I will take our breakfast on 
 the veranda whenever we please." 
 
 Miriam had a vague hope that if she submitted 
 to the same process that Betty had passed through, 
 she might come out radiant too, so she accepted 
 the offer gladly, and went with Maria. If she 
 did n't come out quite so radiant as Betty, she 
 came out feeling fresh and looking as sweet as a 
 violet. Maria corrected the arrangement of her 
 hair by braiding it loosely and letting it hang & 
 la Marguerite, instead of straining it back and 
 bobbing it up a la Aunt Hepsy. The end she 
 tied with a blue ribbon, according to Betty's sug- 
 gestion, who also insisted that Miriam must have 
 a fresh linen collar and cuffs. These small touches 
 so improved Miriam that she was noticed a second 
 time by the glasses of fashion, when she came 
 down-stairs with Betty, and Mrs. Payne declared 
 she would give anything to take that girl and try 
 a grand experiment with her. How well that 
 Quaker foundation would uphold the structure she 
 wanted to build. 
 
 Mrs. Payne's own children had died in infancy, 
 and some said it was a great pity, she would have 
 made such an uncommonly good mother ; but others 
 differed, as contrary people will, at any rate, and 
 wondered what she would have made of her chil- 
 dren if she could have kept them. Mrs. P.iyne 
 seemed inclined to illustrate this point, for she oc-
 
 68 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 casionally looked upon a child as she did upon 
 Miriam, with a wish to apply her own theories to 
 it. She had a nephew, an orphan boy, that she 
 had called her own since before he could remem- 
 ber, but fortune had never yet favored her with 
 the right sort of a girl. 
 
 Mrs. Payne had no one to consult but herself in 
 such matters, for Colonel Payne, her husband, was 
 kept abroad the greater part of the time by af- 
 fairs. 
 
 Mrs. Payne preferred America to cosmopolitan 
 wanderings, and the colonel gave her the American 
 privilege of enjoying life, liberty, and the pursuit 
 of happiness in her own way. She liked young 
 people about her, and she was scarcely ever with- 
 out them at her house in New York. Betty Vin- 
 ton was especially a frequenter there, and Mrs. 
 Payne passed the greater part of her summers 
 with the Vintons at Newport. She was a bright, 
 charming woman, whose best trait was her cheer- 
 fulness. Women usually want much compassion, 
 but Mrs. Payne, although she had had much to 
 grieve her, never drew upon her friends for that. 
 This trait was well illustrated by the good spirits 
 she was able to maintain in face of all those allu- 
 sions to Nantucket, for Nantucket had sad associa- 
 tions for her. 
 
 She came out upon the piazza and chatted with 
 the children while breakfast was being brought 
 on. Mr. Vinton also appeared to say that he had 
 inquired of a prominent member of the Society of
 
 NEWPORT. 69 
 
 Friends in Newport, and found that Obed Swain 
 had gone to Providence the evening before, and 
 would return on the following morning. He also 
 took Aunt Hepsy's address from Miriam, in order 
 to send a telegram that would catch the Nantucket 
 boat and reach Nantucket that evening. Miriam 
 fancied Aunt Hepsy getting the telegram, or 
 tried to. 
 
 "Now," said Mr. Vinton, "this little girl will 
 have a whole day in Newport, and, Miss Betty 
 Benevolence, you may lay your own plans and 
 make it as great a day for her as you please." 
 
 At once Betty began to arrange, and Mrs. Payne 
 was called into council. They would take all the 
 drives and see every remarkable thing in and 
 around the town. These were the plans to begin 
 with, and Betty entreated Mrs. Payne to think of 
 something more, but Mrs. Payne said Betty had 
 already got more on her programme than could be 
 performed in two days. 
 
 " Oh, there 's Rol ! " said Betty, as a tall, sturdy 
 boy stepped out of a window upon the piazza, fol- 
 lowed by a superb Irish setter. " Come, Rol, and 
 have breakfast here." 
 
 The boy came forward and exchanged a good- 
 morning kiss with Mrs. Payne, who said to Mir- 
 iam that this was her Rollo, and made Miriam at 
 once an object of interest to him by telling him 
 of her adventure in the boat, and how she had 
 been picked up by the Juno. A boy will take 
 into his fortified regards a person who has had ad-
 
 70 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 ventures, so, after hearing this tale, Rollo con- 
 descended to take a seat at the table with the 
 girls, though he was rather evasive of girls, in a 
 general way. 
 
 "And, Rollo," said Mrs. Payne, " she came from 
 Nantucket." 
 
 Rollo gave his aunt a look of understanding, and 
 Miriam a stare which would have been adequate 
 if she had been announced as one of the Dyak 
 tribe. 
 
 " Oh, was that the place ? " began Betty, and 
 then stopped, for Mrs. Payne turned away with a 
 look which checked her. 
 
 Rollo himself did not appear to desire a con- 
 tinuation of the subject, but exhibited a serious in- 
 terest in breakfast, which just then was announced 
 as being ready. 
 
 He seemed rather a silent boy. Almost the 
 only visible attention he gave Miriam was to look 
 at her curiously from under his projecting brows, 
 and he ventured upon few remarks beyond such 
 concise rejoinders as " Oh, gammon ! " to Betty's 
 animated speeches. His frequently recurring 
 glance at Miriam seemed to indicate that she was 
 a curious specimen, and Miriam wondered what 
 Nantucket was to him, but she would n't have 
 asked for the world. 
 
 The boy went so far, however, as to say, as a 
 suggestion to Betty, in making her plans for the 
 day, that he thought bluefishing, with now and 
 then a chance at a shark, was the jolliest fun. He
 
 NEWPORT. 71 
 
 had been off two days bluefishing, and they had 
 caught two sharks. The next thing to sharking 
 was shooting buzzards. He rather scoffed at 
 Betty's voyage on the Juno. 
 
 " Ho," said Betty, on the other hand, " I don't 
 believe in your sharks and your buzzards." 
 
 "No? Don't you? Wait a little. I'm going 
 to catch whales and shoot tigers some day." 
 
 " That would n't be much for you I " Betty said, 
 laughing. 
 
 " It would be easier than dawdling about smok- 
 ing paper cigarettes and saying, ' I beg pardon ! ' 
 and ' No, thanks,' every five minutes. Ptn going 
 to smoke a pipe, and say 4 Aye, aye, sir ! ' ' 
 
 " Ugh ! how perfectly horrid ! " cried Betty, and 
 breakfast then being finished she rose from the 
 table and said she and Miriam would go to town. 
 
 Rol whistled to Monte Cristo, his dog, and van- 
 ished. In the wonderfully short time which it 
 takes for a pair of brisk, long legs to run over 
 stairs, two or three at a time, there was heard 
 from somewhere above, the sound of a violin, 
 pouring out the overplus of exhilaration with 
 which a boy opens his eyes upon life. How the 
 thing was made to rejoice ! It was enough to 
 gladden the old Giant Despair, himself, to hear it. 
 And the boy had fineness of soul, too, when he 
 could express joy like that. It was not a rollick- 
 ing, uproarious rejoicing, but the gladness of a 
 deep, healthful nature that had not learned the 
 meaning of dread, and it was expressed with an
 
 72 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 almost vocal clearness and explicitness, and a 
 touch of tenderness, too, by the boy who talked 
 in strong figures of smoking pipes and killing 
 tigers. 
 
 Miriam stopped to listen. It was a new sound 
 to her. 
 
 " It 'a Roland Weir," said Betty. " They say 
 he has almost a genius for the violin. He does 
 play well, don't he ? " 
 
 " But how does he do it ? " 
 
 "Oh, haven't you ever seen them? I '11 ask 
 Rol to play down-stairs where you can see him, 
 when we come back from town, if we can catch 
 him, he 's always flying off. He '11 be willing, 
 for he 's very good-natured, though you would n't 
 think it. There are three things he 's perfectly 
 devoted to, Mrs. Payne, and his violin, and 
 ships. Mrs. Payne is so afraid he '11 be a musician 
 that she 's almost willing he should be a sailor. 
 She thinks he '11 soon be cured of his liking for 
 the sea, but he '11 always be true to his violin. 1 
 don't believe he '11 ever be cured of anything. 
 He's dreadfully set." 
 
 By this time they had reached Betty's room, 
 and that impatient young lady, in a passion for 
 experiment, pulled the ribbon off Miriam's hair, 
 and shaking it out, let it pour over her shoulders 
 in deep ripples of sunshine and shadow. " Oh, 
 how nice ! " said Betty. " What pretty hair I 
 You must wear it so. And you did n't bring any 
 trunk, you know, so you must let me lend you 
 some things. You will, won't you ? "
 
 NEWPORT. 73 
 
 Miriam hesitated. She was afraid it was n't 
 right for her to be decked out in Betty's finery, 
 but after all, this was her old gown, and she 
 could n't expect Betty to take her out in that. 
 She must submit to what the circumstances re- 
 quired. So she said " Yes," and crept out of her 
 old brown chrysalis and took on the glory of a 
 butterfly. 
 
 " Why," cried Betty, when Miriam's feet were 
 going into a delicate pair of blue silk stockings, 
 " your feet are just like other people's ! " 
 
 "Of course," said Miriam. "What did thee 
 suppose they were like?" 
 
 " Why, papa said Nantucket children were 
 web-footed, like ducks, you know." 
 
 Miriam looked astonished. " May be the boys 
 are," said she, trying to recall the general appear- 
 ance of the bare feet she had seen paddling about 
 on the island. But either they had skipped too 
 briskly, or had plunged too deeply in the sand, 
 she could n't recall a distinct impression of them. 
 She resolved to look into the matter. 
 
 " There," said Maria, standing off and looking 
 at Miriam with her head on one side, when she 
 had given her the last finishing touch. " What 
 do you think, Miss Betty ? " 
 
 " I think she 's nicer than any girl I know," 
 said Betty, wringing her hands and curveting 
 round Miriam with satisfaction. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " cried Miss Vinton, putting 
 up her eyeglasses and staring at the converted
 
 74 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Miriam, when the two girls made their appearance 
 down-stairs. " Was ever anything equal to the 
 way Betty Vinton is allowed to go on ? That 
 little Quaker girl, right out of the wilderness, 
 decked out in one of her newest and most stylish 
 costumes ! 1 do think it 's a shame ! " 
 
 But Mr. Vinton laughed, and said the only use 
 for Betty's costumes, or any of Betty's belong- 
 ings, was to please Betty, and she was to get her 
 pleasure out of them in any way she liked. 
 
 The wilder Betty's notions were, the more they 
 amused Mr. Vinton. 
 
 The little maiden, whose longing to mix with 
 and appropriate the brightness of the world had 
 expressed itself in the red bow and cherries with 
 which she had tried to cheer up her solemn old 
 bonnet, flushed with the pleasure of being in it 
 and of it for the moment, and to a child the mo- 
 ment is all. 
 
 The ponies were at the door, and Mrs. Payne, 
 as she watched Miriam's placid manner, her tran- 
 quil movements, while a dreamy delight beamed 
 from her eyes, said, " She certainly is my ideal of 
 a girl." 
 
 And Miriam was almost her own ideal, as she 
 sat beside Betty and rolled down the beautiful 
 avenue. She felt sure that not a soul of them all 
 at home would know her, not even the cats. She 
 hardly knew herself. And there was that sublime 
 youth again, sitting up behind with Maria, folding 
 his arms in such a superior fashion, and making
 
 NEWPORT. 75 
 
 Betty do all the driving. He apparently did n't 
 know she was the same little image he had driven 
 up from the wharf that morning, for he did n't 
 undertake to exterminate her this time with his 
 stare, but when she dropped her parasol, handed 
 it to her with a touch of his hat and an " If you 
 please, Miss." 
 
 It was wonderful to see Miriam herself, but if 
 Aunt Hepsy could have witnessed the sight she 
 was, with her hair and her ribbons and her long 
 white ostrich feather all flying in the wind, it 
 would have been more curious to see Aunt Hepsy. 
 
 Betty had shopping to do, and she must go into 
 all the shops herself with Maria, and Miriam 
 must go too, to be sure. 
 
 While they were in the midst of this absorbing 
 pleasure, Betty said, 
 
 " Now I want to get something for you to take 
 home to help you remember me, but I can't think 
 of anything nice. What would you like it to be?" 
 
 "Why I shall remember thee easy enough," 
 said Miriam. " Thee need n't buy anything for 
 that" and she laughed at the idea of forgetting 
 Betty. 
 
 " Well, people always take home what they call 
 'souvenirs,' you know, and I want you to have a 
 souvenir." 
 
 "Then," said Miriam, "I'd like a book like 
 that one of thine I was reading." 
 
 "Is that all!" exclaimed Betty. "Do say 
 something besides. You won't think of me when 
 you 're reading that."
 
 76 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 "If I had a picture of tliee " Miriam began. 
 
 " You shall have a nice one," said Betty. 
 
 Betty bought LabouUiye's Fairy Book, and 
 many other charming things, and they came out 
 of the last shop with their hands full of parcels, 
 and were getting into the phaeton, when some one 
 touched Betty's arm gently, saying, 
 
 " My child, thee 's dropped one of thy bundles." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said Betty, taking the par- 
 cel with a sweet smile from such a kindly looking 
 man. " There," she cried, " you 've dropped two, 
 Miriam." 
 
 Miriam was climbing into the phaeton, and the 
 kindly man at the word "Miriam" turned back. 
 Not that he expected to see any Miriam lie knew 
 in that gay little equipage, but there was a little 
 girl named Miriam who was of interest to him, 
 and for her sake he looked back at those pretty 
 children. He looked back, he stopped. There 
 was something in the soft voice and that quiet lit- 
 tle laugh that seemed so familiar, so sweet to him, 
 that he wanted to hear them again. So he walked 
 back and tried to peep into the cloud of sunny 
 hair, and get a look at the child's face, who, sin- 
 gularly enough, had the name and the voice and 
 the laugh of the child he loved best in the world. 
 Miriam tossed back her hair and her sweet face 
 was in full sight. She also made one of her pecul- 
 iar little gestures and settled herself in her own 
 prim way, which, in spite of the airy ribbons and 
 ruffles, was as prim as ever. At that the benign
 
 NEWPORT. 77 
 
 man glared under his broad brim and said to 
 himself, " I must be dreaming ! " and just as Betty 
 was about to touch up the ponies, he stepped up 
 beside the phaeton and stopped her with a motion 
 of his hand. 
 
 " I want to ask " he began, without the faint- 
 est idea what he was going to ask. But Miriam, 
 before he could say another word, or make up his 
 mind what he wanted to say, reached out her 
 arms and cried, " Father, father ! " 
 
 Well, I do assure you, that was a staggerer to 
 Obed Swain. Two ideas tumbled and confused 
 each other in his mind. He couldn't clearly lay 
 hold of either. A girl in a fluffy blue dress, all 
 laces and ruffles and a great spread of sash, with 
 a saucy white hat and floating feather and hair 
 running riot over everything, a girl of this de- 
 scription calling him " Father ! " that was one 
 idea. The other was his real, true, little Quaker 
 Miriam, there in the town of Newport, all tricked 
 out in the aforesaid decorations. He stared at 
 her with such a stupefied look that Miriam was 
 frightened. 
 
 " Father, father, don't thee know me ? " she 
 said with a trembling lip. 
 
 " It can't be I " said Obed, still standing aloof, 
 and wiping the perspiration from his face with an 
 enormous silk handkerchief. 
 
 " Oh, it zs, father ! I was lost in a boat and 
 Betty's father brought me to Newport, and this is 
 Betty. They said thee 'd gone to Providence."
 
 78 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " My daughter," said Obed, with a shaking 
 voice, holding Miriam's hand tightly in his own, 
 " I can't understand this at once. I want thee 
 to come with me. Make thy hair decent, put on 
 th' gown an th' bonnet, and I '11 come and get 
 thee." 
 
 " But, father, I had on my old gown," said Mir- 
 iam, " and I lost my bonnet, so Betty lent me 
 some of her things." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Obed, with the suspicion of a 
 tear in his eye. " Thee can tell me all about it 
 by and by. Not now, not now. I want to see 
 and thank whoever has cared for my child. 
 Where shall I find him?" 
 
 Betty managed to find her voice and answered, 
 and Obed, still in bewilderment, said he would 
 come there for Miriam directly, and the phaeton 
 drove on, the two girls dumb, each with her own 
 emotion, Maria remarking to herself that " the 
 ways of Providence was wonderful," and the tiger 
 staring just as blankly into space as ever. 
 
 Miriam's mind was divided between sorrow and 
 gladness. Her great day in Newport had come to 
 an untimely end, but the joy of finding her father 
 was a compensation. Betty, however, was melan- 
 choly, pure and simple. Her very choicest plans 
 were nipped in the bud. She was so used to girls 
 who had seen everything and been everywhere, 
 that it was quite a new delight to entertain one 
 who could be so easily astonished as Miriam. 
 Betty, in short, who had never been able to as-
 
 NEWPORT. 79 
 
 tonish any one very much before, was expecting 
 a whole day of sensation, wherein she was to be 
 a wonder herself, and furnish wonders, with the 
 ease of a magician or fairy, to the nicest little 
 thing that ever was. Alas, however, the end had 
 come ! Obed Swain, instead of going to Provi- 
 dence, and staying there, like a reasonable man, 
 must needs lie in wait to say an " Out, brief can- 
 dle ! " to all her hopes. 
 
 " Oh, it 's too bad ! " she cried, in a deeply in- 
 jured tone. 
 
 " I never saw father look so before," said Mir- 
 iam, who could not forget the emotion she had 
 seen in her father's usually placid face. " He 
 looked well, frightened, I guess it was." 
 
 " I should think he would," said Betty; " I 'm 
 sure papa would be in a great state to meet me in 
 Nantucket, and have me tell him I 'd come nearly 
 all the way alone in a little boat." And putting 
 her father in Obed Swain's place, she did n't know 
 as it would be fair not to forgive him, this time. 
 
 The little Cinderella returned to her ashes ; 
 that is to say, to her old ashen-colored gown, and 
 in what seemed a very short time, a carriage drove 
 up the avenue, bringing Obed Swain. Remem- 
 bering Miriam's lack of a bonnet, and having 
 noticed that even among Friends the little girls 
 in Newport wore hats, he brought her a simple 
 straw hat, with a plain band of brown ribbon 
 round it, some gloves, and a sacque, so that she 
 was quite a proper- looking child to take along on 
 the journey home.
 
 80 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Obed was greatly moved, in spite of a caltn ex- 
 terior, by the story of his little girl's perilous 
 voyage. He wanted to keep her hand in his con- 
 tinually, as if she might slide away from him into 
 danger again, or as if to assure himself she was 
 there, quite safe and near. He was a man of 
 much dignity and simplicity, and Mr. Vinton felt 
 a great respect for him and the warmth of a fa- 
 ther's sympathy. But Obed declined all offers of 
 hospitality, saying it was his wish to take the train 
 which would bring them to New Bedford in time 
 for the Nantucket boat. 
 
 There was never more honest regret than that 
 with which Miriam and Betty parted. At the 
 last moment Betty brought her photograph and 
 the fairy book. 
 
 "But thee '11 have nothing to make thee remem- 
 ber me ! " said Miriam. 
 
 " Oh, send me a picture of yourself do ! " 
 Betty answered, " though I have one already " 
 touching her forehead " taken when you stood 
 on the deck of the Juno this morning. No," 
 she added quickly, giving a second touch to the 
 region where her warm little heart was understood 
 to be situated, ** it 's here I " 
 
 Miriam took this puzzle along with her and 
 studied it out on her way.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE GOLDEN LINK. 
 
 WHEN Miriam brought up before Aunt Hepsy, 
 on her return from Newport, in a rather sailorish- 
 looking hat, her hair hanging in a soft braid, the 
 end tied by a blue ribbon, and loose locks flying 
 on her forehead, Aunt Hepsy settled back in help- 
 less horror, and accepted the support of her high- 
 backed rocking chair, a weakness in which she 
 seldom indulged. 
 
 That lofty chairback seemed never intended to 
 support Aunt Hepsy herself, but Aunt Hepsy's 
 dignity rather. It gave her an appropriate back- 
 ground, and enhanced her appearance of rectitude, 
 but beyond that it was of no use to one who was 
 sufficient unto herself as to back, and as to most 
 things. The fact that she yielded herself to its 
 long-despised overtures was proof that she was 
 very much overcome. Not that she looked at 
 Miriam as the lost one found, for Miriam was 
 supposed to be visiting at Aunt Dorcas's, and as 
 she had declared her purpose to go home to tea 
 the day before, the supposition at Aunt Dorcas's 
 naturally was that she had gone home. The mes- 
 sage sent by Mr. Vinton had not yet arrived.
 
 82 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Thee makes me flesh c-r-ee-p on me bones ! " 
 rumbled the voice of Aunt Hepsy. " I 've a good 
 will to say thee sha' n't go to Dorcas Haddon's 
 again." 
 
 " Why, I 've been to NEWPORT ! " Miriam 
 almost shouted. 
 
 This announcement burst upon the air like 
 something long suppressed which had suddenly 
 found vent, and was followed by a faint chuckle. 
 It seemed to Aunt Hepsy to resound through the 
 universe. 
 
 " What does thee say ? " she gasped. 
 
 " I 've been to Newport ! " repeated Miriam. 
 
 Aunt Hepsy's mind struggled to lay hold of this 
 bold and improbable assertion, while Miriam em- 
 braced Joseph John, who made his appearance 
 promptly at the sound of her voice. 
 
 Under the inspiration of his wide-eyed wonder 
 and admiration, Miriam poured forth the whole 
 story of her adventures by sea and land, and the 
 sensation she had been longing to produce was as 
 profound as she could have wished. 
 
 Aunt Hepsy was dumb ; but her dumbness said 
 all that mere words would have been too poor to 
 express. She uncorked and smelled of a bottle of 
 camphor which stood on her work-stand, and sank 
 into the uttermost depths of her chair. 
 
 And Joseph John fairly shivered with terror 
 and delight. 
 
 But Obed was there to corroborate the incredi- 
 ble tale. He wavered in and out of the " keeping
 
 THE GOLDEN LINK. 83 
 
 room " daring the recital, in a gentle, deprecating 
 way, to give such countenance as he could to the 
 reckless vagrant. " There, there ! " he said softly, 
 when Miriam's key was rather high, and her style 
 of narrative somewhat too florid for Friendly 
 ears. 
 
 " What is 't thee 's got there?" Aunt Hepsy de- 
 manded, indicating Miriam's precious fairy book. 
 
 Miriam clutched it tightly. " Don't take it 
 away ! " she cried. 
 
 " Let me see it, my child," said Obed kindly. 
 
 Miriam placed the book in her father's hands, 
 who opened it slowly, almost fearfully, and looked 
 intently at the first picture disclosed ; then hold- 
 ing his head back, he tried another focus ; held it 
 at arm's length and tried still another; then took 
 it to the window, where there was more light. 
 
 " Curious pictures ! " he muttered to himself, 
 and turning the leaves, he fell upon such passages 
 as these from Abdallah : 
 
 "Whoever obeyeth God, they shall be with 
 those unto whom God has been gracious, of the 
 prophets, and the sincere, and the martyrs, and 
 the righteous, and these are most excellent com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Acknowledge that there is but one God alone ; 
 remain steadfast in the faith ; instruct thys'-lf ; 
 bridle thy tongue ; repress thy wrath ; forbear to 
 do evil; associate with the good; screen the faults 
 of thy neighbor ; relieve the poor by thine alms ; 
 and expect thy reward in eternity."
 
 84 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " But the reading is excellent, most excellent," 
 continued Obed, to himself. "I think," scru- 
 tinizing the curious pictures again, "I think 
 these must be some of the visions of the Revela- 
 tion. I must see that Miriam is not deprived of 
 this book." And he slid that budget of brilliant, 
 delightful, Frenchy, fantastic fancies, and those 
 good old Mahometan doctrines into his deep, safe 
 pocket. 
 
 Meantime Aunt Hepsy had advanced to other 
 points of attack. 
 
 " Thee come and have thy hair put up ! " she 
 said. 
 
 " Well, now," interposed Obed, " I guess we '11 
 leave that about as 't is. I was thinking it looked 
 a deal more comfortable, and I noticed that 
 Friends' children had it so at Newport." 
 
 " And that head-gear f " 
 
 " Yes, yes," Obed said, in a pacifying tone ; 
 " I 'm considerable pleased with that. It keeps 
 the sun out of her eyes." 
 
 At this probable defeat, Aunt Hepsy armed 
 herself with her knitting work, and again re- 
 nouncing her chairback, fought a silent round on 
 her stocking. The stabbing and fencing of the 
 needles appeared to give the necessary vent to her 
 feelings. 
 
 " Thee go tell thy story to Joseph John," said 
 Obed to Miriam, with the intention of clearing the 
 field. 
 
 Miriam, well content, made a careful disposi-
 
 THE GOLDEN LINK. 85 
 
 tion of her rescued head-gear by holding it safely 
 under her arm, and twining the other in Joseph 
 John's, retreated with him to their place on the 
 spider-legged, haircloth sofa in the south room, to 
 show Betty's picture. This called for a long flow 
 of eloquence on Miriam's part, and renewed and 
 expanded admiration on the part of Joseph John. 
 
 The evening was chilly, although it was mid- 
 summer, and Rosanna made the excuse of lighting 
 a fire on the hearth, in order to hear this voluble 
 narration, which had resounded to the uttermost 
 parts of the house. Miriam recapitulated with 
 great willingness to a crescendo accompaniment of 
 sobs, suppressed outcries, and ejaculations of " Oh, 
 my king ! " " Oh, my good king ! " " Oh, marcif ul 
 man ! " from Rosanna. " Don't go h'istin' up into 
 de clouds so much, don't my lamb ! " she prayed, 
 when Miriam had finished. " Som'n' dreffle '11 
 happen to yo' some day ef yo' don't take keer." 
 
 Rosanna's tenderness for Miriam was even 
 greater than the benevolence of the Swains to- 
 wards herself. She had been sent to the protec- 
 tion of Obed 's father, over the " underground 
 railway," when she was a girl, and her faithful 
 service of nearly thirty years had been a service 
 of love and gratitude. Miriam was the apple of 
 her eye. She considered it her principal mission 
 in life to watch over and defend her from real and 
 imaginary ills. 
 
 But the present ill was several hours of fasting 
 for the precious voyager, and Rosanna hastened to
 
 86 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 redress that as soon as possible. After the entic- 
 ing biscuits, the daintily printed butter, the tall 
 glass pitcher of milk with its richer relative, the 
 squatty silver jug of cream, and little cakes in the 
 forms of hearts and rounds had been shown to 
 their places on the table, Rosanna introduced the 
 last and most distinguished viand, a hot corn 
 pudding ; then went up the fragrant incense of 
 tea, and the two branches of the house were sum- 
 moned to discuss matters in which they were 
 likely to agree. 
 
 You would have admitted that to be a charming 
 table. The old-time Quakers eschewed worldly 
 vanities, but they had vanities of their own. 
 Their very simplicity, originally a mark of self- 
 denial, developed into a certain pride and a fash- 
 ion more absolute than that of the world. The 
 Quaker garb is we may almost say was, there 
 is so little of it now a strict mode, and the study 
 of its quality a nicer and more absorbing cave than 
 that which a New York belle gives to her toilettes. 
 In drawing the line between themselves and the 
 world, the Swains took care to include on their 
 side the choicest of linen and the daintiest of old 
 glass and china. The plentiful silver glittered 
 with fastidious care, and any edible which had 
 found its way to that table was, upon that sole evi- 
 dence, the most perfect specimen of its kind. 
 
 But they were very silent people who sat about 
 this cheerful-looking board. Hepsy Swain's was 
 the solemn silence of a vessel freighted with so
 
 THE GOLDEN LINK. 87 
 
 much rectitude ; Obed's at this time was the re- 
 actionary pause after unaccustomed excitement, 
 and the children were never expected to produce 
 much tabh'-talk upon any occasion. So the tea 
 and the milk and the cream flowed in place of con- 
 versation, and the various dishes moved about so 
 quietly that you could have heard the fire hum- 
 ming faintly on the hearth in the next room, and 
 the light flames leaping to embrace each other, as 
 they danced up the chimney. 
 
 At length the silence was broken by Peleg Bun- 
 ker, the mail carrier, blowing his wheezy horn at 
 the gate, and Hosanna went out to get the letters. 
 
 Peleg carried the mail to Siasconset and left let- 
 ters at a few places on his way. He was always 
 seen seated upon a bob-tailed horse, from which 
 no person in 'Sconset had ever seen him alight, 
 and he was looked upon there as a species of cen- 
 taur. 
 
 Rosanna brought in three letters, which called 
 for three pennies, and Obed proceeded to hunt for 
 these. But pennies were scarce in his pockets, for 
 he had just returned from a tour in which pennies 
 had scattered themselves with amazing briskness. 
 He turned over his wallet and shook it coercively 
 over the corner of the table before he could per- 
 suade a third penny to come out. When it did 
 come, however, it was followed by a tiny gold ring, 
 which rolled across the table-cloth and dropped it- 
 self beside Joseph John's plate. 
 
 " Oh," he cried, as if in joyful welcome, and
 
 88 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Oh, oh," Miriam cried, in accents of admiration. 
 "Where did thee get that, father? " 
 
 Obed looked astonished, and made the same 
 inquiry of himself. "Why, that," said he, at 
 length, " that is Joseph John's ring that John 
 Dagget's wife gave me. I had forgotten about it." 
 
 "Mine ? " cried Joseph John. 
 
 " Thee had it on thy finger when thee was 
 brought ashore from the wreck." 
 
 The children's heads came together, and they 
 looked with intense curiosity at this link between 
 the known and the unknown in Joseph John's 
 life, this mute suggestion of lost and forgotten 
 things. Joseph was allowed to keep it, and after 
 much consideration and consultation the children 
 carefully secreted the treasure in a very mysterious 
 place. 
 
 Rosanna began as soon as tea was over to spread 
 the tidings of Miriam's escape from the jaws of 
 death. Before the lamps were lighted, Aunt Dor- 
 cas came. The tears were in her eyes, while she 
 held Miriam in a long embrace, much to Miriam's 
 amazement, for she could see nothing to cry about. 
 She had had proud experience. Even Amos Tnt- 
 tle must allow that he had had no adventure more 
 remarkable than hers. And as from hour to hour 
 and day to day a freshet of neighbors and relatives 
 and friends poured in upon Miriam, it began to 
 seem an undisputed fact that she was a distin- 
 guished traveler. 
 
 Even Paul treated her with marked considera- 
 tion, and made her a visit of approval.
 
 THE GOLDEN LINK. 89 
 
 " Thee 's brought some of the fashions back 
 from China," was one of his observations upon 
 this occasion. 
 
 Miriam looked at him dubiously. 
 
 " That pig-tail," Paul specified, nodding at the 
 new arrangement of Miriam's hair. 
 
 " It 's the way they wear it at Newport," as- 
 serted Miriam, with the air of one whose author- 
 ity may be trusted in such matters. 
 
 " It 's a handy thing," said Paul. 
 
 "Handy?" " 
 
 " I will explain my meaning by an illustration 
 or two," said Paul, reaching out his arm, which 
 was like an ourang-outang's, and almost laying 
 hold of the glossy rope. 
 
 Miriam backed up against the wall. 
 
 "We'll waive that subject, then," said Paul. 
 " It might lead to disagreement. I suppose thee 
 don't intend to take another voyage, at pres- 
 ent ? " 
 
 " I don't know," in a very contrary tone. 
 
 " Because, I was going to say," continued Paul, 
 " that if thee had, perhaps, done with the boat, I 
 hoped thee would do me the favor to return it. 
 No particular hurry, thee knows." 
 
 " Was it thy boat ? " cried Miriam. 
 
 " Well, it was, yes ; thee 's put it in the right 
 tense." 
 
 "Oh," sighed Miriam, "I forgot all about the 
 boat ! " 
 
 " I won't be hard on thee," said Paul, with a
 
 90 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 great show of magnanimity. " I '11 charge it against 
 thee on my books, and thee can pay me when 
 thee 's able." 
 
 "How can I pay thee?" pleaded Miriam. 
 
 " Well, as I have n't any boat, thee '11 have to 
 amuse me in some other way. That '11 make it 
 square." 
 
 Poor Miriam felt that at this cost her voyage 
 would be a dear one. 
 
 "Come," persisted Paul, "thee might begin 
 now. If I had a boat I should be off sailing, but 
 I can't think what I 'm going to do. Seems to 
 me thee might try to amuse me a little." 
 
 " Why, Paul, I 'm sure I don't know what to 
 do." 
 
 " Well, there ! " grunted Paul, throwing him- 
 self on a sofa, as if abandoning himself to his 
 unfortunate predicament. <; Here I am without 
 any boat, my health poor, all run down with hard 
 work, overtaxed brain, doctor says I must have 
 recreation, be diverted. What kind of a divert 
 do you call this, gentleman of the jury ? " lie con- 
 cluded, with a wave of his hand and a roll of his 
 bulging eyes at Joseph John, who had all the 
 while sat staring in unwinking perplexity. 
 
 " I '11 get father to take us over to Quaise and 
 we could have a clam-bake," suggested Miriam. 
 
 Paul waved off this proposal with a sweeping 
 gesture as something beneath consideration. Then 
 shaking his head slowly and sadly he pressed his 
 handkerchief to his eyes.
 
 THE GOLDEN LINK. 91 
 
 " Football is all that 's left me now, 
 Tears will unbidden start ! " 
 
 he muttered. 
 
 " Joseph John," said Miriam, after some delib- 
 eration, " thee might show Paul thy little ring." 
 
 Paul looked up at Joseph John with a half-re- 
 signed, half-expectant look. 
 
 " Oh, yes," the boy assented with apparent 
 gladness, and after paying a visit to the myste- 
 rious place already mentioned, he returned with 
 his treasure in a little pill-box. 
 
 " It 's the ring Joseph John had on his finger 
 when he was saved from the sea," explained Mir- 
 iam. 
 
 Paul gathered himself up and condescended to 
 examine it with an appearance of interest. It 
 was not for nothing that his eyes stuck out of his 
 head in such a curious way. They could see the 
 smallest mite imaginable. After holding it close 
 to those protuberances for a moment, " What 's 
 this?" he said. " R-o-l-a-n-d W-e-i-r, Roland 
 Weir." 
 
 Miriam held her finger on her lips and stared 
 speechlessly at the floor, as if recovering some lost 
 idea. 
 
 " Why," she said, at length, " that 's the name 
 of the boy at Newport ! "
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ENTERING WEDGE. 
 
 " HEBE, Betsy Baker," said Mr. Vinton, " here 's 
 a parcel for you from Nantucket." 
 
 Betty attacked its coverings at once, and " Oh, 
 how perfectly lovely ! " she cried, as there came to 
 light an exquisite ivory box, an entire piece of 
 carving, of that miraculous fineness which is only 
 produced by the Chinese. 
 
 " Only see, papa ! Look, Mrs. Payne ! Look 
 at it, Aunt Grace ! Is n't it a beauty ? " cried 
 Betty, carrying her box about with much display. 
 She laid it in Miss Vinton's lap and raised the 
 cover, disclosing the expected photograph and a 
 note. 
 
 " There 's Miriam !" Betty shouted, holding up 
 the picture. *' But there 's a boy, too ; Joseph 
 John, I suppose." 
 
 She left the picture with her Aunt Grace, who 
 glanced at it with feeble interest and passed it to 
 Mrs. Payne. Mrs. Payne was always interested 
 in everything, and she continued to gaze at the 
 picture, appearing to derive a certain sensation 
 from it, while Betty read her note and then fol- 
 lowed her father, who had taken his morning pa- 
 pers and letters out upon the piazza.
 
 THE ENTERING WEDGE. 93 
 
 " Grace," Mrs. Payne said, holding the photo- 
 graph towards Miss Vinton, " does that boy re- 
 mind you of any one ? Look at the way he holds 
 his head ! " 
 
 Miss Vinton assumed an air of interest. " Why," 
 she said, as if considering, do you mean your 
 brother Roland ? " 
 
 " Yes, he looks more like Roland than his own 
 boy does. Rollo does n't inherit anything on our 
 side. He may resemble his mother's ancestors. 
 He surely is n't like her, either." 
 
 " I suppose you never really thought there was 
 any doubt " began Miss Vinton. 
 
 Mrs. Payne stared blankly at her friend. 
 
 " Doubt of what ? " she desired to know. 
 
 " Why, I should n't like to put any notion into 
 your head, Anna," pursued Miss Vinton, with the 
 cumulative readiness of one who has held her 
 tongue for many years, "but I always thought 
 you were easily satisfied in regard to the identity 
 of that child." 
 
 "Easily satisfied!" cried Mrs. Payne, in a tone 
 of half amazement and half resentment. " I didn't 
 ask for more than absolute proof, of course. The 
 man was recognized and identified by his papers 
 as an old sailor from the Aurora, and his thorough 
 honesty well attested. And there was the neck- 
 lace that I sent the baby myself, with the mark, 
 names and date ; and I 've never had any more 
 doubt that Roland was my Roland's boy than I 
 have that I am my father's daughter. What would 
 you have done? Come."
 
 94 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " I ? Oh, I don't know. I might possibly have 
 gone down to the island and made some inquiries." 
 
 " What inquiries were there to make ? Did it 
 seem likely that any one could know more than 
 one of the wrecked sailors himself, who brought 
 the child directly to me in his own arms ? Could 
 I have asked for better testimony than that ? " 
 
 "No; oh, of course not. But I always felt as 
 if I should have wanted to see the place and know 
 just what did come ashore. However, I am one 
 of those persons who must ask just one question 
 more after a story is all told." 
 
 " Well, this question is a most disagreeable one. 
 Let us consider that it has been sufficiently dis- 
 cussed, and for the last time." 
 
 Mrs. Payne drew back into her chair and closed 
 her lips tightly, to indicate her own withdrawal 
 from the conversation, while Miss Vinton, having 
 relieved her mind, was already tired of the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 The photograph stood on the table beside Mrs. 
 Payne, and she again turned to it with a scrutiniz- 
 ing look, which gradually fell into an absent, un- 
 discerning expression, while her mind went back 
 to her girlhood, when the pride of her heart was 
 her brother Roland. For the space of a long 
 dream she saw him, as a boy, as a volatile youth, 
 with spirits chiefly in allegro, but dropping fre- 
 quently to penseroso, when he looked up with a 
 peculiar side wise droop of the head. 
 
 Sighing, she awoke from her dream, and her
 
 THE ENTERING WEDGE. 95 
 
 eyes fixed upon Joseph John's picture again. She 
 arose and moved quickly out upon the piazza. 
 
 Betty was in a twitter of excitement, for one of 
 Mr. Vinton's letters was from Obed Swain. It 
 contained some information which Mr. Vinton did 
 not see fit to divulge at once, but it formed the 
 ground of a suggestion, which he had just made, 
 that Betty should carry out her plan of an expedi- 
 tion to Nantucket, and as Mrs. Payne came out, 
 he also proposed that she should take command of 
 the expedition. He could not, himself, before the 
 last of September, and Betty was eager to embark 
 at once. He would put them in the care of Cap- 
 tain Baxter. 
 
 " For we 're to go in the Juno," said Betty. 
 
 u And Betty prescribes that you are to accept 
 the standing invitation of Mr. Swain to be his 
 guests, whenever you do go," added Mr. Vinton. 
 
 " Of course," pleaded Betty to this charge. 
 
 " To be sure ; by all means," Mrs. Payne 
 agreed, and the whole plan was soon settled. 
 
 Just as they reached this final point, the shrill 
 note of a very resolute whistle came upon their 
 ears. 
 
 " We are three jolly, jolly sailor boys," was the 
 tune which pierced the air, blown from a pair of 
 vigorous lungs. The performer himself came pres- 
 ently in sight, with a rifle on his shoulder, his hat 
 tipped back on his head, and a generally easy as- 
 pect. Behind him trotted Monte Cristo, with the 
 settled air of a dog who is sure of his master.
 
 96 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 The whistling ceased as the whistler came in 
 sight of the persons on the piazza. Having planted 
 his rifle in a corner, he took a seat beside Mrs. 
 Payne, fanning himself with his hat, and giving 
 expression to his feelings in an occasional " whew," 
 for the day had grown warm, and the boy as well. 
 
 " Why, Roland," said Mrs. Payne, " you look 
 like a ranchman, or a miner, straight from the 
 wilderness." 
 
 " Do I ? " Roland asked, pausing for an instant 
 in his fanning, with a look of cheerful satisfaction. 
 
 " And oh, my dear, what a sight! " continued 
 Mrs Payne, looking with dismay at the blackness 
 of Roland's hands, which was a combination of 
 sunburning and, I am sorry to say, that crisis 
 which calls for soap and water. " I really cannot 
 endure this sort of thing. Why don't you come 
 and read to me sometimes, or play croquet with 
 Betty ? " 
 
 Roland sighed and looked miserable. 
 
 " Now," resumed Mrs. Payne, " I am going to 
 ask you to let me see more of you than I have 
 done recently. I shall expect you to go with me 
 to Nantucket in a day or two. I wish, Roland, I 
 could see you growing more like your father." 
 There was a tone of despair in Mrs. Payne's 
 voice. 
 
 Roland pushed his soiled and rumpled cuffs up 
 under his coat sleeves, with a blush, and forgot to 
 fan. 
 
 " What is that ? " Mrs. Payne asked, bending
 
 THE ENTERING WEDGE. 97 
 
 nearer, and examining a dark blue stain on one of 
 Roland's wrists with an inquisitive frown. 
 
 Roland uncovered his arm. It was tattooed 
 with figures in India ink : an anchor, a constel- 
 lation of stars, and the initials R. W. 
 
 Mrs. Payne stared at the disfigurement in dumb 
 consternation. Her Roland's boy, the Weir 
 flesh, indelibly stained with those vulgar devices ! 
 
 " Roland," she said at length, in a low, cold 
 voice, " I have always had hope of you, but I see 
 I must give it up. It seems as if you were not 
 my boy at all." 
 
 Roland mused over this speech, an indefinable 
 trouble in his face. 
 
 " I wish I could be the kind of boy you like," 
 said he, slowly and thoughtfully, pulling his hat 
 round and round in his hands. " I do try, but I 
 don't believe I 'm good for anything but a sailor." 
 
 " You 'd best go and wash your hands and 
 change your cuffs," Mrs. Payne said. " Don't 
 talk about being a sailor. You know that 's ab- 
 surd. We must make the best of things." 
 
 Roland rose, hesitated, as if about to say some- 
 thing more, and then moved slowly away. 
 
 He was not a model boy. The very towel on 
 which he wiped those objectionable hands, after 
 washing them in his fashion, bore witness in dis- 
 tinct smooches that he was not a very tidy boy. 
 He suspected himself of being a failure, poor 
 Roland, and he often said to himself that if 
 he could only have been blessed with the Weir
 
 98 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 features, even the Weir upper lip, or the "Weir 
 weak eyes, his other deficiencies would nave 
 seemed more excusable. Lacking these, and so 
 much else, he felt that he was an unsatisfactory 
 article, which ought to be returned. 
 
 As he made the desired changes in his toilet, he 
 glanced at two pictures that stood upon a table in 
 his room, that were always kept before him as the 
 raison d'etre for everything that he was not, and 
 finally, when he had reached the point where he 
 considered himself unexceptionable as to neatness, 
 he stood before them, with the intention of survey- 
 ing all that which he had missed. 
 
 There they were, there they all were, those 
 traits that he ought to have had. There were his 
 father and mother, the ones he must be like in 
 order to win regard in this world, and reward in 
 that vague, inconceivable place where they had 
 gone. 
 
 But the ones he felt himself to be absolutely 
 like were those hardy fellows who bore bravely 
 the perils of living, with no thought of special re- 
 ward. Having visited the ships at the wharves 
 with much frequency, he had felt himself attracted 
 by the bronzed sailors. They had returned his 
 regard with delightful cordiality ; had spun him 
 yarns without end, and tattooed his arm with pleas- 
 ure. When he had watched them, ready to sail on 
 their voyages, the brave ships with their top-s'ls 
 and courses loose, their jib hanging waiting from 
 the boom, the halyards ready to run up, and the
 
 THE ENTERING WEDGE. 99 
 
 pilot shouting " All ready ?" he longed to shout 
 back yes, he was ready, he wanted nothing but 
 to go ; and when he heard the brisk orders, and 
 saw the sailors jumping to obey, he could hardly 
 hold his feet to the shore. He looked long at his 
 father and mother, then turned from them to his 
 mirror and the picture there, the picture of a 
 broad-shouldered, overgrown boy, with a large 
 head, crowned with a mass of short curls of an in- 
 definite color, a brow which projected far over a 
 pair of bluish-gray eyes, a boy's round chin and 
 full lips, that were just then parted with a look of 
 sorrowful, earnest inquiry. His chief attraction, 
 that expression of honest, simple manliness, was 
 quite unapparent to himself. He saw nothing but 
 the great sunburned boy, with the anxious look on 
 his un- Weir-like face. 
 
 " It seems to me so, too," he said at length.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " LOST ! LOST ! " 
 
 NOT long after Betty's expedition landed at 
 Nantucket, there happened the first excitement 
 that ever broke the serenity in the old Swain 
 house. 
 
 Mrs. Payne's first sight of Joseph John, the first 
 accents of his voice, which had the charming pecu- 
 liarity of seeming to touch a minor note, thrilled 
 her like old associations. 
 
 Joseph John stepped into the doorway and stood 
 gazing at her with that pensive, sidewise droop 
 of the head which Mrs. Payne had noticed in his 
 picture, for Obed Swain would have no head-rests, 
 no posing, no artificial adjustments when his chil- 
 dren were photographed, and Joseph John looked 
 at the camera just as he looked at everything that 
 greatly interested him, just as he looked from the 
 doorway at Mrs. Payne, just as his father had 
 looked at her, years ago. 
 
 Mrs. Payne started nervously. 
 
 " This is your son ? " she asked of Obed, and 
 held her hand out to the boy, who approached and 
 gave his own in return. Mrs. Payne kept it a 
 moment.
 
 "LOST! LOST!" 101 
 
 " He makes me credulous," she said, slowly, " of 
 that theory of the reincarnation of souls. If my 
 brother can have been born again into this world, 
 I am sure he has been given to you, Mr. Swain. 
 The soul of Roland Weir seems to look at me out 
 of these eyes. Should you think you had seen me 
 before ? " she asked, pursuing the fancy, and smil- 
 ing down at the boy. 
 
 " Ye-yes. I don't know," he answered. " I 
 often think I 've seen things before. That name 
 is in my little ring." 
 
 " What name ? " 
 
 " Roland Weir." 
 
 " In your ring ? Why, what do you mean ? " 
 
 Obed had the ring in his vest pocket in anticipa- 
 tion of this moment. He reached it to Mrs. Payne 
 in silence, and she, taking it to the light, examined 
 it with an eyeglass. 
 
 " What does it mean ? How did your son find 
 this ring, Mr. Swain? Where did he find it?" 
 she asked in amazement. 
 
 " The ring is his own," said Obed, " and the boy 
 himself is only mine until he is claimed by some 
 one who has a better right. He is a child who 
 was rescued from the wreck of the steamer Aurora. 
 We have only recently discovered this name in the 
 ring he wore at the time, and I see thee has the 
 same in thy family." 
 
 Mrs. Payne stared blankly from one boy to the 
 other. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! What mystery is this ? "
 
 102 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 she said, sinking into a chair. " Let me think ! 
 Let me try to think ! " She pressed her hands to 
 her face for a long silent interval, daring which 
 Miss Vinton's words seemed to repeat themselves 
 triumphantly, " You were very easily satisfied 
 about the identity of that boy." 
 
 " Hollo ! " she cried, looking up at length, but 
 she did not continue, and Hollo made no response. 
 He only sat pale and still. 
 
 Then Mrs. Payne, looking wild and half unwill- 
 ing, persisting in her own mind that she could not 
 have been so cheated all those years, took the hand 
 of the boy with the Weir look, and drawing him 
 to her side, gazed long into those eyes where she 
 seemed to see the soul of Roland Weir ; then, yield- 
 ing to an irresistible impulse, gathered him in her 
 arms and sobbed nervously, thinking chiefly of the 
 one he was like, and realizing nothing so much as 
 the improbability of the situation. 
 
 As she held the boy she had never seen before 
 in her arms and wept over him, the boy who had 
 been there by mistake so many times looked on 
 with the feelings one may be supposed to have 
 when the very end of all things has arrived, when 
 the heavens and earth are melting away. 
 
 To Aunt Hepsy, Mrs. Payne's was an unseemly 
 exhibition of emotion, let the case be what it 
 would, and she motioned to Miriam to leave the 
 room. 
 
 Miriam, although she could not fully compre- 
 hend the situation and its consequences, was full
 
 "LOST! LOST!" 103 
 
 of a vague anguish. She and Betty retreated to 
 the north room, and the boy who was n't a Weir, 
 feeling that he, especially, could be excused, 
 slipped out at the garden door and wandered 
 about among the properly restrained flowers and 
 the meritorious herbs, and finally sat in Miriam's 
 seat under the quince-tree. 
 
 Who was he, then, and to what must he re- 
 turn? 
 
 Long he sat there, bowed and lonely, suffering 
 the after agony of the blow that had cut him off, 
 and it seemed as if he were forgotten, until Mrs. 
 Payne, smitten with recollection and a rush of 
 tenderness and pity, sent for him to come to her, 
 when she kissed him and wept over him, too. It 
 was impossible for her to talk. She was over- 
 whelmed. 
 
 There seemed to Rollo to be a terrible hush in 
 the house ; everybody looked at him drearily, Mir- 
 iam's eyes were red with weeping, and in his ears 
 was the constant sound of Mrs. Payne's first sob- 
 bing cry. Again he escaped ; this time into the 
 street. 
 
 Hollo's quiet way of receiving his sudden trans- 
 lation from the high regions of her relationship to 
 the low regions of no relationship at all misled 
 Mrs. Payne. She did not at once guess that he 
 was dumb from the weight of his sorrow, and 
 from a half-benumbed sense of his loneliness and 
 destitution in surrendering all the people and 
 things which he had loved and appropriated, as
 
 104 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 a matter of course, through his remembered life, 
 to this strange boy, of whom he must feel that he 
 had been borrowing them. 
 
 But when the hours moved on and Hollo did not 
 make his appearance, Mrs. Payne was alarmed 
 and went restlessly from window to door, asking 
 again and again, " Has nobody seen Hollo ? Can 
 no one tell where he has gone ? " 
 
 He was a very punctual boy, usually. It was a 
 part of his honesty that he gave himself always at 
 the right time, and Mrs. Payne waited for him the 
 more impatiently because she had been unaccus- 
 tomed to wait in vain. There was much running 
 about, calling, searching, and inquiring for Hollo, 
 and meantime the sun did not stand still. As the 
 day drew towards its close Mrs. Payne, with some 
 newly awakened sense, guessed it all. Obed had 
 already searched for the boy to the extent of all 
 but one possibility, and he encouraged Mrs. Payne 
 by telling her she would be almost sure to hear 
 something of Hollo soon, for he had sent out Bela 
 Ketchum, the town crier, to announce his disap- 
 pearance. Any one who had seen the boy, or 
 knew anything of him, would probably be reached 
 in this way. Bela Ketchum was the advertising 
 medium of Nantucket. He rang his bell at the 
 street corners and shouted the various wants and 
 losses of the people, the bargains they might find 
 in special places, the amusements to be expected 
 in the town hall, the times of the steamers' start- 
 ing, etc. It always seemed as if the utmost
 
 "LOST! LOST!" 105 
 
 possible was being done about a matter when Bela 
 Ketch um gave bis voice to it. 
 
 Mrs. Payne soon heard the far-away cry, 
 "Lost! L-o-st !" and, more indistinctly, the de- 
 scription of Hollo, the time of his disappearance, 
 etc. 
 
 All Hollo's faults vanished from her memory, 
 and she thought of him with the solemn tender- 
 ness with which we remember our lost ones. 
 Their kindest actions, their noblest qualities, be- 
 come heroic, and their commonest words and deeds, 
 since they are lost, lost, are invested with a sa- 
 cred ness which never pertains to the things we 
 hold in sure possession. Mrs. Payne remembered 
 Hollo's steadfast honesty, his brave manliness, the 
 distasteful things he had sometimes struggled 
 through for her sake. 
 
 Nearer and nearer came the town crier's clang- 
 ing bell, and she could hear all he said ; his de- 
 scription of Hollo : his eyes, his hair, the fashion 
 of his dress, his being tall and straight, and it cut 
 her to the heart to have this shouted upon the 
 public street. 
 
 Fainter and fainter again grew the sound of the 
 bell and the voice until it died away from Mrs. 
 Payne's outward hearing, but in the deep inner 
 silence it still reverberated like a wail. 
 
 The thought that Hollo had accepted his new 
 destiny by removing himself in that silent way to 
 a life of absolute loneliness was intolerable. 
 
 Lying sleepless in the darkness, that night, Mrs.
 
 106 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Payne could never shut out the plaintive voice 
 which cried " L-o-st 1-o-st ! " and though she had 
 the genuine Roland Weir with the Weir look and 
 the Weir bearing and the Weir blood safe in the 
 next room, she turned her face to her pillow and 
 wept.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PEL'TIAH'S TWO VISITORS. 
 
 MRS. PAYNE had gone to Newport with her 
 veritable Roland Weir and a sorrowful heart. 
 Nothing had been heard of the lost boy. In Mir- 
 iam's opinion there were two lost boys. She 
 thought with understanding and sympathy of Vio- 
 let, when the Lady of the Clinking Guineas car- 
 ried off Perlino. 
 
 Let us consign to forgottenness, however, the 
 few weeks that followed, with all the sorrow they 
 held for the poor little maiden. " To the old, sor- 
 row is sorrow ; to the young, ifc is despair." But 
 sorrow that can be wept out upon a father's sym- 
 pathetic breast is pain with the healing balm ap- 
 plied, and is already half assuaged. And, besides, 
 Miriam profited by the compassionate sympathy 
 which her friends felt for her loss and loneliness, 
 and enjoyed unusual privileges. Life had its 
 compensations. By her father's intervention, Aunt 
 Hepsy's government had so many mitigations that 
 she felt almost as free as the inmates of a certain 
 old abbey, whose only rule was, " Do whatever 
 you like." She was to go to school to cousin 
 Ruth, whose acquirements were considered remark-
 
 108 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 able, since they were obtained at a Philadelphia 
 school ; and she was even allowed to have Labou- 
 laye's Fairy Book, which had been consigned to 
 Aunt Dorcas's protection, where it was kept as an 
 addition to the charm of her frequent sojourns at 
 Aunt Dorcas's. And at length it came to pass 
 that Miriam and Rosanna went to live with Aunt 
 Dorcas, while Obed Swain went to Trinidad, and 
 Aunt Hepsy was called to go and stay with an in- 
 valid sister. 
 
 Obed's worldly goods had come to him chiefly 
 from an ancestor who had carried on a large trade 
 which had seemed to Obed's father, Isaac Swain, 
 monstrously wrong. It consisted in bringing mo- 
 lasses from the West Indies to New England, 
 where it was made into rum. The rum was taken 
 to Africa and exchanged for slaves. The slaves 
 were brought to the West Indies and sold or ex- 
 changed for molasses again. Isaac Swain had 
 thought about this wrong until he felt urged to 
 make some personal restitution, insignificant as 
 an individual effort of this sort would be in view 
 of the thousands who had been affected. Still, he 
 reasoned that if he did all he could, his own con- 
 tentment would be greater, however small and fu- 
 tile that all might be. He bought a tract of land, 
 therefore, in Trinidad, which he divided into com- 
 fortable farms, or plantations, and placed upon 
 them a little colony of negroes. In time he was 
 joined by others whose opinion was similar to his 
 own. Some kindly members of the Society of
 
 PEL'TIAU'S TWO VISITORS. 109 
 
 Friends were sent there to look after the negroes 
 and teach them to manage with prudence and skill, 
 and a very thrifty community was the result. 
 Obed still retained an interest in what had been 
 his father's enterprise, and went to Trinidad occa- 
 sionally to look after certain remaining interests 
 there. This time his stay was to be all winter. 
 To live with Aunt Dorcas would be Miriam's con- 
 solation. 
 
 Aunt Dorcas was the most liberal of Quakers, 
 and had never built a very high wall of exclusion 
 about herself, but had left many a chance for what 
 was beautiful and joyous, in that world which the 
 Quakers shun, to enter her own life, and still more 
 the lives of the dear young people about her. She 
 held that it was a sin to be gloomy, and encour- 
 aged only the most comfortable shadows. She 
 would have sunshine of all kinds. The carpets 
 faded, but faces kept their brightness wonderfully 
 within Aunt Dorcas's borders. 
 
 In spite of Aunt Dorcas's sunshine, however, 
 and the general agreeableness of things, in spite 
 of the engrossing occupation of packing away the 
 various sorts of knowledge that would be wanted 
 in the experience of protracted living, Miriam 
 sometimes found that the days were long, and that 
 there were a good many of them. She was nearly 
 thirteen, and was supposed to have put away child- 
 ish things, if indeed there had ever been childish 
 things to put away. She had never had a doll, 
 for Aunt Hepsy's interpretation of the second
 
 110 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 commandment was so untainted by reason that 
 she regarded dolls as sinful creations. In the 
 days of her earlier youth, Miriam had occasionally 
 indulged in a very sober tea, with clam-shell dishes, 
 in company with a little Quaker neighbor, who 
 was now laid away to sleep in the old Quaker 
 burying-ground, where Miriam sometimes went 
 and sat among the mullein stalks and milkweed, 
 and contemplated with awe, tempered to pleasing 
 softness by the familiar sunshine, the mysterious 
 barrier between her and her old cheerful compan- 
 ion. She had a feeling of continued companion- 
 ship in that place, and when, as I have said, the 
 days seemed long and many, she had sometimes 
 brought clam shells and had tea by Rachel Gard- 
 ner's quiet bedside. She had a feeling that this 
 also contented Rachel, and she brought, besides, 
 the innocent dreams by which she possessed the 
 unattainable. 
 
 The prince of dreamers has said that " we have 
 received from heaven a gift which brings all that 
 we desire close to us, which makes it sensible and 
 present before us, which delivers it over to us," 
 and this gift of heaven was rich and large in Mir- 
 iam. 
 
 And besides the clam-shell dishes and her 
 dreams, there was yet something more that she 
 brought at last when she visited Rachel Gardner. 
 At the advanced age of nearly thirteen she had 
 one material pleasure come to her which had been 
 denied to her earlier years. Paul dragged Friend
 
 PEL'TIAH'S TWO VISITORS. Ill 
 
 Polly Hopkins down from the garret one day, and 
 seated her in a chair in Miriam's room. Polly 
 was cousin Ruth's old Quaker doll, which had 
 been put away in the garret with other choice 
 relics of the past. She had a pretty face, and was 
 dressed from top to toe in complete Quaker garb. 
 Well, there she continued to sit, day after day, 
 tmtil Miriam felt as if she were a friend and com- 
 panion, and poured her little secrets, her emotions 
 and opinions, into Polly's safe ear, and the relia- 
 ble Polly always smiled sweetly, which seemed to 
 show her responsive. Miriam was much afraid 
 that others would not appreciate this friend as she 
 did, and protected her from unsympathetic contact 
 by never presenting her. But when she went to 
 the old burying-ground, during that autumn at 
 Aunt Dorcas's, Polly was wrapped securely from 
 observation and taken along, still smiling cheer- 
 fully, to the loneliest spot on that lonely island, 
 where Miriam, in sweet companionship with her 
 two silent friends, passed hours of quiet content- 
 ment. 
 
 Polly's perpetual, complacent smile would have 
 discouraged some girls, for Miriam sometimes had 
 troubles to confide to her, and it ,did not seem ap- 
 propriate to these. But she saw no ground for 
 complaint, because she interpreted the smile to 
 suit the different phases of her own feeling. When 
 she was in trouble, it was an effort to console her. 
 
 One afternoon Miriam, sitting among the sere 
 grass and weeds of the Friends' burying-ground
 
 112 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 with Polly Hopkins, drew from her pocket what 
 appeared to be a carefully respected document, 
 unfolded and studied its pages carefully, and at 
 length, with a perplexed sigh, said, " It 's a nice 
 letter ; I think he 's a beautiful writer. See, is n't 
 that beautiful writing ? But he says his tutor 
 that 's his teacher told him it was stiff and old- 
 fashioned, and he mustn't make his letters that 
 way. And sometimes he tells him that things are 
 countrified and vulgar, and he asked Friend Payne 
 what countrified and vulgar meant, and she said, 
 
 * Not elegant or refined.' He 's trying real hard 
 to be elegant and refined. I looked in the dic- 
 tionary to see what those meant, and it says, 
 
 * Graceful, neat, pleasing to good taste; purified, 
 separated from what is coarse, rude, or improper.' 
 I wrote it all down here, so that I could try to be 
 elegant and refined, too. Aunt Dorcas is, and 
 cousin Ruth, for thee can see for thyself, Polly 
 Hopkins, how neat and pure, and pleasing to good 
 taste, and separated from what is coarse, rude, or 
 improper they are. Aunt Hepsy isn't pleasing to 
 good taste, for when she finds out what we don't 
 like to do she always makes us do it; and it 
 was n't pleasing to good taste when Joseph John 
 and I were shut up all day Joseph John in the 
 garret and I in the store-room for losing Aunt 
 Hepsy 's cap, when we had n't touched it. Aunt 
 Hepsy hung her cap on a chair back, close to the 
 fireplace, and when she wanted it, it was n't there, 
 and she said Joseph and I put it somewhere. But
 
 PEL'TIAH'S TWO VISITORS. 113 
 
 \ve did n't, thee knows. Rosanna found it in the 
 plum-tree, all covered with soot, and Rosanna said 
 the draught took it up chimney. And last Quar- 
 terly Meeting time, when we had some Philadel- 
 phia Friends coming, Aunt Hepsy had Rosanna 
 make some Quarterly Meeting cake, some had 
 plums in it and some was plain, and she said, 
 ' When our Philadelphia Friends are here, thee 
 may bring us this cake, Rosanna, but when we 
 have only Nantucket Friends, thee may bring that? 
 Well, I heard Rosanna say she did n't know which 
 cake to bring, one day, so I thought I could help 
 her, and I went to the south room where the 
 Friends all were, and said, ' Shall Rosanna bring 
 the Philadelphia Friends' cake, or the Nantucket 
 Friends' cake,' and after that she made me read 
 ' The Sinner Awakened ' every day, and that 
 was n't pleasing to good taste, either. 
 
 " Well, I meant to tell thee, I can't understand 
 those things that Joseph John Roland Weir, I 
 mean is learning to do. He says he goes to 
 dancing school. I asked Aunt Dorcas what that 
 means, and she said dancing was a pastime that 
 worldly people had, and they had to go to school 
 and learn it. Well, I was very much surprised to 
 find that David was worldly, for he danced ; and 
 he tells people to ' Praise Him with the timbrel 
 and dance,' so I looked in the dictionary again, 
 to see if it would tell how they do it, and it said, 
 4 To leap and spring ; to leap and frisk about ; to 
 move up and down with measured steps, regu-
 
 114 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 lated by a tune sung or played upon musical in- 
 struments.'' Now just think of that, Polly Hop- 
 kins ! Think of David leaping and frisking be- 
 fore the Lord ! Think of his doing that, and sing- 
 ing, and having musical instruments! I thought 
 of that yesterday, in meeting, when Friend Abra'm 
 Coffin had so much to say about David. I wonder 
 if he knows. But of course he don't, if he did 
 he 'd have David put right out of the Bible. I 
 wish Friend Coffin would look in the dictionary ! 
 Hark ! there 's Pel'tiah Groves over in the south 
 burying-ground ! If David frisked and had mu- 
 sical instruments, I guess there 's no harm in his 
 making that noise they call whistling, and I like 
 it. If thee 'd like to have a nap, Polly Hopkins, 
 dear, I '11 step over and speak to Pel'tiah." 
 
 Polly Hopkins smiled a full consent, and Mir- 
 iam wrapped her very comfortably in a small shawl, 
 and left her reposing peacefully side by side with 
 Rachel Gardner, while she took her way to the 
 south burying-ground. The fact that Miriam 
 could hear Pel'tiah's whistle was no evidence that 
 he was near, for Pel'tiah was whistling, 
 
 '' I 'm gla-ad Salva-ation 's free ! 
 I'm gla-ad Salva-ation 's free ! 
 Salva-ation' a free-e for you and me-e, 
 I 'm gla-ad Salva-ation 's free ! " 
 
 And as he came out monstrous strong on all the 
 glads, it wouldn't have been strange if a good pair 
 of ears had heard him out at sea. Miriam's quick 
 ear caught every one of the clarion notes, and to
 
 PEL'TIAH'S TWO VISITORS. 115 
 
 her mind it was glorious music. She bent her 
 steps towards the spot where the performance was 
 going on, but before she could see the performer 
 the sound ceased ; and she was without her clue 
 and was wandering among the weeds and bram- 
 bles that hide forgotten ness in the south bury ing- 
 ground, when out from the yawning iron gates of 
 a tomb issued an old man, who looked upon her 
 with what seemed a bland hospitality, as if he were 
 about to ask her to " come in." 
 
 He was tall and lank, his grave, kindly eyes 
 twinkled when he laughed, and the whole expres- 
 sion of his amiable face was as innocent as that of 
 Polly Hopkins. The long white curls that hung 
 about it increased its infantine gentleness. 
 
 This was Pel'tiah, a sort of old Mortality, 
 who had the general care of all the burials and 
 burying-grounds on the island, knew whose mor- 
 tal remains each grave contained, and the history 
 and genealogy of every separate family which had 
 been bereaved to help fill his dreary domain. One 
 might have felt, perhaps, in looking at him, that 
 it would be pleasant to be laid away in the last 
 rest by such gentle, innocent hands as his. 
 
 " Why, good-morning, little maid ! Was you 
 looking for me?" said the grave digger, leaning 
 under the low arch as he closed and locked the 
 door. 
 
 " I came to hear thee whistle," said Miriam. 
 " I like it." 
 
 " Sho ! " said Pel'tiah, " I can't whistle when
 
 116 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 you 're by, I always want to smile, and you can't 
 do both together, you know. Try it and see." 
 
 " Why, I can't whistle at all," Miriam acknowl- 
 edged regretfully. " I have tried, but I can't 
 make it go. Joseph could whistle some. He can 
 do 'most everything. He 's a very capable boy, 
 I think." This with an emphasis which implied 
 that there were opinions contrary to her own. 
 
 " Well, how 's he getting along now ? Ain't he 
 homesick any ? " Pe'ltiah asked. 
 
 " N-o," Miriam answered faintly. " I don't be- 
 lieve he is. He 's trying to be elegant and re- 
 fined. He 's very busy, I guess. He always says 
 so. He studies very hard things, and he goes to 
 school to learn to ride. He 's learning to dance, 
 too." Miriam looked sharply at Pel'tiah to see 
 how he would take that. 
 
 " Pomps and vanities ! Pomps and vanities ! " 
 said Pel'tiah, shaking his head slowly, for he was 
 a good Methodist, and objected to those sorts of 
 things upon principle, but to his natural, innocent 
 heart a child dancing was a very pleasing subject 
 to contemplate. 
 
 " Does thee know what dancing is ? " Miriam 
 asked tentatively. 
 
 " I 'd ought to," said Pel'tiah. " I used to dance 
 myself before I was converted." 
 
 " Thee did ? " Miriam, who had been trotting 
 briskly along to keep pace with Pel'tiah's slow 
 strides, stopped short and stared at this dancer of 
 the past.
 
 PELTIAB'S TWO VISITORS. 117 
 
 Pel'tiah nodded silently, trying to think re- 
 proachfully of himself for the follies of his youth. 
 
 " Then thee can show me how they do it ! " 
 Miriam cried in a very hopeful tone. 
 
 " Oh, no," Pel'tiah responded firmly. " I 've 
 most forgot ; and besides I 've renounced the 
 pomps and vanities." 
 
 " What does thee mean by that ? " 
 
 "I 've given up ' the sinful lusts of the flesh and 
 all covetous desires after the same, ' " said Pel'tiah, 
 repeating the phraseology of his vow. 
 
 " Thee has n't given up whistling and singing." 
 
 " Oh, no, there 's no harm in them." 
 
 " Aunt Hepsy says there is. People do have 
 so many different 'pinions about things, that / 
 don't know what to think," said poor Miriam. 
 " David danced. He danced before the Lord." 
 
 "That's so," said Pel'tiah, "but I guess his 
 dancing was kind of slow and solemn." 
 
 " Well, why can't thee dance slow and solemn, 
 just a little, to show me how ? Do ! " 
 
 " I could show you the steps," said Pel'tiah, 
 stopping in the middle of the walk and placing 
 his heels close together with his toes well turned 
 out. " One two three four ! One two 
 three four ! " he repeated, shuffling his feet 
 about from one position to another. " Them 's 
 the steps." 
 
 " Is that all ? " exclaimed Miriam, with mani- 
 fest disappointment. " I should think a person 
 would n't need to go to school much to learn that /"
 
 118 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Oh, there 's lots of ways to use the sieps. 
 There 's the polky, and the cotillion, and the High- 
 land Fling, and Money Musk, and the Virginyer 
 Reel, and a hundred more far 's I know, and you 
 have to have music to go by. You make your feet 
 keep time to the music so." And forgetting his 
 years and his renunciation, Pel'tiah whistled "Buy 
 a Broom," and waltzed down the path to Miriam's 
 intense delight. 
 
 " That 's a waltz," he said, bringing himself up 
 beside Miriam again, a good deal out of breath. 
 " That was a new dance I learned when I was 
 ashore at Mauritius, in '25. I aint really dancing, 
 you know. I 'm only just giving you an idee of 
 what sort of a thing dancing would be if 't was 
 carried out. When you come to see a hundred or 
 two, all in fine dress, some of the men in rigimen- 
 tals, and the women all colors of the rainbow, with 
 flowers in their hair and all about 'em, and a band 
 of music playing its best, I tell you," said Pel'- 
 tiah, with kindling eyes and some intensity of 
 tone, "I tell you well," suddenly bethinking 
 himself, " there 's where the pomps and vanities 
 comes in." 
 
 " I should like to see the pomps and vanities ! " 
 said Miriam, with a sigh, " but Aunt Dorcas says 
 we all have to give up something, and that 's what 
 I 've got to give up, I suppose. Did n't thee hate 
 to give them up, Pel'tiah ? " 
 
 *' Well, no ; when we give up one thing there 's 
 'most always another comes along. You notice
 
 PEL'TIAITS TWO VISITORS. 119 
 
 and see if there is n't. When I give up the dan- 
 cing, there was the meetings, and they're almost 
 as lively." And this happy dweller ;imong the 
 tombs looked as content as he ever could have 
 done at the ball at Mauritius. 
 By this time they had reached a mysterious, 
 windowless house, and Miriam sat on a stone and 
 watched the blithesome Pel'tiah, while he went 
 in and out, and greased the wheels of a hearse, 
 which stood awfully waiting, a great ghoulish 
 thing, which flapped its black ugly wings in the 
 wind and seemed ready to devour her. 
 
 There is nothing so interesting as gloomy things 
 to those who have never known much about gloom, 
 and the lugubrious and the enchanting met so 
 nearly together on that clear autumn morning 
 that they mingled their light and shadow with 
 pleasant effect upon Miriam 's serene mind. Cheer- 
 ful life, in actual possession, triumphed over the 
 broadest hints of death, and as if to show its su- 
 perabundance of power, seemed to be bringing on 
 new forces. There came floating upon the air the 
 sound of a whistle that was not Pel'tiah's. It 
 was a persistent, courageous whistle, which seemed 
 to be in spite of everything, rather than because 
 of anything. Miriam could catch glimpses of a 
 person approaching, and he soon appeared from 
 around the corner of the house, and there, as if 
 suddenly turned to stone, stood for an instant, 
 without motion, without even a whistle, and gazed 
 with a look of consternation upon Miriam.
 
 120 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Collecting his forces again with apparent reso- 
 lution, he raised his hat to Miriam, and advancing 
 a little, stood on the other side of the hearse, out 
 of Miriam's sight, and opened a low conversation 
 with Pel'tiah. 
 
 " Sho, sho ; I want to know ! " Miriam heard 
 Pel'tiah say. " Well, well, there 's an end to all 
 things, ain't ther'? But whoever 'd V thought 
 the rheumatiz, or anything else, could have got to 
 his heart ! It 's powerful searching, is the rheu- 
 matiz." 
 
 In another moment this second visitor of Pel'- 
 tiah's was retracing his steps, and saying to him- 
 self, " Well, she saw me. They will soon know 
 now where I am, and perhaps " 
 
 But Miriam had not recognized the face which, 
 in a few months, had parted with many of its old 
 traits. The rounded lines had straightened, the 
 full mouth had lost its deep corners and set itself 
 with such resolution as we see in the faces of hard- 
 working people, while there is yet some hope of 
 winning the battle, and before they settle into 
 that look of stolid endurance which betokens the 
 mere struggle for existence. His head, uncovered, 
 showed the brown, curly locks had been clipped so 
 close as to reveal the skull, which gave his head a 
 gray appearance. 
 
 No, there was nothing to remind Miriam of the 
 rosy, easy Rollo.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DRIFTED UPON 'SCONSET. 
 
 THERE were lonely nooks and wastes on the 
 sleepy old island, far from the sound of Bela Ketch- 
 urn's cry and the clang of his bell. No one thought 
 to cross those miles of desert, over which the fish- 
 ermen's carts toiled slowly and seldom, to find a 
 boy who wanted, above all things, to put to sea 
 and explore the world. It was at length decided, 
 on that day when he was displaced, that the boy 
 without a name had followed where these longings 
 would lead him. 
 
 But the truth was that he had wandered with- 
 out aim, without considering what he meant to do 
 with himself, until he came to the old mill, and 
 looking in at the open door, finally seated himself 
 there to think it all over. 
 
 There was nothing to disturb his meditations, 
 for Amos was dozing, as usual. The sedative old 
 newspaper lay upon his knees, and his spectacles 
 held that precarious poise upon his nose which 
 had offered such a pleasing prospect to Miriam. 
 The boy was well furnished with the conscious- 
 ness of having been a fraud, and he remembered, 
 with such a pang as only proud, honest natures
 
 122 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 can feel, the boy who had been defrauded, to 
 whom his very flesh and bones seemed to belong, 
 since they had grown out of what belonged to 
 him. 
 
 " Here 's his mark printed into my skin," said 
 Hollo, " like the owner's brand on a sheep. And 
 at the very first, I had a chain on my neck with 
 his name on it, like a dog with his master's collar 
 on. But I guess," he added, with a great sigh, 
 "I guess he '11 make me a present of myself." 
 
 His chief thought, however, was of Mrs. Payne. 
 Her magnanimity would make her wish to be gen- 
 erous, yet it would trouble her to know just how 
 to do, just how to dispose of a superfluous boy. 
 To slip away quietly and completely, to give no 
 more trouble, would that not be the kindest thing 
 he could do ? To have no parting. Ah, he could 
 not bear a parting. He lost all his bravery when 
 he thought of that. His lip trembled and the 
 tears fell. The parting was already past if he 
 should not return. 
 
 Now, do not expect this boy to be reasonable, 
 and do exactly the right thing, for (I say it again) 
 he was not a model boy. He made a mistake. He 
 resolved not to return. 
 
 At this point Amos nodded emphatically, as if 
 he approved the resolution, and the glasses were 
 launched upon his lap. He looked up with that 
 perennial surprise which this occurrence had al- 
 ways produced since he adopted the custom of 
 wearing spectacles and taking afternoon naps, and
 
 DRIFTED UPON 'SCONSET. 123 
 
 his eyes met a pair of blue-gray eyes. He started, 
 and forgot to say he had n't been asleep. 
 
 " Where 've I seen you ? " he said. " Whose 
 boy be you? " 
 
 " My own boy," Rollo answered. 
 
 * Humph ! that 's the way of 'em. They talk 
 as if fathers and mothers had gone out o' use," 
 said Amos. " I s'pose likely you must have had 
 a mother, anyhow." 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " What 's her name ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Dont know ? Well, who 's your father? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Jericho ! Hain't you any folks ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Amos looked suspiciously at the boy's costly 
 clothing, but he looked kindly at the blue-gray 
 
 " It is cur'ous ! " he said. 
 
 " I suppose," Rollo remarked, to change the 
 subject, "I suppose Nantucket is a good place 
 to go to sea from. Plenty of ships sailing from 
 here ? " 
 
 "That's it, hey?" said Amos, uncrossing his 
 legs and recrossing them the other way. " You 've 
 run away from home to go to sea, have you ? " 
 
 " I assure you, honestly, I have no home," said 
 Rollo. " I have been helped by kind people, but 
 it is time I helped myself. I 'm a poor boy who 
 must find some way to earn his living, and I want 
 to go to sea."
 
 124 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTtTCKET. 
 
 "Don't go to follerin' the sea!" said Amos. 
 " I Ve follered her, and I know her. I 've had a 
 good many hard pulls, but there wa' n't one on 
 'em ekle to follerin' of that there pesky sea." 
 
 Amos rubbed his knees slowly, as if to comfort 
 his tired joints. 
 
 " But I 'm going to try it for myself," said Rollo. 
 " I must master something, and it may as well be 
 the sea." 
 
 Amos uncrossed and forgot to recross. It seemed 
 to him he had seen that same determined look in 
 another pair of eyes. 
 
 " Well, there ain't any ships starting just now," 
 he said. 
 
 Rollo looked out over the lonely scene before him, 
 wondering in what direction, then, he should turn 
 his steps. He had no money to take him off the 
 island. He had spent the last penny of his allow- 
 ance the day before for some new rigging to his 
 boat, and if his pockets had been full, he would 
 not have taken a dime that was no longer his. As 
 he considered the twofold desolation before him, 
 a shaggy head appeared over a " hummock," as 
 the rolling undulations of the moor are called. 
 The head was presently shown to be supported by 
 a body equally shaggy, and the body again sup- 
 ported by one of the two-wheeled carts of Nan- 
 tucket. The horse which propelled all this was 
 the shaggiest part of the whole exhibition. The 
 tout ensemble drew up at the mill door, and Amos 
 stepped out to help a customer with his bags of
 
 DRIFTED UPON 'SCONSET. 125 
 
 corn. He was a hard-looking old fellow, destitute 
 of some lingers, the result of an encounter with a 
 shark. The remaining fingers were knotted and 
 distorted by rheumatism and hard work. A per- 
 petual scowl had stamped deep seams in his leath- 
 ery face. He was altogether a repellant object. 
 
 " How Y ye, John ? " said Amos. 
 
 John responded with a growl that was almost a 
 howl. It seemed as if he had reached the very 
 outermost bounds of discomfort and could go no 
 farther in that direction. 
 
 The boy, as if touched with compassion for so 
 much misery, stepped quickly down and laid hold 
 of the sack of corn at which the knotty hands 
 were tugging so painfully, and in a twinkling it 
 was deposited on the mill floor. The old fellow 
 glowered at him with no abatement of discontent, 
 and shuffling up the steps to the mill floor seated 
 himself with what might have been a last gasp in 
 Amos's chair. 
 
 " Why, what be you a-going to do?" said Amos. 
 " If ye keep on at this rate, you '11 be bed-rid." 
 
 " I won't, I won't ! " snarled John. " I '11 keep 
 a-goin' till I drop. When John Dagget takes to 
 his bed, the bed '11 be underground." 
 
 " Why, you must ha' laid up something of a 
 pile by this time," continued Amos. " Why don't 
 you have somebody to help you ? You might go 
 shares with some smart chap in the fishin' and 
 lobsterin'." 
 
 " Where 's the chap? " snapped John. " Smart 
 ones don't swirn in these waters."
 
 126 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " What would you want a person to do? " auked 
 Hollo. 
 
 " What pusson ? " 
 
 " If you had one to work for you, I mean." 
 
 " Do ? Why, work, work) to be sure." 
 
 " Want to try me ? " 
 
 " You ? " The old bear looked at the smooth, 
 handsomely dressed boy with contempt. 
 
 " Yes," returned the boy. " I can work. Want 
 to try me ? " 
 
 A spasm passed over the leathery, deep-lined 
 face. It was John Dagget's laugh. 
 
 " Don't want no 'ristercrats," he said. 
 
 " But I 'm not one," returned Rollo. " I need 
 to work." 
 
 John fixed his hard eyes upon the latest New 
 York fashion. " You 'd make a dandy fisherman," 
 he said. 
 
 *' I can change my clothes, you know, and I 'm 
 as strong as a horse," said the boy, doubling his 
 fists and making thrusts at imaginary obstacles. 
 
 " Humph ! " grunted John, but he considered 
 the matter with a faint accession of interest. 
 
 " Try me for a day or two," said Hollo. 
 
 " Wai, then, youngster, if you want to know 
 what hard work is, I '11 give you the best chance 
 you ever see," said John. 
 
 And he had kept his word, until now there had 
 come a day of rest for himself and his boy as well. 
 On the evening of that clay, returning from his 
 visit to Pel'tiah, the boy, after putting up the
 
 DRIFTED UPON 'SCONSET. 127 
 
 shaggy horse and the two-wheeled cart in an old 
 barn, whose roof, covered with tufts of grass and 
 moss, had also a shaggy appearance, lifted the 
 wooden door-latch of the cottage, and stood on the 
 threshold of a room where a dying fire of drift- 
 wood on the hearth shot out a feeble, iridescent 
 flame, and confused still more by its wavering 
 light the dim uncertainties of the room. The boy 
 stopped, repelled. He had never entered there 
 with pleasure, nor yet with such a horror before. 
 
 But no, the awful thing which had appalled 
 him was not there. He hastened to encourage 
 the failing fire by throwing upon it great splin- 
 ters of wood from an old sea-chest, and bringing 
 out from among the shadows a bucket from which 
 time had almost effaced the word Aurora, he 
 went for water to the same pump which had long 
 ago witnessed the sorrows of Roland Weir. He 
 was filling and hanging the tea-kettle over the 
 fire, when the door of the front room opened and 
 Dame Dagget, limping on crutches, and two brown 
 old women of the neighborhood came out. One 
 of them had a lamp in her hand, which she placed 
 upon a table. Its dull flame, fed by fish oil, 
 added little cheerfulness to the room. 
 
 " Nothing don't seem nat'ral," said Dame Dag- 
 get, sinking into her rocking chair, " 'specially to 
 see him a-laying there so peaceable. Wall, he 
 was John Dagget, and so he couldn't be Elder 
 Lovejoy. Poor old John ! " 
 
 Thus Dame Dagget unconsciously expressed a
 
 128 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 thought of a great philosopher, that " all things 
 are what they are because they are so constituted 
 that they could not be otherwise ; therefore we 
 cannot be angry with our brother because he has 
 disappointed us." 
 
 " He was John Dagget." That tells all that 
 need be told of an event which had happened in 
 the Dagget cottage. John Dagget was. 
 
 The two old women lent helping hands until 
 supper was on the board, and departed. 
 
 " Gi' me the crutches," said Dame Dagget. 
 
 Hollo picked up the crutches that had fallen to 
 the floor, and held them while she pulled herself 
 up. She stood leaning upon them for a moment, 
 looking, one might have said, wistfully at the 
 boy. There was something like gentleness in her 
 face, which softened its hard lines. This tall boy, 
 with plenty of physical strength and courage, 
 pleased Dame Dagget, whose own boys the sea 
 had snatched from her long ago, and she had 
 shown him a rude kindness ever since he came to 
 the cottage. 
 
 " What be I to do when you 're gone ! " she said. 
 "I can't draw wood nor water, nor go to town for 
 things. Could n't ye make up your mind to stay, 
 now there 's peace an' quiet ? " 
 
 " Oh," said the boy, " I shall lose my chance ! 
 I 'd like to stay until you get another boy, if if 
 I could:' 
 
 " You 'd stay a spell, then," said Dame Dagget, 
 smiling grimly, " for there ain't a boy on the
 
 DRIFTED UPON 'SCONSET. 129 
 
 island that ud come and live with Ma'ain Dag- 
 get." 
 i She laid her hard hand on the boy's shoulder. 
 
 " I 'm a'most helpless," she added. " I must 
 have you for a while. Jest you give up that there 
 notion o' goin', and maybe you '11 ketch fish that '11 
 amount to more 'n one voyage to sea. John an' 
 me hain't worked an' saved for over forty year for 
 nothin', and many a bit worth pickin' up has 
 come ashore to us. Don't you make a mistake 
 and choose the wrong hand." 
 
 The boy looked perplexed. 
 
 Untold treasures would not have tempted him 
 to stay, but how could he leave this helpless old 
 woman alone ? 
 
 " How long will it be ? " he asked, disconso- 
 lately. 
 
 " Wall, I expect I sha'n't be real spry agin all 
 winter. Old folks's bones don't mend so fast as 
 young ones'." 
 
 All winter ! The boy turned away dumb with 
 the awfulness of such a vision as a winter there 
 with Ma'am Dagget. 
 
 Ma'am Dagget's prime virtues were cleanliness 
 and thrift, and the brass lamp which dimly lighted 
 their repast shone almost brighter than its feeble 
 flame. In washing, scouring, scrubbing, polishing, 
 diving into dark corners with soap and water and 
 broom, she enjoyed the comfortable sense of be- 
 ing an exterminator of evil. She meant to fight 
 dust as long as she lived, she said, if she did turn
 
 130 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 into it when she died. Her broken ankle was re- 
 ceived in one of these battles, when she scaled the 
 outer walls of the cottage to dust the ship's figure- 
 head, which decorated its front. She fought upon 
 crutches still, and her zeal burned warmer, con- 
 fined within closer bounds. 
 
 It was a neat little table at which she and Rollo 
 sat down, and in addition to the peace which had 
 settled upon the cottage, Rollo enjoyed the equally 
 new blessing of being able to satisfy his hunger. 
 Ma'am Dagget things being left to her own dis- 
 posal disposed them so as to tempt the boy to 
 stay. Bread and butter, stewed lobster, preserved 
 beach plums, and gingerbread, seasoned with a 
 vigorous appetite and this new hospitality, were 
 very delicious to poor Rollo, and when he was per- 
 mitted to go to bed without passing the evening 
 in the back shed, mending nets and other old traps, 
 he might, if he had been a moralizer, have feared 
 that he was beginning to suffer the pernicious 
 effects of prosperity again, instead of deriving all 
 the wholesome benefits that plenty of adversity is 
 supposed to confer. As another luxury, he was 
 permitted to take a light with him, instead of feel- 
 ing his way in the darkness to his hard bed under 
 the eaves. 
 
 Some neighbors came in to sit and doze through 
 the night, according to the custom when there is 
 death in a Nantucket house, and after many anx- 
 ious charges from Ma'am Dagget to be sure not 
 to set the house afire, not to drop any oil, and not
 
 DRIFTED UPON 'SCONSET. 131 
 
 to scatter any sand on the floor when he took off 
 his shoes, but to mind and take them off on the 
 mat, Rollo retired to his little nook in the garret. 
 He placed his spark of a candle in a safe place on 
 the floor, and seating himself on the edge of his 
 clean, hard bed, adjusted his mind to reflection. 
 He was too good-natured to consider with indif- 
 ference a project which would leave poor Ma'am 
 Dagget alone. Her past friendliness, and its pres- 
 ent rich increase, made him feel obliged to her. 
 Her intimation that he might find it profitable to 
 stay with her affected him not at all as a temp- 
 tation. He could imagine possibilities of large 
 gain in much more agreeable circumstances than 
 those present. There were mines of gold and 
 plenty of treasure somewhere, and he did not 
 doubt but that if he once made a start he should 
 get at them with more or less facility. It had 
 taken him long to earn the money he needed to 
 start with, but this, was Nantucket, where he ex- 
 pected to leave all his limitations. 
 
 At the same time, he was loath to leave Ma'am 
 Dagget in her helplessness. If he should gain by 
 such selfishness, the very gain would be hateful. 
 And underneath this consideration was another, 
 which in low whisperings and with unacknowl- 
 edged influence pleaded on Ma'am Dagget's side 
 of the question. Words could not tell what the 
 boy had suffered from homesickness. His affec- 
 tion for all he had lost was very true and tender, 
 for Mrs. Payne especially. It was the affection of
 
 132 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 a son for a mother, and it was that in a rare de- 
 gree. No change of relationship could change 
 the fact or diminish the measure of it. It was a 
 very durable compound of the natural filial at- 
 tachment with admiration and gratitude, and he 
 would gladly have suffered anything for the sake 
 of the smallest assurance that she missed him and 
 wished for him. The little Quaker girl had seen 
 him. Mrs. Payne would know, presently, where 
 he was to be found. Would she come to him? 
 Would she send for him ? Would she write to 
 him ? He lay down upon his pillow with the con- 
 viction that he could not leave Ma'am Dagget yet. 
 He would wait.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "WHAT'S FOB THEE, THEE'LL HAVE." 
 
 THE winter was severe. The Nantucketers 
 were locked in for six weeks, and the island was a 
 lone little world by itself. 
 
 You will easily see how restricted a young life 
 must have been when you know what was the most 
 novel and exciting event of that winter to Miriam. 
 It was when she was allowed to have an old sled 
 of Paul's and coast in the back yard, over the 
 gentlest slope that could be. It seemed, in pros- 
 pect, a very headlong, ungoverned thing to do, 
 and she wondered how she should feel in the aban- 
 doned act ; and when she finally let herself go, she 
 held her breath with as much of a sensation as 
 any young lady ever felt at her first toboggan 
 slide. 
 
 And it would be hardly believed by some young 
 people that the same faces Miriam had seen framed 
 in their sugar-scoop bonnets all her life would 
 have afforded her pleasure when their owners 
 came with their knitting work to pass an after- 
 noon. But she listened with interest to the gen- 
 tle, crooning gossip of those dove-like women, and 
 sometimes went out with Aunt Dorcas to return 
 their visits, and stayed to tea. One of these friends,
 
 134 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 whose hospitality was tempered with frugality, 
 used to say, " Hereth quinth for them that don't 
 like butter," which made Miriam feel that life 
 was not without its troublesome alternatives as 
 well as its restrictions. 
 
 And another, a phenomenon of placid content- 
 ment with adverse circumstances, which were 
 largely the result of her easy improvidence, sat 
 in her chimney corner sniffing her pinch of snuff, 
 and met the sighs of her discontented husband 
 with the unsoothing response, " What 's for thee, 
 thee '11 have, Simeon." 
 
 Miriam frequently finished exploring the map 
 of her fancy by making a broader and more cheer- 
 ful application of these words than poor 'Kiah 
 Hussey was able to do. She comforted herself 
 with the charming assurance that she could not, 
 by any chance, miss the beautiful things that were 
 meant to be hers. 
 
 Among Miriam's diversions were also Aunt 
 Dorcas's stories of when she was a little girl, and 
 drove in the gig with her father, and cousin Ruth's 
 riddles and puzzles. But above, and beyond, and 
 exceeding all else, in her estimation, were Uncle 
 David's rhyming stories and sketches of old Nan- 
 tucket times, which he delighted to rehearse, as 
 opportunity offered. Aunt Dorcas interfered with 
 the pleasure very much indeed, though, by shak- 
 ing her head in a deprecating way, and calling 
 the verses " David 's jingles," which was dampen- 
 ing to self-confidence. Miriam, however, was as
 
 "WHAT'S FOR THEE, THEE'LL HAVE." 135 
 
 delighted to listen as Uncle David was to read, 
 and with mutual satisfaction, they often stole 
 away by themselves, and enjoyed whole evenings 
 of poetic overflow, Miriam drinking eagerly and 
 never seeming sated. 
 
 Those scenes were all present to Miriam, and her 
 admiration of Uncle David's cheerfully chiming 
 rhymes would raise his fallen confidence five, ten, 
 fifteen per cent., until he continued more and 
 more resonantly with his island pastorals, which 
 I wish there was room for on these pages, Mir- 
 iam firmly believing that even her beloved Whit- 
 tier had but one rival, and that was Uncle David ! 
 
 But we will not undertake to enumerate all 
 Miriam's opportunities. Everything was an op- 
 portunity to the child, even the long First Day 
 and Fifth Day meetings, for while the grave, 
 elderly Friends were twirling their thumbs and 
 waiting for inspiration, her inspiration had always 
 arrived ; her imagination was always ready ; not 
 all the bare severity of unpainted walls and 
 benches and long-drawn countenances could chill 
 or forbid her, and " the truest and sweetest things 
 in life are (after all) not those which we see, but 
 those of which we dream." When Friends Ab'- 
 ra'm Coffin or Merab Gardner had something given 
 them to say, she drew from their innocent plati- 
 tudes a conclusion of her own, in the consideration 
 of which she found an abounding interest. Sitting 
 demurely afterwards before the fire, as she turned 
 her apple to roast all sides impartially, she turned
 
 136 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 those raw truisms over and over in her mind, until 
 they also gained warmth and tenderness and sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 She was sitting in this way, one evening in 
 February, her apple hissing on the hearth, prema- 
 turely ready for supper, when Uncle David came 
 in with the look of a victor bearing spoils, his 
 huge overcoat pockets running over. As he 
 stood on the hearth warming and rubbing his 
 hands, exhaling ozone and comfortable " ahs," his 
 round, smiling face beaming like a genial full 
 moon, Miriam was invited to explore the contents 
 of tbe pockets. 
 
 " Letters ! " she cried. " Aunt Dorcas ! Cousin 
 Ruth ! They 've landed a mail ! " 
 
 " They landed forty mails at the east side this 
 morning, and there 's been great commotion at the 
 post-office and about town all the afternoon," said 
 Uncle David. 
 
 And there was some commotion at David Had- 
 don's that evening. Miriam's excitement was con- 
 tagious. " There 's no knowing what 's happened 
 on the continent ! A good deal might be done in 
 six weeks," she said, as she eagerly sorted the pile 
 of letters and gave up the newspapers. 
 
 There were letters from Obed Swain, Aunt 
 Hepsy and Paul ; letters from aunts and cousins 
 and friends ; letters in abundance from Roland 
 Weir and Betty Vinton ; " And here 's one from 
 New York for thee, Aunt Dorcas ! " said Miriam. 
 
 Aunt Dorcas took a look at the New York letter
 
 "WHAT'S FOR THEE, THEE 'LL HAVE." 137 
 
 before indulging in her boy's long pages. She 
 glanced over it, and then at Miriam, whose eyes 
 were big and bright over Roland Weir's communi- 
 cations. There was something of interest enough 
 to make Aunt Dorcas linger long to consider it 
 while those dearer pages were waiting in her lap. 
 It was an urgent invitation from Mrs. Payne for 
 Miriam to come to New York. A serious matter, 
 indeed, and Aunt Dorcas, at first, had some 
 doubts. 
 
 The old Quakers shook their heads and looked 
 grave at the mention of David Haddon, and they 
 were apt to speak of Dorcas with a smile of min- 
 gled affection and regret, and the grave look and 
 the regret were due to that large allowance which 
 they gave to things that were of the world. Yet 
 Obed Swain gladly committed his child to their 
 care, and he had given them such absolute liberty 
 of decision for her that when Dorcas had duly 
 considered, she felt that it was only necessary to 
 write Obed that she had consented to let Miriam 
 go to visit Roland Weir. 
 
 So the grave question was settled, and many a 
 good old Quaker face grew long and troubled at 
 the news of this liberty, nay, unlawful license, that 
 was allowed Obed Swain's child. 
 
 Dear, innocent hearts ! How they all fluttered 
 at the thought of that wicked New York ! And 
 Miriam's, when she heard the news, outfluttered 
 them all. She remembered what cousin Ruth had 
 told her, that all the ropes in use in the royal
 
 138 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 English navy have a red thread running through 
 them from end to end, which cannot be parted 
 from them without undoing the whole, so that the 
 smallest piece may be recognized anywhere as be- 
 longing to the Crown. Miriam thought that Aunt 
 Dorcas's loving-kindness made just such a bright 
 thread in her life. 
 
 The ice in the harbor and the last doubt in Dor- 
 cas Haddon's mind gave way at about the same 
 time, and Uncle David and Miriam set out upon 
 their great journey. Uncle David had only been 
 waiting for the opening of the harbor to go in that 
 direction at any rate, for Paul was at the Quaker 
 college at Haverford, and there was anxiety in re- 
 gard to a certain trouble with his eyes, and much 
 doubt as to whether he ought to continue his stud- 
 ies. Uncle David was going down to look into 
 the matter, and have the eyes examined by an 
 oculist in Philadelphia. 
 
 It was a great delight to him to have Miriam by 
 his side all the day, and, like the exhibitor of a pan- 
 orama, to show her a piece of the world. As they 
 passed by town after town, and there was still no 
 sign of towns giving out, Miriam felt, with awe, 
 how stupendous was the world ; and when, after 
 long hours of panorama, she approached the big- 
 gest town of all, and caught glimpses of intermin- 
 able streets with long rows of twinkling lights, she 
 held Uncle David's hand fast, with a feeling of ap- 
 pi'ehension. It was only when she was seized and 
 saluted by Roland Weir and Betty, with a vehe-
 
 "WHAT'S FOR THEE, THEE'LL HAVE." 139 
 
 inence that quite unsettled her bonnet, and when 
 Mrs. Payne drew her kindly under her wing, that 
 she felt she had arrived at a definite point in the 
 general uncertainty; but then the check for the 
 tiny trunk, for which she had never ceased to feel 
 concerned, was intrusted to a strange and doubt- 
 ful-looking man, Uncle David saw them all in 
 Mrs. Payne's carriage and turned his face towards 
 Philadelphia, leaving her to be swallowed by that 
 dreadful monster, New York ! 
 
 Miriam knew so much, from his letters, about 
 Roland Weir's home in New York that she ex- 
 pected to find it quite a familiar place, and indeed, 
 being accustomed to live in liberally furnished 
 dreams, she accepted new realities with a kind of 
 placid wontedness. Not the least among the ob- 
 jects which she found surprising, however, was 
 Roland Weir himself. She looked upon his vari- 
 ous sorts of improvement with the highest venera- 
 tion, and not being aware how much the tailor 
 and barber were concerned in his superior appear- 
 ance, she thought it was wholly the visible result 
 of those aspirations in regard to which she had 
 consulted the dictionary. 
 
 Opposite Miriam, at dinner, on the evening of 
 her arrival, was a very fair young man, with a 
 gold-colored moustache, who was Mr. Stanley, Ro- 
 land's tutor. He occasionally made remarks to 
 the boy, which were of an edifying nature, and 
 Miriam absorbed some particles of edification her- 
 self.
 
 140 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET 
 
 Betty, who remained to dine with Miriam, flut- 
 tered and twittered and besprinkled her with com- 
 passion on account of the dreary, frozen-up time 
 she had been having. 
 
 " I talked with papa about sending out a ship 
 to rescue you," she said, "like an Arctic expedi- 
 tion, you know, but he said there were so many 
 tea-kettles boiling on Nantucket that you could 
 thaw yourselves out whenever you pleased. He 
 seemed to think you stayed frozen up on purpose." 
 
 Mrs. Payne had a weary look, and much of 
 the bloom and brightness which she had carried 
 down to Nantucket had disappeared. She left 
 Mr. Stanley and Betty and Roland to do the con- 
 versational duties. Betty, for one, was by no 
 means incompetent. She took the lead when they 
 left the dining-room, with the air of a mother- 
 bird leading on her fledgelings, and launched Mir- 
 iam upon the drawing-room, as upon a pale blue 
 velvet sea, with glittering chandeliers for heavenly 
 bodies, and hundreds of strange and exquisite 
 things for surrounding scenery. Miriam sailed 
 along, touching timidly at various points, and 
 finally landed upon a silken island, or was blown 
 ashore, with Betty for a brisk gale. And there it 
 was announced to her that Roland Weir was to 
 have a birthday party ; and presently it was ex- 
 pounded that the chief occupation at parties was 
 dancing ! 
 
 " Ah," sighed Miriam, with intense satisfaction, 
 for she felt that she was now to have a full eluci-
 
 "WHAT'S FOR THEE, THEE 'LL HAVE." 141 
 
 dation of the mysteries of that life which lay all 
 outside the territory which had been ceded to the 
 Quakers. 
 
 "And you must let us show you how to dance 
 one dance," said Betty, " for you will be the chief 
 guest, and Roland must dance first with you." 
 
 At this Miriam gasped a little, and was about to 
 reply, when Mrs. Payne, in passing, said, " No, no ; 
 Miriam will enjoy watching the dancing, but her 
 father's people do not dance. She is quite content 
 with her own simple pleasures." 
 
 " Ah, but she has n't tried our pleasures ! " quoth 
 Miss Betty ; and Miriam sighed again. 
 
 Betty was obliged to talk a great deal in her 
 capacity of entertainer. That was not the least of 
 pleasures to her, however, to hear herself talk. 
 
 " There are some things you can do, I suppose, 
 though you can't dance," she said. " Let me think. 
 You will want to see things, of course. There 's 
 no end of the things that people from the country 
 want to see in New York. Poor things ! You '11 
 know them, they stare so, and turn round and 
 round as if they 'd lost their way, or their wits. 
 Oh ! you 're from the country ! But you don't 
 stare. The people I mean look tired and troubled. 
 You '11 see them in the Park wagons, when we 're 
 driving, with bags and umbrellas in their hands, 
 and veils tied down over their hats, and they look 
 at us so, we feel as if we were sights. It must 
 be sad to have to take everything on the fly so, 
 and feel so anxious about it. I always want to
 
 142 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 do something to help the sad people enjoy things, 
 but I can't manage it at all. 
 
 " Papa says I 'm a socialist. I don't know what 
 ae means by calling me such unpleasant names, so 
 I can't explain. Papa needs to explain a good 
 deal, and after he has explained, I generally ask 
 him to explain his explanation. I told him I 
 thought it would be kind for the people in New 
 York to go abroad somewhere, and let the coun- 
 try people that want to see things come and live 
 in their houses all winter, and look a little every 
 day. Papa said it would be kind enough, but 
 it wouldn't be convenient. So there is just how 
 it is, you see ; we can never do anything unless it 
 is convenient. But think of the poor things who 
 can't stop to wink for hours and days, for fear 
 they shall miss seeing something! I don't call 
 that convenient, do you? And it's just so at 
 Newport, when the excursion people come. It 
 makes me uncomfortable to see them wander round 
 with linen covers on, looking so red and tired, and 
 pointing at things with their umbrellas. And I 
 wonder what their bags are for. They all have 
 little bags. Last summer I picked up one and 
 drove her round in my phaeton a little, and she 
 stared so it was frightful ! I did n't like to ask 
 her what she carried in her bag, or if it was only 
 a badge. That was a good chance to find out, but 
 now 1 shall never know ! " 
 
 So Betty babbled on like an easy-going little 
 brook with no barriers. She promised a hundred 
 delights to Miriam, promised to bring her dear-
 
 "WHAT'S FOR THEE, THEE'LL HAVE" 143 
 
 est friends to see her, and rehearsed their sayings 
 and doings ; sketched them all in such colors that 
 they would hardly have recognized themselves. 
 
 But nothing is absolutely eternal in this world, 
 not even Betty's chatter. There was by and by 
 an announcement that some one had come for 
 Miss Betty, and she vanished like a bright meteor. 
 The train of light she left behind was that string 
 of brilliant hopes and promises which she had of- 
 fered Miriam. The child was as eager to grasp 
 it all as were those people who had moved Betty's 
 whimsical compassion. She could not sleep for 
 hours, after she lay down upon her pretty, lace- 
 curtained bed, but gazed about in an exalted 
 trance at the reflections of the sea-coal fire, where 
 it tremulously touched the brie - a - brae and lac- 
 quered screens, and, at length, creeping out of 
 bed, she wandered about in the light and shadow, 
 with wide, solemn eyes, as a little spirit might, 
 that had lost its way between heaven and earth ; 
 wandered and wandered until she was weary, and 
 then lay down to dream it all over again. 
 
 But before she dreamed she whispered to her- 
 self, "What's for thee, thee '11 have, Miriam," and 
 she smiled a little to think how much she was like 
 Jonas Hooten, to whom her father, wishing to 
 make him a little gift, had offered a choice be- 
 tween a beautiful new jack-knife, some prime fish- 
 ing tackle, and a pair of skates. Jonas considered 
 anxiously and long, and made his answer thus: 
 "I needs 'em all!"
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AMOS TTJTTLE'S " PKOTTYJEE." 
 
 THAT same evening, Hollo was sitting before a 
 driftwood fire in the cottage at 'Sconset. He had 
 waited, and the conviction had settled slowly and 
 coldly into his heart, " No, she does not care to 
 find me ! " 
 
 Ah, that long, dreary winter at 'Sconset, when 
 society was chiefly represented by Amos Tuttle ! 
 
 The thought of the boy being given over to 
 John Dagget had haunted Amos, and his after- 
 noon naps had been broken in upon by queries of 
 conscience as to whether he ought not to have 
 prevented it somehow. At length his trouble of 
 mind came to such a pass that the moment he had 
 peacefully seated himself over the old newspaper, 
 he saw gazing at him a pair of eyes of a particu- 
 lar color and a very particular expression. Amos 
 could not stand it, and he got Pel'tiah Groves's old 
 horse and cart and made his way to 'Sconset. That 
 haunting expression had so intensified in the boy's 
 eyes when Amos saw him for the second time, that 
 his soft old heart was moved quite out of its place, 
 so that it gave him much inconvenience, and caused 
 him to choke, and rub his eyes with the back of his
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S "PROTTYJEE." 145 
 
 hand repeatedly. But poor Amos had no alterna- 
 tive to offer; he could only resolve to try to find 
 one, and warn John Dagget to mind how he used 
 that boy, for he was a " prottyjee " of his. Having 
 once taken that definite step, and having made Rol 
 his protege by declaration, he repeated his visits to 
 'Sconset with Pex'tiah's horse and cart, from time 
 to time, and each time returned with a more and 
 more important sense of having a boy to look 
 after, which produced the agreeable effect of pa- 
 ternity upon Amos's mind ; and before very long 
 his kind, but hitherto vacant heart vacant ex- 
 cept for some dreamy memories was filled to 
 the brim and running over with fondness and so- 
 licitude for a boy who perpetually ruffled the sur- 
 face of his memory with little breezes that blew 
 from far-away shores which he would never sight 
 again, and seemed at times to restore his lost 
 youth. It became the delight of his life to anti- 
 cipate and perpetrate those trips to 'Sconset, and 
 during all the winter he had never failed to sit by 
 Ma'am Dagget's fire two evenings in the week. 
 Rol was always delighted to see him, for Amos 
 was an inexhaustible raconteur, and as Ma'am 
 Dagget always went to bed with the hens, or at 
 the same time that they did, Amos's glowing face 
 and still more glowing stories lightened the tedi- 
 ous hours most agreeably. And whenever Rollo 
 went to town he stopped to pay Amos a visit, so 
 they came to be intimate friends ; really, you might 
 say bosom friends, for their friendliness often came
 
 146 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 quite within the bounds of sacred confidence. For 
 instance, Rol had wondered how Amos came to 
 take such a kindly interest in him, and Amos had 
 confessed that there was something about him that 
 reminded him, and so on, the whole story of his 
 old captain, and Lydia his daughter, the girl who 
 commanded the ship and accomplished other won- 
 ders, among which need not be counted the eter- 
 nal subjugation of poor Amos, that being, appar- 
 ently, the effect of beauty and spirit upon a gen- 
 tle, impressionable, and faithful nature. 
 
 " But, Lord ! " said Amos, when he had finished 
 his story, " she wa' n't but eighteen and I waj 
 a'most forty. I wa' n't noways fit to look at her." 
 
 " I 'd rather hear her opinion as to that," Rol 
 declared, with the intention of building up Amos's 
 self-esteem a little. 
 
 "Well, nat'rally, it was the same," said Amos, 
 " though I scurcely ever spoke to her. She was 
 the cap'n's daughter, and proud he was on her, as 
 well he might be. Lord ! to see that slim thing 
 stand on the quarter deck 'n' give orders, so quiet 
 like, you 'd ha' said she was fit for a king, and 
 every man, from cabin to forecas'le, was ready to 
 fall down and wo'ship her. I wa' n't the only 
 one, be sure o' that. But don't you misunder- 
 stand me to say 't I ever had an idee 't I was fit to 
 marry her. I wa' n't never so consaited as that. 
 I only used to like to think that mebby I might 
 have, if I'd been younger, and every ways dif- 
 ferent,"
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE." 147 
 
 The next time Amos came to 'Sconset, he 
 brought something to show Rol, something never 
 looked upon by other eyes than his own during all 
 the years he had possessed it. He drew it from 
 his pocket with the manner of performing a reli- 
 gious rite, and slowly opening an outside paste- 
 board box, disclosed an inner box of sandal-wood. 
 The opening of this revealed a wrapping of soft 
 paper, and this being removed, there came to light 
 an embossed case, closed with two tiny brass hooks. 
 This he opened and laid before Rol without a 
 word, and without a word Rol gazed upon the old 
 daguerreotype. That tribute of silence duly paid, 
 Amos explained that he had watched a good deal 
 with the captain when he was delirious with fe- 
 ver, he had a knack with sick folks, and there 
 wasn't any other aboard that seemed to under- 
 stand such things, and he had asked for the pic- 
 ture instead of the pecuniary reward offered him. 
 
 " The cap'n would ruther have given me a hun- 
 dred dollars," said Amos, " but I 'd have scorned 
 two hundred." 
 
 " I wish we knew where she was now," said 
 Rollo, deeply impressed by the spirited face of 
 the heroine, whose story seemed to him a romance 
 of the splendid sea. 
 
 It was a face that must have been clear and 
 brown, with deep color in the cheeks and lips; a 
 courageous face, saved from an excess of daring 
 by a second intention in the lines of the mouth, 
 whose lips curled back proudly and then fell into
 
 148 A QUAKER GIRL OF NAN TUCKET. 
 
 a soft, drooping line, that sank deep at the corners 
 and gave sweetness to the whole expression. 
 
 *' I sometimes think," said Amos, " that mebby 
 you 're a relation of hers." 
 
 " I! " cried Rollo. " What impossible things 
 you can imagine, Amos ! You ought to have made 
 romance your profession." 
 
 "But there's something about you that 's like 
 her," said Amos. " I don't mean to say it 's prob- 
 able you be a relation of hers, but I like to think 
 mebby you be. It ain't likely, of course, but lor, 
 we can't half on us tell who we raley do belong 
 to. I 've seen a man born in Norway, that never 
 was out o' Norway, nor any of his folks neither, 
 that was so like a man born at Valp'raiso, that 
 was never away from there, nor any of his folks 
 neither, that you could n't have told which was 
 which. And I 've seen them that was born on 
 the same spot, from the same fathers and mothers, 
 that was more unlike than cats an' dogs. They 
 did n't belong together, an' could n't be made to, 
 no more 'n ile V water. 'T ain't flesh an' blood al- 
 together that settles belongings ; but when folks 
 have something you can't point at, an' can't de- 
 scribe, an' can't explain, that every time you no- 
 tice it in one makes you think of t' other, I can't 
 help sayin' mebby they belong to each other some 
 wayr 
 
 "How proud a fellow might be to belong to 
 some one like this, Amos," said Rol, turning to 
 the daguerreotype again. "To look at this pic- 
 ture, now, and say, ' It was my mother ! ' '
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S "PROTTYJEE" 149 
 
 " Oh, good Lord ! Think of it ! " said Amos, 
 and the thought made them both silent again. 
 
 " Tell me the last thing you remember about 
 her, Amos," said Hollo, presently. " What be- 
 came of her, as far as you know ? " 
 
 " Well, the cap'n began to think it wa' n't right 
 to keep the girl on the seas all her life, but he 
 could n't live on land himself, so he laid out for 
 Lyddy to have a home ashore, an' teachers, an' 
 things, like other girls. He bought a little place 
 in England, near Cowes, an' used to run short 
 tradin' trips from Cowes to Calais, and other 
 places, an' get home often. But Lyddy wa' n't 
 quite happy, they said. She was homesick for the 
 sea, an' missed her father, an' when he died sudden, 
 at Bordoo Lord ! We won't talk about that. 
 'T was awful. But d'rectly a Mr. Allen, cap'n of 
 a steamer in the Red Cross line, from S'thampton 
 to New York, a young feller that had a way of 
 carryin' all before him, come acrosst Lyddy, an' 
 mercy sakes ! what could you expect? He carried 
 her before him, like a gale o' wind. Away she 
 went, an' I hain't never heered anything about 
 her sence. She was the lonesomest thing, after 
 her father died, that I ever see, for while Cap'n 
 Macy was livin' on the sea, an' Lyddy, too, their 
 relations died off an' scattered, an' the girl had n't 
 a friend to go to when her father died. He was 
 always worried about that, an' always meant to 
 come back to Nantucket an' hunt up some of his 
 folks, for Lyddy 's sake ; but he sailed from New
 
 150 4 QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 York an' never 'd been back to the island but once 
 sence his wife died, an' could n't bear to. ' Next 
 time, next time ! ' he always said, an' then hurried 
 an' got off to sea agin as soon 's possible. Well, 
 after Cap'n Macy was gone, I quit the seas. It wa' 
 n't raley the sea that I 'd been follerin', but Cap'n 
 Macy himself, for he was a grand man, kind o' 
 Quakerish, as he 'd been brought up. He stuck 
 to the Quaker language, and them still ways they 
 have, and his principles was sech that he never 
 was known to blaze up an' swear when he was 
 mad ; but he had a man for fust mate that was 
 celebrated for the way he 'd rip an' tear at the 
 smallest kind of a tax on his temper. They said 
 he could lay the roughest sea down flat an' smooth. 
 The cap'n could n't do nothin' to stop him. 
 
 '- Well, I remember," Amos continued, with a 
 smile at the reminiscence, "I remember when 
 we was walkin' in to the dock at Valp'raiso one 
 mornin', a schooner was layin' right acrosst our 
 bows an' did n't offer to stir an' give us the way. 
 Cap'n Macy he expostylated with the skipper in 
 his kind of a way, demanded his rights, you 
 know, several times, but the skipper never took a 
 mite o' notice, an' Cap'n Macy begun to be con- 
 sid'rable riled. So he steps to the hatchway an' 
 sings out to the fust mate : ' Hiram,' says he, 
 ' thee '11 have to come up here an' give this fellow 
 some o' thy language ! ' An' Hiram he come up 
 fast enough, an' poured out right 'n' left on the 
 skipper, an' I tell ye, he cut an' cleared as if he 
 was good 'n' ready.
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE." 151 
 
 " Well, where was I ? Oh, I was about to say 
 that the steamer Lyddy's husband was cap'n of 
 was that there Aurory that was lost off here four- 
 teen year ago, come spring. But I never could 
 find out what become of Lyddy, though I tried. 
 She wa' n't aboard the Aurory. I looked the list 
 o' passengers over ; I look it over frequent. She 
 wa' n't there. I 've a few papers that I do look 
 over now 'n' agin ; the one that tells about Lyddy 
 Macy bringin' the ship home, the one that tells 
 about the cap'n dyin' at Bordoo, what a good 
 square man he 'd been, an' so on, an' the one about 
 the wreck o' the Aurory. I hain't much int'rest in 
 the new ones they tell about things I ain't con- 
 sarned in, but I 'm never tired lookin' over them 
 old ones." 
 
 Amos was more charmed to visit 'Sconset than 
 ever, since he could talk to some one there of the 
 dear old times, and of Lyddy. He never neglected 
 his opportunity, and Hollo welcomed the subject. 
 In his turn he told Amos his own story, and the 
 bonds of confidence and sympathy were strong 
 between this seemingly incongruous couple. 
 
 That same evening, as I have said, when Mir- 
 iam and Betty and Roland Weir were discussing 
 the pleasures of life in Mrs. Payne's drawing-room, 
 Hollo sat at Ma'am Dagget's fireside wondering if 
 Amos would come. 
 
 The cruel sea thundered upon the beach, and 
 the spray fell frozen upon the cottage roof. The 
 wind ran round and round the house, shaking the
 
 152 A QUAKER CTRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 doors and windows, as if praying to come in, and 
 Hollo leaned towards the fire and shivered. But 
 Amos seldom stopped for wind or weather, so Hollo 
 listened hopefully, and half expectantly, and pres- 
 ently heard the sound of wheels crushing through 
 the sand, and Amos was at the door. He came in 
 with uncommon gravity, and remained quite silent 
 after seating himself by the fire. 
 
 " Why, what ails you, Amos ? " asked Rol. 
 " Have n't you any remarks to offer this even- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Well, yes, I have ; more 'n common," Amos 
 answered. 
 
 " Fire away, then. I 'm uncommon ready for 
 them." 
 
 " I 've seen a man from off, to-day," began Amos, 
 with an impressive manner, " an old mate o' mine, 
 who asked me nine an' forty questions about the 
 boy at John Dagget's. I pinned him down so tight 
 he could n't stir, an' asked him what business it 
 was o' his'n. Well, to come to the p'int, he told 
 me there was a man at the Sailor's Snug Harbor 
 that knew all about you two boys, both on ye, 
 a man that 's been lost up in the Ar'tic regions 
 an' hain't long to live. He would n't tell me any 
 more, said he couldn't; but he wrote some di- 
 rections on this here bit o' paper, and said if you 's 
 a mind to go an' find him, you 'd git the whole 
 story. He 's repented of his sins now he 's like 
 to die, an' he wants to confess 'em. If you want 
 your share, you 'd better go quick. There ain't a 
 minute to lose."
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE." 153 
 
 " You don't suppose I 'm his, do you ? " asked 
 Rol, looking aghast. 
 
 Amos shook his head. " I don't know," he said 
 gloomily. We can't tell till we find out." 
 
 " Because I could n't stand it to be the son of 
 a sneaking, cowardly cheat! " said Rol, his chest 
 heaving. 
 
 " But could n't ye feel to forgive him, some- 
 how? " asked Amos. 
 
 " No ! " Rol almost shouted. " I can answer 
 that fast enough. No, I could n't ! " 
 
 Amos left that question as settled. " Well, 
 you '11 go down an' see what he 's got to say, I 
 s'pose?" 
 
 " I don't know. I guess I 'd better leave 
 things where they are. It 's better never to know 
 what you are, than to make sure you Ve got such 
 poor stuff in you," said Rol. 
 
 " Come, come ; we 've all of us got poor stuff in 
 us," said Amos, looking compassionately at Rol, 
 who sat frowning at the floor. 
 
 They did not talk much that evening. When 
 they had both stared at the sputtering fire in si- 
 lence until it seemed to Rol he had lived through 
 a long, solemn age with that man who was slip- 
 ping away into eternal silence, who might tell him 
 all, " Did you ever think," he asked. " that I 
 have n't any name, Amos ? I should n't have any 
 to give if I were asked for one." 
 
 " Well here, take mine ! " said Amos quickly, 
 as if he were offering Rol the use of his umbrella.
 
 154 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " I Ve never had a chance to give it to anybody 
 before. If it suits you, you're as welcome to it 
 as can be." 
 
 " Thank you," said Rol. " It 's an honest one, 
 you good old Amos!" He patted Arnos's bony 
 hand, and Amos drew a deep breath of satisfaction. 
 " If I should ever know my name, I won't take it 
 unless it 's an honest one. I 'd rather have yours, 
 though, to tell the truth, it is n't a very pretty 
 one.'' 
 
 "No," said Amos, "It's hombly, but such as 
 't is you 're welcome to it." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, Amos, but I shall al- 
 ways keep Hollo. It is all that seems to belong 
 to me. It 's what my what they called me when 
 I was a little fellow, and it seems to be quite my 
 own. It is n't Roland it is n't his name, you 
 know." 
 
 Amos seemed satisfied with giving his surname, 
 and by and by when he had returned to his coat 
 and mittens and was ready to go, he cleared his 
 throat several times, with an appearance of hesi- 
 tation and embarrassment, and presently, with a 
 resolute effort, discharged his parting salutation, 
 " Well, good-night, Mr. Tuttle /" 
 
 " Good-night, good-night, godfather," returned 
 Rol, with an appearance of cheerfulness. He prom- 
 ised to stop on his way to town, if he should go 
 to New York on the morrow, for that question was 
 left unsettled. 
 
 When Amos had gone, Rollo threw himself into
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE." 155 
 
 his chair with a smothered moan. He was proud 
 of his courage. He wanted a heroic career, and 
 felt contempt of danger, but he shrank from that 
 dying man at the Sailor's Snug Harbor. To be 
 charged with being kin to such as he would be an 
 injury that he could not fight about. He settled 
 himself to consider what he would do, but found it 
 impossible to be quiet. He wanted space to move 
 about in, so fetching his hat and his pea-jacket 
 from a peg, he went out under the sky, and pushed 
 on furiously, seeming to beat against his fate as 
 he beat against the gale. The wind-blown clouds 
 were trailing down the southern sky, the moon 
 was setting, and a few stars looked down upon 
 him with the expression of calm eyes from a clear 
 space overhead. He had a sensitive soul, that 
 manly boy, and he felt the influence of things 
 great and high. That look which the stars gave 
 him was a reproach, and the grandeur of the sea 
 hushed him, and presently there arose from among 
 the miscellaneous accumulations of his memory 
 this : 
 
 " Resolve to be thyself ; and know that he 
 Who finds himself loses his misery ! " 
 
 He had not the faintest idea where it came from, 
 where he had learned it, but there it was, at 
 just the right moment. He stopped and repeated 
 it slowly. 
 
 " After all," he said, " is it anything to me, 
 really, the sort of creature somebody else was? 
 Why can't I be just myself, at any rate?"
 
 156 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 It was the outgrowth of this thought that gave 
 him courage, and an hour afterwards, when he 
 turned back to the cottage, there was tranquillity 
 underneath his determination, and both were born 
 of a new kind of heroism, without which mere 
 physical courage is a poor thing. To be ready to 
 fight was nothing. He was ready not to fight. He 
 alone could give origin to his future self. What 
 had that man at the Sailor's Snug Harbor to do 
 with it ? What had anybody ? It was for him 
 to build up any sort of self he pleased. 
 
 He went to bed with that consolation, and the 
 resolution to go to New York, and his sleep was 
 profoundly peaceful. 
 
 It was a day of great excitement to Ma'am Dag- 
 get, to say nothing of the boy himself, when he 
 started for New York. The dame suffered the 
 dread that he would never come back, and Amos, 
 when he stopped to say good-by to him, watched 
 the light craft shooting away with the same look 
 of being docile under compulsion with which the 
 old hulks hauled up on the strand seem to watch 
 their smart successors sail on to ports where they 
 will never touch again. 
 
 When Rol awoke on board the boat at its pier 
 in New York, on the morning after his start, the 
 object before him seemed dreary and distasteful. 
 The enthusiasm with which he had resolved to be 
 himself, undisturbed by what had ever been, cooled 
 away for the time, and left him like a locomotive 
 with the fire gone out. But he had a motive, and
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE" 157 
 
 an unwavering will to pursue it, and he was soon 
 mixing in the increasing flow of life in the great 
 city, mixing, and at the same time realizing 
 how entirely separate he was, what an irrelated 
 atom in that great tissue of relations. 
 
 He established temporary relations with things 
 by taking a car up town to where he remembered 
 a nice little baker's shop with a tidy restaurant, 
 where he had peeped at the jelly tarts in the win- 
 dows when he was a little fellow, walking with 
 Rosa, his nurse, who had seemed to have frequent 
 affairs to settle with the baker's assistant. He 
 found the baker's assistant still on duty, and while 
 Rol took his hot muffins and coffee in the restau- 
 rant, thinking of some people who were just awak- 
 ening in a certain house up Fifth Avenue, who 
 should come into the shop, through a glass door in 
 the rear, but Rosa herself, his old nurse, with a fat 
 baby in her arms, which she carried with an ac- 
 customed air that she had perhaps acquired in 
 ministrations to him. 
 
 The degree of comfort Rol felt in being near 
 those humble people was the measure of his lone- 
 liness. The old association seemed delightful to 
 him, and he went out of the shop with a craving 
 for old associations, and resolved to pass the time 
 which must elapse before he could visit the Sailor's 
 Snug Harbor in being as near and getting as much 
 of his old home as he could from the outside. 
 
 Yet how to insure himself against a painful en- 
 counter with those who might not consider asso-
 
 158 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 ciations, as connected with him, quite so pleasant? 
 He hated miserable disguises. He had determined 
 to be honestly himself, everywhere and always ; he 
 would never take a false part willingly, but he 
 must have one look at the one who had always 
 been dearest to him. He could not come to New 
 York and go away without seeing her. 
 
 While he was considering the matter, there was 
 in his mind a sub-consciousness of some place in 
 Broadway where he had bought appurtenances for 
 private theatricals, and without any definite mo- 
 tive, he took the direction of Broadway. In doing 
 so, he passed a man at a wayside stand, upon which 
 were displayed every sort of eyeglass, colored 
 glasses of all shades of blue, green, and London 
 smoke, glasses for old eyes, and glasses for defec- 
 tive young eyes. Rol scarcely looked at the use- 
 less things, in passing, but suddenly possessed of 
 an idea, he ran back and bought a pair of blue 
 glasses, which he tucked away in his pocket. 
 
 Upon reaching the establishment of A. Guizot, 
 Costumier, he paused upon the sidewalk doubtfully, 
 then slowly mounting the stairs, entered those 
 gorgeous rooms. They were vacant at that early 
 hour, except for the presence of a young man, who 
 was dusting, arranging, and taking the covers off 
 of forms, upon which were displayed the repre- 
 sentative portions of military generals, kings, 
 queens, Roman emperors, dancing girls, flower 
 girls, fairies, and demons. In the glass cases, dis- 
 posed upon all sides, were wigs of every hue,
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE." 159 
 
 beards, moustaches, eyebrows, eyelashes, every- 
 thing required to make up a human or inhuman 
 countenance, even noses and ears, of such infi- 
 nite variety, it seemed that every hideous possibil- 
 ity of fancy in respect to ears and noses had found 
 expression. There were the ears of fauns, of 
 asses, of rabbits, and enormous human ears that 
 would have answered for sails ; there were the 
 feet of satyrs, and the cloven feet of that equivo- 
 cal gentleman who never shows his feet at all in 
 good society. There was a glitter of false jewels, 
 tiaras, diadems, flowers, laces, everything, every- 
 thing that could be wanted to make up any kind 
 of a creature, ancient or modern, and there was a 
 terrible impression that all races of men, all de- 
 mons and divinities, had been shattered and scat- 
 tered and their recoverable atoms carefully col- 
 lected by Mons. Adolphe Guizot, who offered 
 every man a chance to be any other man he chose 
 to be from Adam down to Napoleon III. 
 
 Rol looked upon these things with sickening 
 and disgust. To be without affectation or dis- 
 guise seemed to him the most precious of privi- 
 leges, but he resolved to exchange this privilege 
 for another for a few hours, and he fancied he 
 could do so without giving up too much of himself. 
 Long moustaches would make him older, and he 
 was really so thin and dark that he looked like a 
 strange boy, even to himself. His glasses would 
 hide his eyes, that were persistently the same 
 under any circumstances, and he could wander 
 fearlessly among the old haunts.
 
 160 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 He bought the moustaches, and the young man 
 in attendance fastened them upon his smooth 
 young lip. 
 
 You have twenty-five year, monsieur ? " he ex- 
 claimed, stepping backward and looking at Rol 
 with an appearance of astonishment. 
 
 " Ah," said Rol with a little sigh, " j'en ai cin- 
 quante ! " and he drew his blue glasses from his 
 pocket, placed them upon his nose, and looked at 
 himself in a long mirror. 
 
 " Juste ciel ! " pursued the young man. " Per- 
 sonne ne le connaissait jamais ! " 
 
 And Rol made a great impression upon himself, 
 as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror. It was 
 incredible what an entirely different person he had 
 become. His closely cut hair made a great differ- 
 ence, to begin with, for it changed his curly locks 
 to straightness, and his thin face seemed of an en- 
 tirely different cast from that of the old, jolly Rol. 
 His unusual height and his moustaches really did 
 give him the appearance of being twenty-five. He 
 could go fearlessly anywhere, for he did n't even 
 know himself. 
 
 When he regained the street, he marched up 
 town with a quick step. You would have said he 
 was hurrying home to a joyous welcome. But he 
 caught a glimpse of something in the window of 
 an establishment where the most unwished -for 
 things are to be bought, and abruptly checked his 
 pace. What might not have happened ? He be- 
 gan to have fears, and approached that most accus-
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE." 161 
 
 tomed spot on earth with dread. The face he 
 longed to see might have vanished altogether and 
 forever. His heart beat hard and heavily when 
 he could look up the avenue and fix his eyes upon 
 the very walls of his old home. Yes, there ap- 
 peared to be some change. There was a wagon 
 before the door, and men at work. Rol stopped 
 on the corner opposite and below. He saw that 
 they were putting up a covered way from the door 
 to the curbstone. There was no grief there. They 
 were in preparation for a party. No one would 
 be thinking of him. He could be still bolder. 
 He crossed over, and walked up past what seemed 
 his own door. It stood wide open, and Matthews 
 was taking in the morning paper, indulging in 
 one of his prerogatives, a first glance at the news. 
 He took no notice of Rol whatever, who walked 
 slowly and tantalized himself with a sight of the 
 familiar objects within. There was the tall, hand- 
 some, Dutch clock, Grandpapa's clock, he had 
 called it, and he shivered at the thought of the 
 proud old man who had held him on his knee, 
 shivered again at the thought of the man at the 
 Sailor's Snug Harbor. There was the old suit of 
 armor against the wall, and the bronze cast of the 
 knight without fear and without reproach. But 
 Rol did not see what was coining up from the base- 
 ment door. He was interrupted in his furtive con- 
 templations by a pounce upon his arm. He felt 
 himself seized upon, arrested, held fast, and his 
 violent recoil did not loosen the retaining grasp,
 
 162 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 it only brought him face to face with the exultant, 
 triumphant Monte Cristo, who, shivering and 
 whimpering with a joy which he found the dog 
 language utterly incapable to express, held his 
 runaway master as inflexibly as if he had been a 
 rigid member of the police force. 
 
 Rol felt like a convicted outlaw, and looked 
 about him as a thief might have done for some 
 place of refuge. He thankfully perceived that 
 Matthews, with his eyes fastened upon the news- 
 paper, was turning slowly and unconcernedly about 
 and closing the door. He thrust his faithful dog 
 aside with difficulty, though he had never seemed 
 such a precious old fellow as at that moment, and 
 hurried on. But the dog hurried as fast as he 
 did, to be sure, and was much too excited to heed 
 Hollo's commands to him to go home. He had n't 
 been searching all those months for a boy, to turn 
 about and leave him to lose himself again. Rol 
 longed to give the poor fellow a friendly word, 
 but he knew it would make matters ultimately 
 worse, so he plunged along with no aim but to es- 
 cape from the very thing he longed for, an old 
 friend. A church door stood open. Rol darted 
 inside and closed it, whereupon Monte Cristo 
 laid siege, and if scratching and howling were 
 the appliances for conquest, he might have taken 
 the city. 
 
 The dog would never be the one to give up, Rol 
 was sure of that, so discreetly, and only half re- 
 luctantly, he opened the door and received the
 
 AMOS TUTTLE'S " PROTTYJEE." 163 
 
 wild, caresses of his trusty old follower (which soon 
 knocked off the moustaches and the blue glasses), 
 with a hungry, almost happy heart, returning 
 them, on his own part, with equal warmth. He 
 knelt there in the porch of the Church of the 
 Heavenly Rest, and let out the pent-up tenderness 
 of his heart on Monte Cristo's neck. 
 
 This precious indulgence could not last long, 
 however, for the early Lenten worshipers began 
 to come, and to frown upon the dog. The porch 
 of the sanctuary was no place for him, for " With- 
 out are dogs," it is written. 
 
 " Now, sir, go home ! " said Rol, with an effort 
 to be severe. 
 
 The dog crouched at his feet, looking up into 
 his face with such pleading eyes that Rol turned 
 and walked half way up the gallery stairs. How 
 he longed to take the dear fellow with him ! 
 
 " Go home ! " he repeated, turning upon the 
 animal, who crept nearer, whimpering and shiv- 
 ering. 
 
 Rol went up and sat in the dark place at the 
 top of the stairs. Why might he not have his old 
 companion ? His heart warmed and lightened at 
 the thought. Monte stole up and put his nose 
 on the boy's knee. The dear, faithful, familiar, 
 half-human friend ! Why not take him away ? 
 The dog had been his own, expressly his own, a 
 Christmas present from Colonel Payne. His own? 
 Would the kin of the man at the Sailor's Snug 
 Harbor have had that high-bred, costly dog as a
 
 164 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 gift? Never! Monte Cristo was one of those 
 things to which he had never had any right. 
 
 He arose and descended the gallery stairs with 
 an air of determination, paused in the porch be- 
 low to consider, then went out with the happy dog 
 following, and looked about for a policeman. He 
 found one at Madison Square, whom he remem- 
 bered, an honest, kindly fellow, and left the aston- 
 ished Monte Cristo in his keeping. It was Rol's 
 own hands that fastened the leash, and he will 
 never forget the sorrow and reproach that were in 
 the petrified dog's look when his master turned 
 away and again forsook him.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WILHELM'S SUBSTITUTE. 
 
 THAT evening, when Rol returned from Staten 
 Island, it was with a vague, undefined heaviness, 
 an ever-recurring wish that the dead man at the 
 Sailor's Snug Harbor might have spoken, a haunt- 
 ing, uninvited suspicion of loss. 
 
 Whatever else he may or may not have lost, 
 however, he lost the Fall River boat, upon which 
 he had expected to return to Nantucket. 
 
 He remembered a place where he could go for 
 the night, with his moderate means, a tidy little 
 German hotel on Fourth Avenue. It was another 
 resort of Rosa's, which Rol had visited with her 
 in other days. Its privileges were offered to the 
 world by a rosy, smiling, globular relative of 
 her's, and everything about the little establishment 
 smiled, and bloomed, and shone and expanded it- 
 self, even as he did. Its brick walls were painted 
 a rich cream color, to match his unctuous com- 
 plexion, and the blinds a cheerful green. There, 
 however, the simile fails, the eyes of the house 
 were at fault, for there was nothing green in 
 Peter Klaus's eye, nor anything blind, either. 
 
 As Rol entered the gayly lighted hall, he caught
 
 166 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 a faint and grateful insinuation of dinner, in which 
 the rampant onion insinuated most, and triumphed 
 over the assiduous efforts of a circle of smokers, in 
 the room designated on the door as "Das Ami" 
 to which Rol promptly repaired, and formally en- 
 rolled himself among the guests of the house. 
 During the time which it took to accomplish this, 
 he listened to an animated conversation among the 
 smokers, something like this : 
 
 First Pipe. " Vat goot schiff vas dat ? " 
 
 Second Pipe. " Vat goot schiff vas dat ? " 
 
 First. " Ja." 
 
 Second. " Ja f " 
 
 First. " Ja." 
 
 Second. " Die Gute Frau." 
 
 First. " Die Gute Frau?" 
 
 Second. " Ja." 
 
 First. "Ja?" 
 
 Second. " Ja." 
 
 First. " Vrom vere comes dat goot schiff ? " 
 
 Second. " Vrom vere comes dat goot schiff? " 
 
 First. " Ja." 
 
 Second. " Ja ? " 
 
 First. " Ja." 
 
 Second. " Vrom Amsterdam." 
 
 First. " Vrom Amsterdam ? " 
 
 Second. " Ja." 
 
 First. "Ja?" 
 
 Second. " Ja." 
 
 First. " Vat is de goot news vrom Amster- 
 dam?"
 
 WIL HELM'S SUBSTITUTE. 167 
 
 Second. " Vat is de goot news vrom Amster- 
 dam?" 
 
 First. " Ja." 
 
 Second. "Ja?" 
 
 First. Ja." 
 
 Second. " Hans Schmidt is dead." 
 
 First. " #ans Schmidt is dead ? " 
 
 Second. " Ja." 
 
 JPi'rst. " Ja * " 
 
 Second. " Ja." 
 
 Between each query and response there was a 
 long, grave pause, during which the pipes made 
 up for time lost in speaking by more diligent puf- 
 fing, so that the conversation, short as it appears, 
 occupied all the ten minutes during which Rol 
 waited and confabulated with good Peter Klaus 
 himself. As he had no baggage, nor any visible 
 evidence of honest designs, except his honest face, 
 this confabulation consisted, chiefly, of a polite re- 
 quest, on the one hand, and a ready consent, on 
 the other, to pay for his dinner and night's lodg- 
 ing in advance. His feeling of independence was 
 therefore complete when he seated himself at table. 
 
 In the steam of his cabbagy, oniony soup, there 
 floated visions of home, and in the aggregate of 
 feeling accumulated during the day was a very 
 strong deposit of sadness, and a rather doubtful 
 joy that he was still near the only place he could 
 think of as home. 
 
 His companions at table were three men of three 
 diversities of age, and one striking coincidence of
 
 168 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 infirmity, they every one wore spectacles ; and 
 between their gulps of Rhein wein and lager bier, 
 they each deplored the lack of Wilhelra. Rol 
 thought they might be partaking of funeral baked 
 meats, but it presently appeared that Wilhelm had 
 been suddenly called to Hoboken by some calam- 
 ity, when they were in such need of him as to fur- 
 nish another calamity in New York. 
 
 Rol had had German nurses and governesses, 
 and had pulled away at his German, both at home 
 and abroad, so that he was able to understand their 
 conversation, and he felt that it would have been 
 both pleasant and profitable to look upon a person 
 of the importance of Wilhelm. 
 
 The three men finished their repast and de- 
 parted. Directly Rol heard the tuning of strings, 
 and gave a start of pleasure. By and by there 
 followed a dash from some overture that he had 
 played himself. His interest in dinner became di- 
 vided with his interest in the parlor orchestra, and 
 he at length finished hastily, and went to attend 
 the rehearsal in progress. The instruments were 
 a harp, a violoncello, and violin. A second violin 
 lay unused in its case upon the piano. Rol seated 
 himself in a corner to listen. His fingers twitched 
 with longing to touch one of the violins. They 
 were playing dancing music, that would have had 
 no difficulties for him, when he was in practice. 
 At every pause, the eldest of the men, who played 
 the violoncello, who appeared to be the leader, and 
 who was called Herr Amschell, settled back in his
 
 WILHELM'S SUBSTITUTE. 169 
 
 chair with a great sigh and said it was " Schwach, 
 schwach, sehr schwach ! " 
 
 " The piano would help," one of the men sug- 
 gested. No, Herr Amschell replied, they wanted 
 only strings ; they paid much, and they must be 
 suited. There ought to be four pieces, at least. 
 Where could he find a substitute for Wilhelm ? 
 He scratched his bald head and stamped his foot, 
 and his trouble seemed to culminate in despair. 
 It was late, everybody was engaged for the even- 
 ing. He had tried Johann and Karl and Felix and 
 Franz and Gustav. They were all impossible. 
 
 Rol started, arose, then seated himself again, 
 but hearing Herr Amschell choose a waltz that 
 he knew especially well, made a plunge, and con- 
 fronting the unhappy man said in German, "I 
 wish you would let me try one of the violins." 
 
 Herr Amschell started to his feet. " Ach, guten 
 Himmel ! " he cried. " Have you dropped from 
 the skies?" 
 
 Rol explained that he had been out of practice 
 for a while, but that most of their selections were 
 familiar to him, and if they had a little time and 
 patience, he thought he could easily bring himself 
 up to the mark. 
 
 One of the men drew the idle violin from its 
 case and passed it to Rol, who took it with a sort 
 of loving look, and when he raised it to his shoul- 
 der touched his cheek to it as if caressing it. It 
 seemed like another old friend. 
 . Herr Amschell placed some music on the va-
 
 170 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 cant rack, and asked Rol to play it to him. He 
 went through the part very well, with scarcely a 
 false note. " Once more," said Herr Amschell. 
 Rol repeated, without a fault, and Herr Amschell 
 looked delighted. " Now, together." They took 
 the waltz together, and Rollo's hand was in. They 
 rehearsed piece after piece, and he gained credit 
 with each. 
 
 " You shall have five dollars to go with us and 
 play for dancing this evening/' said Herr Amschell. 
 
 Rol gladly agreed. 
 
 They allowed him to select such pieces as he 
 could play best, and in looking over the repertoire 
 he had come upon one which he studied pensively, 
 as one might re-read an old letter from a dead 
 friend. It was an air from the Magic Flute, that 
 Mrs. Payne had liked to play with him. In re- 
 hearsing that Rol played exquisitely, though at 
 times he could hardly see the score, for the rnist 
 in his eyes. 
 
 " Ach ! You play well ! " said Herr Amschell. 
 " We shall have no trouble with you. On the con- 
 trary. Come, it is a quarter to eight o'clock. We 
 must be off." 
 
 " But he must wear the dress of Wilhelm," said 
 one of the violinists. " He cannot go in a pea- 
 jacket." 
 
 " Recht, recht," responded Herr Amschell. 
 " That was forgotten. Eilen Sie sich ! " and Rol 
 was rushed up-stairs and put into the claw-ham- 
 mer coat and white vest of Wilhelm, which were
 
 WILUELM'S SUBSTITUTE. 171 
 
 a pretty good fit. Evidently he was foreordained 
 to be Wilhelm's substitute. 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Rol, when at last all 
 seemed ready. He pulled from the pocket of his 
 pea-jacket his moustaches, and blue glasses, and 
 fixed them on in a twinkling. 
 
 " Mein Gott ! It is Wilhelm ! " cried all three 
 musicians in a breath, when Rol appeared in the 
 parlor below. 
 
 They took a Fouith Avenue car, and Rol neither 
 thought nor cared where he was going until he 
 found himself leaving it at the corner of Madison 
 Avenue and the very street that went through to 
 his old home. A sudden " what if" flashed upon 
 him, but he answered it with " Pshaw ! impos- 
 sible." Now, you may learn this with Rollo, my 
 friend. Nothing is impossible. When they came 
 out upon Fifth Avenue, there was the house blaz- 
 ing with lights, and Herr Amschell crossed straight 
 over to it and turned up the covered steps. Rol 
 followed so far as to stand under the arch that 
 spanned the sidewalk, where he stopped and 
 looked up the tunneled stairway with a stupefied 
 stare. 
 
 " Was fehlt ihnen ? " asked the harpist, who 
 brought up the rear. 
 
 " Es fehlt mir Nichts ! " responded Rol, with an 
 abrupt resolution, and in a moment he reentered 
 the doorway, from which he had gone out so care- 
 lessly eight months before, with his heart swelling 
 and throbbing until he was stifled.
 
 172 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 But there was nothing to fear, not even Monte 
 Cristo, who was Invariably banished to remote 
 regions on festive occasions, because he howled at 
 the music. Yet Rol would hardly have trembled 
 more, or been more nearly overcome by universal 
 trepidation, in face of a den of tigers. 
 
 His tumult had not had time to subside, after he 
 had taken his place in the hall, behind the plants, 
 which made a bower for the musicians just be- 
 tween the drawing-room and music -room, when 
 there were footsteps on the stairs, the rustling and 
 soft hissing of lightly brushed silk, and there she 
 came ! In a moment she was sweeping past him, 
 her long skirts almost brushing his feet. He 
 snatched off the blue glasses to look at her, and 
 his heart leaped to his mouth again, then sank 
 with misgiving and alarm, for she looked quite 
 pale and ill, and did not glance about her with 
 the bright, interested smile which he had always 
 seen her wear, but kept her eyes fixed upon the 
 floor as she walked, with a grave, absent look, al- 
 though close behind her followed that boy who 
 was every inch a Weir, with the excited Weir 
 blood flushing his thin cheeks, and sun, moon, 
 and stars ! was that the little Quaker girl from 
 Nantucket with Betty Vinton ? What times 
 those were, when you could n't tell for a minute 
 what would come to anybody ! Mrs. Payne paced 
 slowly up and down in the drawing-room, while 
 Roland Weir and Miriam stood upon the fair sur- 
 face of creamy white, and turned round and round 
 and round to look at the banks and pyramids and
 
 WILHELM'S SUBSTITUTE. 173 
 
 festoons of flowers. Hollo could see them all. The 
 dear little Quaker girl had looked almost fright- 
 ened at herself when she came down-stairs, but 
 she appeared to forget herself altogether in those 
 broad, sweet, bright spaces, and Roland Weir held 
 up his handsome head and swept his eyes about 
 the horizon like a newly landed discoverer taking 
 possession. 
 
 Betty never ceased to twitter and flit. She 
 flitted across the hall, where only Matthews stood 
 like a wooden image by the door, and the musi- 
 cians were arranging their music. Miriam came 
 slowly after, while Roland Weir paused midway 
 in the hall, by the bower of tall plants, to look 
 back at his aunt. 
 
 " I wonder," he said confidentially to Betty, 
 " I wonder what 's the matter with Aunt Anna. 
 I may have done something to trouble her. She 
 never looked like that before." 
 
 " I don't believe it 's you" returned Betty. 
 
 * What then ? " 
 
 " I think it 's Rol," Betty answered in a loud 
 whisper. " The last time we kept this day it was 
 for him. Everything was just as it is now except 
 there was Rol instead of you, you know." 
 
 A string of one of the violins broke with a jar- 
 ring twang, there was a roll of carriages, Matthews 
 swung the door wide open, Roland Weir took his 
 place beside Mrs. Payne and received Rol's old 
 friends, while Rol himself, poor fellow, had all he 
 could do to receive the strange sensations which 
 crowded upon him.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 
 
 ROLAND WEIR looked dizzy when he had wel- 
 comed his two hundred guests, and the little 
 Quakeress was in a pleasant delirium, and seemed 
 bewildered, as she watched what she fancied to be 
 the bits of a shivered rainbow lightly blown about 
 her by the wind. 
 
 Mrs. Payne enjoyed the satisfaction of feeling 
 that she had produced the example of something 
 perfect in the way of a young girl, something as 
 fresh and modest as an orchid on the margin of a 
 Nantucket meadow, and quite unexceptionable in 
 the world's eye, too. She considered that there 
 was no danger of erring in the matter of richness 
 and choiceness of material, in the pretty toilet she 
 had given Miriam, for who was more exacting 
 about those things than a Quakeress? Had she 
 not seen them, rigid as to the proper plain cut 
 of their garments, while they attracted every eye 
 by the sumptuous richness and delicacy of their 
 texture? A simple white gown of exquisite qual- 
 ity and a rich, heavy sash would be perfectly suit- 
 able, then (so it seemed to Mrs. Payne), and 
 Miriam would give all the color and adornment
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 175 
 
 herself. Waking or sleeping, that soft white gown 
 and shining sash had floated in the child's fancy for 
 a week. She would have liked some bright colors, 
 like Betty, and more ruffly, fluttery things, but 
 the fact that she was denied them made her believe 
 that she was really within safe and proper bounds. 
 The truth was that the plainness of her dress 
 seemed like a distinguished style, and there was 
 not a more charming girl at the party. Roland 
 and Betty were proud of her. 
 
 Since she could not dance, Mrs. Payne had Ro- 
 land, with Miriam, lead the procession of his 
 guests through a long march. To Miriam those 
 moments were sublime. Her face wore a look of 
 earnest gravity, for she felt that nothing more 
 grand or important could ever happen. 
 
 Most of the young people knew that Miriam 
 was the little Quaker girl of Nantucket, who had 
 drifted out to sea and been rescued by Betty Vin- 
 ton (so Betty told the tale), and who was con- 
 nected with the story of Roland Weir. Roland was 
 a live hero of romance. He had been a small lion 
 ever since he came to New York. His history, 
 much to Mrs. Payne's annoyance, had found its 
 way even into the newspapers, and nothing could 
 exceed the regard in which he was held by the 
 boys and girls of his acquaintance, or the immense 
 curiosity and interest of far-away ones who were 
 not of his acquaintance, and who only had the 
 privilege of seeing him pass on the street. 
 
 After the first dance, then, they gathered about
 
 176 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Miriam to have a few words with a real native of 
 that romantic desert island upon which Roland 
 Weir had been cast away. They were disap- 
 pointed to see her so much like other girls. 
 
 "I wish she had worn her uniform," said one. 
 
 What uniform ? " 
 
 " Why, the Quaker uniform. I expected she 
 would look like those Quaker dolls they have at 
 fairs, with walnuts for heads." 
 
 They asked absurd questions about Nantucket, 
 and when Miriam had begun to talk, they asked 
 anything, to keep her talking, it was so funny to 
 hear her, and so pleasant. She told them she had 
 never seen any one dance before she came to New 
 York, except Pel'tiah Groves. Who was Pel'tiah ? 
 He was the gravedigger. He dag all the graves 
 and buried all the people that died on Nantucket. 
 Oh, a gravedigger dancing ! Where did he 
 dance ? Among the graves in the moonlight, or 
 on dark nights with pale blue lights flickering 
 about him? Miriam felt called upon to clearly 
 represent her friend Pel'tiah, that there might be 
 no mistaken impression left upon the mind of any 
 person. She explained with earnestness that he 
 had given up the pomps and vanities, but that he 
 was a beautiful whistler. When he was greasing 
 the wheels of the hearse he whistled a nice tune, 
 " Away with Melancholy," he called it. One boy 
 remarked that Pel'tiah must be a philosopher, but 
 Miriam said no, he was a Methodist. 
 
 All the while the music was calling, but very
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 177 
 
 few were dancing. The novel entertainment of 
 hearing such uncommon things from such a new 
 kind of girl was not to be lost for the more or- 
 dinary pastime, and because they had been so 
 amused, some of the more thoughtful and cour- 
 teous ones proposed that they should do something 
 which would give Miriam a chance to accompany 
 them. It seemed rude to leave her to watch the 
 dancing alone. 
 
 " What would you like to do ? " they said. " Do 
 you know any game we could play ? Do teach us 
 some of your games." 
 
 Miriam shook her head. " I never played a 
 game," she said. " If everybody would like it, I 
 should be glad to march once more, when you 've 
 done dancing. Please don't stop." 
 
 The boy who had called Pel'tiah a philosopher 
 seated himself beside Miriam, and said he didn't 
 think much of dancing. 
 
 " I wonder to hear thee say that," said Miriam. 
 
 " Why, should you like to dance ? " 
 
 Miriam drew a heavy sigh. " Yes, but I can't," 
 she said. " Friends don't dance." 
 
 " Why, my friends do," said the boy. " I should 
 like to dance with you. You '11 march with me, 
 then, won't you ? This quadrille, now, is n't much 
 different from marching. See ? They only walk 
 about. I should think you might do that." 
 
 " I think I could," said Miriam eagerly. " There, 
 now they 're all going to walk round and shake 
 hands with everybody, first with one hand and
 
 178 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 then with the other. I should n't think it could 
 be wrong." 
 
 " Wrong ? Why of course it is n't ! " 
 
 " David danced, thee knows." 
 
 " David who ? " 
 
 " Why, King David." 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " But perhaps that 's why he worried so much 
 about his sins. Thee knows he keeps saying what 
 a sinner he is." 
 
 " That was when he had n't danced as much as 
 he ought to, probably." 
 
 " I don't know ! " said poor Miriam. " Is n't it 
 queer about opinions ? " 
 
 " It 's queer what they want of so many," said 
 the boy. " I should think two would be enough 
 to give contrary people a chance to dispute." 
 
 "But is n't it hard to understand things?" con- 
 tinued Miriam. " When we want to do right, 
 and want to be happy, too, isn't it hard to tell 
 what to do ? " 
 
 " Now here 's a chance to do the right thing 
 and be happy, too," said Miriam's chatty friend, 
 as the quadrille was finished, " for we 're going to 
 have our march. You 're to march with me, but 
 just excuse me a minute, please." 
 
 He stepped down the room and spoke to the di- 
 rector, and then Miriam was led to a place in the 
 line of marchers. 
 
 They marched and countermarched. They took 
 now a serpentine and now a diagonal course;
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 179 
 
 they parted with their partners at one end of 
 the room and met them again at the other. Their 
 lines intertwined and intertwisted, united and sep- 
 arated, intervolved and dispersed. They paired 
 and dispaired again and again, and when there 
 seemed to be only confusion and breaking up, ev- 
 erything came back straight and simple just as it 
 had been at first. It was exhilarating to the little 
 girl of simple senses. She was never allowed to 
 go wrong, for when things became very bewilder- 
 ing a kind hand was laid upon her shoulder and 
 she was guided aright. Presently the couples 
 formed into squares it seemed only a contin- 
 uation of the marching figures and Miriam's 
 partner said, " Now we just want to go forward a 
 little and come back." 
 
 While the side couples were doing the same, 
 Miriam was directed to give her right hand to the 
 girl opposite. The girl turned her about, and her 
 partner then caught her left hand, turned her 
 about also, and brought her standing in her place 
 again. There had been so much turning about 
 that Miriam's head was completely turned, and 
 she went on with grave absorption, feeling per- 
 fectly innocent, through figure after figure of a 
 quadrille. 
 
 Her attention never for a moment wandered, 
 until it seemed some magnetism drew her eyes to 
 the hall door, near which she was placed, and 
 there stood Uncle David and Paul ! 
 
 Uncle David had an astounded, stupefied look.
 
 180 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 He had apparently been arrested in the way 
 through which Matthews was leading him, by the 
 sight of his little Quaker niece, arrayed in what 
 garments ! and treading the mazes of a dance ! 
 
 Miriam in her turn was arrested by that look of 
 Uncle David. It reduced her dream to reality. 
 She remembered who she was, and realized her un- 
 fit position. Unheeding the urgent prompting of 
 her partner, unconscious that she was breaking up 
 everything, she hurried straight to Uncle David. 
 
 " My dear," said he, " is it really thou ? I don't 
 understand. Was thee dancing ? " 
 
 "I I 'm afraid I was," Miriam answered. 
 " We were marching, and we went right along." 
 
 This explanation did not clearly enlighten Un- 
 cle David. He was an easy-going, charitable, inno- 
 cent-hearted man a very liberal Hicksite; but 
 Obed Swain was orthodox. His trouble was to 
 put himself in Obed's place and conduct these 
 conditions to the right issue. 
 
 "Thee better not. Thee better keep quiet," 
 he said, with all the severity of which he was cap- 
 able. 
 
 Great discomfort entered Miriam's soul, and to 
 add to it, Paul appeared to be practicing some of 
 his absurd tricks, for he wore a pair of eyeglasses 
 and gave Miriam the same alarming stare which 
 had frequently transfixed her before. As she gave 
 her hand to him, in rather a perfunctory manner, 
 he adjusted his glasses and held his head back 
 stiffly, so as to look straight through the middle of
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 181 
 
 them at her, as Aunt Hepsy was wont to do, and 
 he also gave a faint groan after the manner of 
 Aunt Hepsy. 
 
 " Why does Paul wear those spectacles ? " Mir- 
 iam asked. 
 
 " The world is a different place to him since the 
 doctor ordered those," Uncle David replied. " He 
 finds he has never really seen things before." 
 
 " I see remarkable things now," said Paul, with 
 a long survey of Miriam. 
 
 Miriam fancied he saw her as she had seen an 
 ant under Dr. Mayhew's microscope, an ant, 
 that looked a tiny, innocent atom to the naked eye, 
 but which, under the glass, was a hideous thing as 
 large as a lobster. She wondered uneasily what 
 sort of a creature she was under Paul's revealing 
 
 " Ah," said Mrs. Payne's gracious voice, at that 
 moment, as Mrs. Payne herself came to them 
 through the hall, reaching out a cordial hand to 
 Uncle David. " I hope you 've brought us a re- 
 prieve." 
 
 " I 'm sorry to say I 've come to execute the sen- 
 tence," returned Uncle David. " This is my son 
 Paul. I have come back a little sooner than I ex- 
 pected, and it occurred to my mind that Miriam 
 ought to know we were going by to-morrow's boat, 
 so I ventured to call, though I saw thee had com- 
 pany." 
 
 " And must we give up Miriam so soon ? " 
 
 " Well, her Aunt Hepsy 's at home now, and is
 
 182 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 very particular to have the child back again di- 
 rectly." 
 
 Miriam started as if Aunt Hepsy had suddenly 
 materialized before her. Joy yielded to its nat- 
 ural enemy and died without a struggle. The 
 brightness of that charmed hour had furnished her 
 with something more to be given up, with new 
 desires to be denied ; and, to emphasize the pain 
 of denial and renunciation, Roland Weir, glowing 
 with the pleasure of his career, came sailing to- 
 wards her in one direction, and careless, contented 
 Betty in another, attracted by the group in the 
 doorway. 
 
 To Roland, the sight of Paul Haddon was the 
 promise of extraordinary things. He had never 
 lacked sensations himself when that pleasantly 
 perplexing youth had appeared, and he was 
 charmed to be able to present such a remarkable 
 person to his new friends. 
 
 Though Mrs. Payne could not prevail upon 
 Uncle David to desert his plain quarters at Friend 
 Eunice Gray's, in Sixteenth Street, and stay at her 
 house, she easily persuaded him to take a seat by 
 the library fire and look at the newspapers until 
 after the supper, and Paul was borne away and 
 exhibited as another native of Nantucket. His 
 eyeglasses made him look so wise, and his rather 
 grave manner gave the young New Yorkers such 
 an impression of awful rectitude and overwhelm- 
 ing example, that they politely withdrew from the 
 discouragements these seemed to offer. Betty,
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 183 
 
 however, was not so easily discouraged. The most 
 illustrious virtues could not intimidate her. She 
 took a fixed position near Paul, and seemed to 
 wish to avail herself of such advantages as his 
 superior society offered. They were very near 
 Miriam, who sat looking upon everything pen- 
 sively, as one does for the last time. But upon 
 Betty Vinton and Paul she looked as for the first 
 time. Betty chattering to Paul, not the least 
 embarrassed by the way he fixed his eyes upon her 
 through those glasses, and Paul answering Betty 
 with considerable deference ! 
 
 " I 'm sure it 's a great misfortune," Miriam 
 heard Betty say, alluding, probably, to Paul's 
 trouble with his eyes, on account of which he was 
 returning to his home. 
 
 "But my misfortune is nothing compared with 
 that of a friend of mine, at Haverford, at least 
 he ivas there," returned Paul. 
 
 His solemnity seemed to indicate that his friend 
 had been removed by death, at least, and it was 
 reflected in Betty's grave eyes. 
 
 " What was the matter with him ? " she asked 
 gently. 
 
 " It is hard for me to dwell upon the subject," 
 Paul replied, gazing fixedly, with drooping head, 
 at the toe of his boot. 
 
 " It 's no matter, then," Betty quickly re- 
 sponded. 
 
 " Still," resumed Paul, " I should like to show 
 how a small misfortune, like mine, for instance,
 
 184 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 might have saved this young person from some- 
 thing much worse." 
 
 " Oh," murmured Betty. 
 
 " The love of home," continued Paul, " as the 
 copy book says, is inherent in the human breast." 
 
 Betty listened with parted lips. 
 
 "This boy I am speaking of had it stronger 
 than any one I ever saw. He wanted to go home, 
 and he had no appetite for rye pudding. In fact, 
 he used to groan and wish for home and a rye 
 famine in the same breath. He suffered so, poor 
 fellow, that once in his desperation, he was heard 
 to say, no, I won't tell thee what he said. It 
 was awful. If he had only had bad eyes, now, he 
 might have gone home on account of them, as well 
 as not. But he had n't a thing ailing him, not 
 so much as a headache or a toothache. All his 
 sufferings from homesickness and rye pudding 
 didn't count. Every day he grew worse and 
 worse, and I felt as if I ought to watch him. 
 There was no guessing what he might do. One 
 evening, we were strolling out together, and this 
 unhappy boy stopped and rested his elbows on the 
 top rail of a fence, which inclosed a fine, tall field 
 of rye. No, it was the rye that was tall, come to 
 think of it, instead of the field. I thought he was 
 admiring the sunset, but I soon perceived it was 
 the rye he was looking at, and he looked dis- 
 gusted. Presently he laughed, a dreadful laugh. 
 I said to myself, Alas, his reason has departed ! 
 ' Paul,' said he, ' I 'm going home on Fourth
 
 A DANCE AND HO W IT ENDED. 185 
 
 Day,' this was Second Day, ' but I 'm going 
 to do you all a favor first, and give you something 
 pleasant to remember me by.' Then he laughed 
 again. I slipped my arm through his and led him 
 to his room, where I tried to divert his mind from 
 his sorrows. ' But it was all in vain. A few hours 
 later I missed him, and hurrying wildly about in 
 search of him, I at last thought I saw him going 
 across lots leading Dolly, the gray mare. There 
 was a little moon just setting, and I could see very 
 well. I crept along by the wall, intending to meet 
 him when he came out upon the road, and if he 
 undertook to mount Dolly and trot away home, I 
 meant to go too, just to see that he was safe, 
 thee knows. I felt that the sooner he went home, 
 the better. When he reached the road, I was 
 puzzled to know what he was going to do. He 
 held something in his hand which looked like a 
 large tin coffee-pot, and pulling a string from his 
 pocket, he tied it to the end of the mare's tail. 
 ' That is a convenient way of carrying a little re- 
 freshment,' I said to myself. He must have made 
 the coffee-pot uncommonly secure, for he was a 
 long time about it, and then he led Dolly across 
 to the rye-field, and letting down the bars gave 
 her a smart slap and told her to ' get up.' I 
 never did see anything get up as Dolly did. I 
 could hear the coffee-pot thumping against her 
 legs and the lid flapping up and down as she went 
 round and round the rye-field. The next morn- 
 ing there was n't rye enough standing to make one
 
 186 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 small pudding. It was all trampled into the 
 earth." 
 
 Betty's stare had gradually changed into a broad 
 smile, which went off suddenly into a laugh. This 
 ridiculous event, in place of the awful fatality she 
 had expected, was amusing by contrast. But pres- 
 ently Betty drew a long, slow breath and looked at 
 the matter from another point of view. 
 
 " That was an abominable boy ! " she said. "He 
 had no business to do such a thing. It was dis- 
 honest." 
 
 " I see the reasonableness of thy position," said 
 Paul, pinching his sharp chin with his long thumb 
 and finger, and thoughtfully considering his boot- 
 toe again. " And that is the melancholy part of 
 it. His father made him go without things until 
 he had paid for the rye ; but he said even humble 
 pie was easy to swallow, after rye pudding. Any- 
 thing for a change." 
 
 " Did he go home ? " 
 
 " He did, without fail. His home is here in 
 New York. I 'm going to see him to-morrow." 
 
 " What 's his name ? " asked Betty, but Paul 
 was prevented from answering by great surprise 
 at feeling the tip of his ear seized by an invisible 
 thumb and finger. He tried to turn upon his as- 
 sailant, but his head became fixed in a vise. 
 
 " Oh, come," said Paul, " who is it ? " 
 
 " I am thy pardner's ghost," responded a sepul- 
 chral voice, " doomed for a certain time to walk 
 the earth."
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 187 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 " And then to take to the water, about the first 
 of July." 
 
 This time the voice was the natural voice of 
 the boy who had led Miriam into dancing. 
 
 " Perez Howard ! " exclaimed Paul, wrenching 
 his head away. 
 
 The two boys grasped each other's hands both 
 hands with the cordiality of congenial spirits. 
 
 Betty Vinton regretted the fate that forced her 
 to leave such an interesting scene and be led away 
 to the dancing. 
 
 "I didn't know you with those goggles," said 
 Perez Howard. " You 'd put an owl out of coun- 
 tenance. Do you come to us as a a missionary ? 
 Have n't you a few tracts in your pocket ? " 
 
 " I 've come to fetch my cousin home," said 
 Paul, looking straight at Miriam, and speaking 
 for her to hear. " She has fallen into bad ways. 
 Her aunt and I are much afflicted about her. We 
 expect to have to labor with her all summer. 
 But there 's a book on a shelf somewhere that will 
 have a good effect upon her." 
 
 " Oh, now," said Perez, lowering his tone, "don't 
 bother such a nice girl as that ! I knew she was 
 your cousin, but I didn't let on for fear she might 
 have heard of those little et ceterys, and I want to 
 start fair with people. If they 've got an opinion 
 about you, to begin with, you have to do so much 
 tacking and beating about to get on with them." 
 
 " Well, I don't know," said Paul, " my cousin
 
 188 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 has an opinion of me, but I get on with her first 
 rate." 
 
 " Are you staying in New York without letting 
 me know ? That is n't the way to get on with 
 me." 
 
 " I meant to try to see thee before I went. I 
 only came to-day, and I 'in going to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ? No ! " 
 
 " Yes, that 's the decree." 
 
 " Did you come up for this party ? I 'm afraid 
 you 're getting worldly." 
 
 " I 'm on my way home." 
 
 " What have you done now ? " 
 
 "/done? Humph!" 
 
 " Oh, maybe it 's the eyes again." 
 
 Paul nodded. 
 
 " Was that your father I saw in the hall ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Won't he leave you with me a few days ? " 
 
 " Come and see father," said Paul, moving on 
 in the direction of the library. " He '11 be glad 
 to see thee for the sake of thy father ; he often 
 speaks of him and the old times at Haverford." 
 
 When they reached the library door Paul was 
 shocked to see his father sitting staring into va- 
 cancy, with a pale, drawn face. 
 
 "Father, father, what is the matter?" Paul 
 said, stepping quickly to his father's side. 
 
 The newspaper which David Haddon held shook 
 as if blown by a draught of air. He spread it out 
 with nerveless hands, and pointed to the tele-
 
 A DANCE AND HOW IT ENDED. 189 
 
 graphic news. Paul glanced over the paragraphs 
 and dropped the sheet. 
 
 " It can't be ! " he said. " These dispatches 
 are often wrong. Don't let us believe it until 
 we 're obliged to, father. I '11 run and get thee 
 a glass of water. Excuse us, Perez, we 've had 
 bad news. I '11 see thee again by and by." 
 
 " Don't say anything to Miriam," said David 
 Haddon. 
 
 As Miriam sat ruefully considering what Paul 
 had said about the book of judgment that awaited 
 her, she saw Mrs. Payne passing through the room, 
 looking anxiously from side to side, with a strange, 
 overwhelmed look, and an agitated manner, that 
 was in remarkable contrast to her usual calmness. 
 When her eyes fell upon Miriam, her effort to re- 
 press her emotion was so apparent that the child 
 perceived it. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " your uncle has deter- 
 mined to start for home to-night. You will have 
 to leave us in less than an hour. Come up-stairs 
 with me." 
 
 Miriam followed passively, without asking, a 
 question, except the one she asked herself, " Does 
 she hate to have me go so much as that ? " 
 
 On reaching her room she found a maid pack- 
 ing her little box, and in strange, silent haste the 
 pretty gown and its dainty accompaniments were 
 removed, and the grave, brown gown received the 
 little Quakeress again. 
 
 Even the haste seemed hardly to explain the
 
 190 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 solemn silence. Roland Weir and Betty, who had 
 followed protesting loudly, were so impressed by 
 the strangeness, the stillness, the suddenness, that 
 stillness fell upon them, too. 
 
 The carriage which had taken Uncle David to 
 Sixteenth Street after his belongings returned and 
 waited at the door. Miriam's box was brought 
 down. It looked like a small coffin, and held the 
 remains of her departed pleasures, the lovely 
 white gown and the shining sash. All adieus 
 were said. Roland Weir's guests crowded into 
 the hall to see the departure of the natives. Perez 
 Howard ran down to the carriage with them, 
 while Roland Weir stood shivering in the doorway 
 with nervous foreboding. He felt an impression 
 of calamity which was not to be accounted for by 
 Miriam's premature departure. 
 
 When they turned from the door, after the car- 
 riage had rolled away, the musicians were playing 
 the air from the " Magic Flute." Mrs. Payne 
 stepped quickly across the hall, her hand raised in 
 protest. " Don't play that ! " she said. " Don't ! " 
 
 She remembered afterwards how suddenly one 
 of the violinists had dropped his instrument, how 
 unreasonably sensitive and troubled he had looked. 
 
 The birthday party was ending sadly for those 
 who had been most joyous at its beginning, but 
 the second violin hardly knew what to call the 
 emotion with which he passed those last moments. 
 
 The refreshments for the musicians were spread 
 in a basement room that had been Rollo's school-
 
 A DANCE AND HO W IT ENDED. 191 
 
 room, play-room, gymnasium, graduating from one 
 use to another, but always the use was Hollo's. It 
 had come to be the servants' dining-room, but the 
 old pictures had never been removed from the 
 walls, and in many respects it still had the look of 
 his beloved den. While the other musicians re- 
 galed themselves, he forgot the tempting refection, 
 and went back to the days when all the world 
 seemed his own. He lingered to give a long look 
 behind, in returning to play for the last dance, and 
 then, with a parting look at everything, went out, 
 and the door closed fast again upon it all.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 STBANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 
 
 IT was a dreary journey back to the old home, 
 and long before it was over Miriam would have 
 been glad to be harassed by Paul for the sake of 
 having things seem natural once more. But to 
 crown the strangeness of everything, Paul's man- 
 ner had a touch of gentleness and kindness. It 
 was marvelous. And cheery, chatty Uncle David 
 only sighed and was silent. 
 
 It was a blessed sight, at last, as they drew near 
 the end of the journey, to see liosanna in the front 
 dooryard chasing a vagrant bit of litter. Having 
 captured it, she paused to get her breath again, 
 and watch the clattering old carriage that was 
 coming up the street. 
 
 " Lors bress my ole eyes, if it ain't my sweet 
 lamb ! " she cried, swinging the gate wide. The 
 door of the carriage swung wide at about the same 
 time, and Miriam alighted in Rosanna's arms. 
 Uncle David inquired for Aunt Hepsy. 
 
 " She is n't come back from meetin'," Rosanna 
 said. 
 
 " Is there any news ? " 
 
 " I ain't hear of any," was Rosanna's cheerful 
 response.
 
 STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 193 
 
 " Rosanna, what is it ? What does thee sup- 
 pose is the matter ? " Miriam begged to know, 
 when Uncle David had moved on. " We had to 
 hurry and get ready in a few minutes, and come 
 in the night cars, and Roland Weir was having 
 his birthday company. Uncle David and Paul 
 seem very strange." 
 
 " Thar, never mind, my pretty sparrer ! It 's 
 on'y a way the men folks has," said Rosanna, 
 bustling along after Miriam like an old black hen 
 with one soft little brown chicken. 
 
 " It is n't a way Paul has, very often," said 
 Miriam dubiously. 
 
 Everything looked very small and sparse as 
 she glanced at the familiar old things. Even the 
 south front room, their very best room, looked ex- 
 ceedingly bare, like an immaculate receptacle of 
 unfulfilled design. 
 
 Rosanna fairly coruscated with delight as she 
 helped Miriam off with her things, but Miriam, 
 tossing them on a chair when she had come out 
 of them, turned and leaned against her old black 
 friend with a sigh. 
 
 " Thee dear old Rosanna," she said, " I wish I 
 was n't so big, and thee could take me in thy arms 
 and rock me, as thee used." 
 
 " Big, my robin ! You is n't a mite too big. 
 You 's all wore out with so many goin's-on. Come 
 set in Rosanna's cheer in the kitchen. But 't ain't 
 goin' do to leave them things thai 1 , honey. Miss 
 Hepsy '11 be yere in a minute."
 
 194 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Miriam gathered up her cloak and bonnet and 
 went to hang them in the closet under the front 
 stairs. As she opened the door her heart lifted 
 and lightened with a cheerful bound, for there 
 hung her father's old drab overcoat and hat. She 
 could almost see his gentle eyes looking at her 
 from under the broad brim, as she took it down 
 from its peg and stroked its nap gently, leaning 
 her cheek against the coat with a foretaste of the 
 peace she should feel when she could lean upon 
 her father himself. She would confess all to him, 
 even the wicked secret wish that had crept into 
 her heart, that he would cast such homely things 
 aside, and belong to the world, like Mr. Vinton. 
 
 Then, with a better courage, she went with Ro- 
 sanua into the kitchen, where the long, open grate, 
 with its heap of bright coals, was not the only 
 cheerful thing to behold. There was the glitter 
 of clean glass in the windows, the shine of bright 
 brasses and tins on the shelves, and there were 
 fowls roasting in the tin kitchen before the fire, 
 and savory vegetables in the bubbling kettles that 
 swung from the crane. 
 
 " Have a bite o' something, honey," said Rosanna. 
 
 " No, Rosanna, I want thee to hold me a little 
 before Aunt Hepsy comes," Miriam answered, and 
 Rosanna drew the child into her lap, where, lean- 
 ing against the clean white kerchief that neatly 
 crossed upon the ample bosom which had been her 
 pillow since the day she was born, she accepted 
 gratefully the comfort that had soothed her child-
 
 STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 195 
 
 ish woes, and was rocked and patted and crooned 
 over until, after trying to chat about Roland Weir 
 and her great experiences in New York, she 
 dropped away with the words scarcely gone from 
 her lips, and slept the sound sleep of a child ex- 
 hausted with excitement and fatigue. 
 
 Rosanna carried her gently in her strong arms 
 to the sofa in the keeping-room, trotted away for 
 a shawl to cover her, and then stood and watched 
 her, so entirely at peace. " Yas," she muttered to 
 herself presently, as she shuffled softly back to the 
 kitchen, " but thar 's always the wakin' up, an' 
 it 's a onsartin worl' they comes back to." 
 
 That perfect peace lasted long. The sound of 
 footsteps, the murmuring of voices, even a deep, 
 agonized moan, that sounded strangely in the se- 
 rene old house, were all shut out by the comfort- 
 ing wing that wrapped the child closely. 
 
 From the deep sleep she was lifted into dreams. 
 She moved and moaned, and called " Father ! fa- 
 ther ! " and her own cry woke her. Aunt Dorcas 
 was bending over her weeping, and Uncle David 
 was disappearing with great haste through the en- 
 try door, while Aunt Hepsy 
 
 But ah, how can I show you the faces of the 
 bereaved ! How should I tell, with light, ineffec- 
 tual pen, the heaviness of sorrow ! 
 
 "Another steamer lost!" we say, turning the 
 evening journal carelessly, as we sit by our cheer- 
 ful firesides, from which not one dear face is miss- 
 ing, and the sheet is passed on, perhaps with the
 
 196 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 remark that there is n't much in it. But to those 
 who had dearest hopes and dearest lives embarked 
 upon that lost steamer, the world itself seems over- 
 charged with the woe that is in those words, 
 *' Lost off Cape Hatteras, and every soul on board 
 perished." 
 
 There were no loud cries in the old house where 
 Obed Swain had been expected. Deep, impres- 
 sive silence denoted the presence of a great an- 
 guish, for sorrow and joy are alike repressed by 
 those quiet people, to whom the expression of 
 strong emotion is an unseemly thing, and indul- 
 gence in wild grief, especially, a sinful outbreak 
 against that divine will which both gives and takes 
 away in mercy and wisdom. 
 
 From time to time the door softly opened, and 
 quiet, sober figures glided in with sympathetic 
 faces, and, after holding in a long clasp the hands 
 of the sorrowing ones, sat down by them in si- 
 lence. Occasionally, one would have words of 
 comfort given him to speak, in measured chanting 
 tones, but, for the most part, they brought only 
 the blessed balm of silent sympathy, and departed 
 as noiselessly as they came. 
 
 To hide her agony, that would not be stifled, 
 that could not be permitted to break upon that 
 solemn silence, Miriam crept away to the closet 
 under the stairs, and there, in the darkness, clasped 
 with trembling, clinging arms, the empty coat, and 
 buried her face, sobbing, against the still void 
 where her father's loving heart had been. The
 
 STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 197 
 
 old drab coat and hat ! This, then, was her terri- 
 ble judgment for wishing to abolish all such plain, 
 ugly things from her life ! 
 
 Her vaguest temptations rose before her in the 
 guise of actually accomplished sins, and every one 
 was a wrong against her father, who was never, 
 never to return, never to hear her sorrowing 
 confession, never to bestow the comfort of his for- 
 giveness ! It was like physical suffering, it racked 
 her poor little breast with such cruel pangs. She 
 thought she could not live to bear it, and that 
 thought was welcome, for the locked door might 
 open, then. She would possibly come to some 
 place where she might speak across a gulf to her 
 father, as Dives did to Lazarus. 
 
 Rosanna had also sought a hiding place where 
 she could do her weeping after her own fashion. 
 Her African blood and her Free-Will Baptist faith 
 consented to no restraint. She exercised her free- 
 will to the last degree, sitting on the back stairs 
 in the wash-room, from whence, if any sound 
 reached the other inmates of the house, it was 
 very uncertain, and as likely to be the bleating of 
 the sheep on the bank as anything. 
 
 Everybody disregarded or forgot the physical 
 need for a time, but Aunt Hepsy's strict care for 
 the common duties of life returned to her at length, 
 and she rose with something like her old rigid 
 manner, and started to go to the kitchen to see 
 that the domestic machinery was not allowed to 
 stand still. She took a few unsteady steps, stum- 
 bled, and fell.
 
 198 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 "I was dizzy," she said, when Aunt Dorcas 
 hurried to help her to her chair again. " I must 
 have tripped against the rug." 
 
 The idea of Hepsy Swain tripping against any- 
 thing ! 
 
 " Thee let me see to everything to-day, Hepsy, 
 do ! " said Aunt Dorcas. 
 
 Strange to say, Aunt Hepsy complied, and 
 when the tea was ready, she even accepted Uncle 
 David's arm to go to the table. Miriam came in 
 just in time to see her weakly leaning upon an 
 arm of flesh like any other woman. It seemed 
 past belief. She even allowed Dorcas Haddon to 
 take her place at table, while she sat aside and 
 was served like a guest. And after tea, or after 
 the rigid, empty form of sitting at table had been 
 observed, she returned to her chair and was pas- 
 sively tolerant of other people's doings, not even 
 proposing to do anything herself. She leaned and 
 drooped heavily. The whole expression of her 
 face and figure was unusual. 
 
 Dorcas Haddon followed David as he went out. 
 
 " I 'm afraid it 's a stroke," she said. " Thee go 
 ask Dr. Mayhew to step over here." 
 
 Dr. Mayhew came, and advised Aunt Hepsy to 
 go to bed. He helped her up-stairs, and she made 
 no objection, as the stable, resolved, self-sufficient 
 Hepsy Swain would have done. She was that 
 Hepsy Swain no longer. 
 
 Miriam, as she watched her, feebly submitting 
 to be led, felt all her old dread melt into compas-
 
 STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 199 
 
 sion and tenderness. The eagle that fixes its keen 
 eye upon us from among the rocks is no object 
 for tenderness, but when it falls wounded, who- 
 ever is capable of compassion will feel a tenderer 
 compassion for it because it was an eagle. 
 
 When the doctor came again that evening, he 
 said Aunt Hepsy would always be partially par- 
 alyzed, if she arose at all from the shock. Miriam 
 meditated long over this announcement, and the 
 result of her meditations was something hardly to 
 be expected. She went with a look of calm re- 
 solve to the kitchen, where Rosanna was filling 
 some large bottles with hot water to put to Aunt 
 Hepsy's feet. 
 
 " Rosanna," she said, " I must learn to take care 
 of Aunt Hepsy." 
 
 " Bressed kingdom ! " cried Rosanna. " Why, 
 my chile, you hoi's yo' head 'zac'ly like Miss Hepsy 
 herse'f. What ails yo', honey ? Susan G.'s a-comin' 
 to take keer o' Miss Hepsy." 
 
 " Susan G. won't stay always, Rosanna. Dr. 
 Mayhew said Aunt Hepsy might live twenty 
 years ; she is only sixty, and the Swains live to be 
 very old. I can do these things myself. I must by 
 and by, so I 'd better begin to learn right away. 
 And, Rosanna, I think thee 'd better not talk to 
 me as if I was a baby any more. I 'm almost 
 thirteen, and I 'm very tall, and if thee pleases, I 
 wish thee 'd treat me as if I was a woman." 
 
 Rosanna looked at her baby, standing there so 
 straight, with her hands clasped precisely before
 
 200 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 her, and that strange look of dignity on her young 
 face. Some latent quality, never needed before, 
 got from the determined old ancestor who had 
 chosen that almost desert island and a hard life, 
 in order to carry out a righteous purpose, had risen 
 in Miriam, and armed her to carry out a righteous 
 purpose of her own, and accept a life which 
 seemed as hard and barren to her as, perhaps, the 
 desert island did to him. 
 
 Rosanna's inclination to laugh suddenly de- 
 parted. She sat down, covered her face with her 
 two great hands, and wept aloud. 
 
 " Rosanna," said Miriam, " I wish thee 'd be 
 quiet and get the bottles ready. I 'm waiting to 
 carry them up." 
 
 " Don't, darlin', don't ! " sobbed Rosanna ; " I 
 hate to see yo' so, my lamb. Ef yo' want to take 
 up yo' mind orderin' things an' havin' yer own 
 way, honey, yo' can jes' do it. Do anything yo' 
 likes, dear, but don'tlook that V way, don't!" 
 
 Miriam was unused to Rosanna's tears, and they 
 produced the effect of bringing her to embrace 
 and coax her old friend, until a more comfortable 
 understanding ensued, and Rosanna wiped her 
 eyes and finished filling and wrapping the bottles 
 with only a few more sniffs. 
 
 " Is yo' sho yo' can take them heavy things up, 
 darlin' ? Don't they burn yo' ? Yere, let Ro- 
 sanna take 'em to the top o' the sta'rs for yer." 
 
 " No," said Miriam, " Give them to me," and 
 clasping the burden in her arms she mounted the 
 staii-s without bending an inch.
 
 STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 201 
 
 When she reached Aunt Hepsy's room, there 
 was no one in attendance for the moment. She 
 raised the coverings at the side of the bed, and 
 placed the bottles near the cold feet, then seated 
 herself in the chintz-covered rocking-chair by the 
 Franklin fireplace. In the great brass balls on 
 the top she could see a diminished reflection of 
 the solemn-looking room and her far-away, lone- 
 some self in the heart of it. It seemed like a 
 magic mirror, in which she could look at her fu- 
 ture. There was nothing for her any more but 
 what was there. There she should sit day after 
 day, and year after year, with Aunt Hepsy, and 
 the years seem eternal to youth. 
 
 She listened to the clock in the entry slowly 
 ticking away the hours. How many wearisome 
 ticks in a minute ; how slowly the minutes grew 
 into hours ; how the hours stretched on and on 
 through day and night and week and month and 
 year; and all it seemed to the girl just coming 
 to her thirteenth summer all filled full of grief 
 for her father, and duty to Aunt Hepsy ! The 
 tears did not fall, as they had done. They were 
 frozen by the cold awe which filled her, at that 
 appalling view. Her heart ached with a sore 
 agony, which involuntarily sought relief in long, 
 quivering breaths that sounded like repressed 
 sobs ; but the tears, they belonged with the 
 indulgences of past days, those days which had 
 appeared sometimes hard and unlovely. 
 
 Aunt Hepsy slept on for hours, and the first
 
 202 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 thing her eyes rested upon when they opened was 
 the sharp nose of Susan G. projected above her 
 pillow, in an investigating attitude. There was 
 not the faintest trace of pleasure or welcome in the 
 stare with which her patient responded. Susan 
 G. was indifferent to that, however. She stalked 
 across the room, her highly starched dress and 
 apron speaking for her general inflexibility with 
 a loud rattle, and taking a cup from the top of the 
 fire-frame, stirred it vigorously, poured some of its 
 liquid into another cup with a spout to it, and re- 
 turning, presented the spout to Aunt Hepsy, in- 
 viting her to drink the uncertain contents. Aunt 
 Hepsy ignored the spout and the invitation. 
 
 " You must take this nourishment, Miss Swain, 
 before you go to sleep again," said Susan G. 
 
 When had Aunt Hepsy been told what she must 
 do? 
 
 It was like opening the slide in a dark lantern 
 when she opened her eyes. Susan G. felt the flash 
 in her face. 
 
 "Thee can take thy nourishment away, and 
 thyself also," she said, very slowly and distinctly. 
 
 Aunt Hepsy accepted few people, and Susan G. 
 was not one of her elect. Absolute, irresistible 
 laws, like those of natural selection and the sur- 
 vival of the fittest, determined these matters, and 
 they determined that Susan G. should perish from 
 the narrow sphere of Aunt Hepsy 's favor. It was 
 Greek and Greek, and all night the contest waged, 
 but early in the morning, before the sun had fairly
 
 STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 203 
 
 shown his face, there stole into Aunt Hepsy's room, 
 upon tiptoe, a quiet little figure, which stood at the 
 foot of the bed with a sad, calm face, in which the 
 roses were pale and the sweet eyes heavy. 
 
 When Aunt Hepsy saw the sight, the expres- 
 sion of her own face softened, and she raised her 
 well hand with an appealing gesture, reached out 
 for Miriam's hand, and held it, while a mist 
 arose in her eyes. They did not kiss each other, 
 those lonely companions in affliction. Aunt Hepsy 
 could never have been guilty of such folly, and the 
 clasped hands said enough. 
 
 "I 'm going to learn to do everything for thee, 
 Aunt Hepsy," said Miriam. " I 'm going to take 
 care of thee always, and I shall never leave thee 
 never." 
 
 Aunt Hepsy, whose waking hours all through 
 the night had been filled with the horror of life- 
 long contention with Susan G., looked up with 
 glad surprise. The dawning of something like a 
 humble feeling crept into her hitherto self-confi- 
 dent heart at the sight of the one she had meant 
 to correct with severe discipline looking down 
 upon her so compassionately. She did not speak, 
 but something rolled out of the corner of her eye 
 and fell upon her pillow which startled Miriam. 
 It was the first tear she had ever seen in Aunt 
 Hepsy's eyes. The weakness of the strong is ter- 
 rible. Miriam instinctively felt that she must not 
 notice it. She was trying to think of something 
 she could do to comfort Aunt Hepsy physically,
 
 204 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 she did not dare offer to console her otherwise, 
 when Susan G. came in with the appurtenances 
 for Aunt Hepsy's toilet. 
 
 "Set the things on the stand, Susan G.," said 
 Aunt Hepsy, quite tolerantly, for she was inocu- 
 lated with gentleness for the moment. " Miriam 
 will attend to me while thee brings up the break- 
 fast." 
 
 Susan G ., accustomed to be in command herself, 
 stared at her refractory patient. 
 
 " I see you 've got a nuss," she said, " and you 
 only want me for help. There 's them that needs 
 me so as they don't know how to get along with- 
 out me, and it 's lucky for 'em I need n't stay here 
 another minute." 
 
 " No, no, Susan G.," said Miriam, " thee won't 
 go away until I 've learned to do everything for 
 Aunt Hepsy myself. I '11 be the helper, and thee 
 will teach me what to do, won't thee ? " 
 
 Susan G. looked down into the pathetic face of 
 the child. 
 
 " Wai, I hain't no objections to that arrange- 
 ment," she said ; " but I 'm a-going to manage my 
 patients my own way, or I 'm a-going to give up 
 nussing one or tother." 
 
 " Well, shall I bathe Aunt Hepsy's face and 
 hands and make her ready by the time thee wants 
 her to have her breakfast ? Would that help thee 
 a little ? " 
 
 " I 'm sure I don't care," said Susan G., rattling 
 out of the room.
 
 STRANGENESS IN THE OLD HOME. 205 
 
 So Miriam furnished a cushion that prevented 
 any dangerous clashing between Aunt Hepsy and 
 Susun G. What Aunt Hepsy dreaded to accept 
 from Susan, Miriam managed to do for her herself, 
 so that Aunt Hepsy was brought to tolerate the 
 unwelcome services. 
 
 Susan G. was by no means unaware of her ex- 
 ceptional worth, and she considered it only a suit- 
 able and natural provision that she should have an 
 assistant, and the assistant often found her office 
 rather more arduous than that of the principal. 
 Besides the many steps she was allowed to take, 
 she felt an anxious care from which Susan G. was 
 blissfully free. When Susan G. spoke to Aunt 
 Hepsy during her ministrations through the night, 
 Miriam, in her own room across the entry, would 
 waken and go to see if there was need of a medi- 
 ator between the opposing powers ; not with the 
 appearance of a mediator, however, but with a 
 question as to whether she could n't do something, 
 and she always found she could soothe Aunt Hepsy 
 by staying with her for a while, and the sleepy, 
 weary child would sit in the chair by the bed for 
 hours with her head braced back so that it need 
 not nod, and always left peace and comfort behind 
 her when she returned to her fitful rest. Some- 
 times when Aunt Hepsy called, Susan G. was only 
 too glad to have some one else respond, so that she 
 might continue her nap, and Miriam would rise 
 and go to give Aunt Hepsy the glass of water or 
 the beef tea, or lift the tiresome weight of the
 
 206 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 helpless arm and gently rub and soothe it into ease 
 again. Aunt Hepsy was always glad it was Mir- 
 iam instead of Susan G., and if she thought of it 
 as being hard for the child, she also remembered 
 that her own cares had begun early, and what 
 wholesome discipline had done for her it might 
 do for Miriam. Aunt Hepsy's voice was still for 
 discipline as a necessity of the human nature.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE GHOST OF OBED SWAIN. 
 
 BUT what was wholesome medicine for Aunt 
 Hepsy disagreed with Miriam exceedingly. Her 
 sorrow and her self-imposed burden were enough 
 to crush her, yet not even Rosanna knew of the 
 weary night-watches, and the daily offices which 
 Miriam was so willing to undertake she seemed 
 to ask for as indulgences, so that before any one 
 was aware of it the young body and spirit were 
 sadly broken, and the serene child came to have 
 nerves, an affliction of which she had perhaps 
 never heard, and which she could not understand. 
 The spring grew sweeter every day, and she felt 
 it glow and breathe upon her through the open 
 windows, but those lovely things that grow upon 
 the moors, in the meadows, and down by the 
 margin of the pond seemed very far beyond her 
 reach. 
 
 The days and weeks, which took so much, from 
 Miriam, gave help to Aunt Hepsy, so that she 
 was at first able to sit up in her bed and manage 
 her repasts for herself, with Miriam to supply the 
 place of her withered right hand. It was Miriam 
 always, and Miriam only, who did that. At length
 
 208 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Aunt Hepsy could sit in her chair, with Miriam 
 beside her to minister to her in the hundred little 
 ways that a helpless person can suffer best from a 
 hand that is, after all, their own. And finally, 
 Aunt Hepsy was able to move about with a crutch, 
 or the support of a kind arm or shoulder, and the 
 arm or shoulder were almost always Miriam's. 
 Aunt Hepsy would wait long rather than have any 
 other. The little, round, solid shoulder had grown 
 slight, and the arm very thin, and people said it 
 was because she grew so fast, for on her thir- 
 teenth birthday Miriam was nearly as tall as Aunt 
 Hepsy. 
 
 In all the slow time, she had borne whatever 
 was to be borne in silence and in secret, excepting 
 once. 
 
 Once Rosanna had wakened in the night with 
 the impression that there was some one in her 
 room, and found at her bedside a little shivering 
 figure that moaned. 
 
 " Oh, Rosanna," it said, "I'm afraid I'm 
 afraid I can't bear it ! But if I could only see fa- 
 ther once, I could. I think I could." 
 
 " There, now, my lamb," said Rosanna, holding 
 Miriam's little trembling hands in one of her great 
 black fists, while she patted and stroked the heav- 
 ing shoulders, " 't ain't onpossible, honey, but you 
 may see him yet. Folks have seen 'em. Lors, 
 my precious, it 's 'nough ter draw him right down 
 ter have you takin' on so. Don't darlin', don't ! " 
 
 " I don't see how I could see him when when "
 
 THE GHOST OF OBED SWAIN. 209 
 
 sobbed Miriam, unable to put into words the 
 mournful mystery of her thought. 
 
 " 'T ain't no matter ef \ve don't see how things 
 happens, they goes on a-happenin' jes' the same," 
 said Rosanna. 
 
 " Did thee ever see any ? " 
 
 " I specs I has." 
 
 " Tell me about it ! " pleaded Miriam, clinging 
 to Rosanna's arm with quivering eagerness. " Tell 
 me if thee thinks I can see my father!" 
 
 " I ain't sho as it 's best to talk much about 
 them things," said Rosanna, with a reserve which 
 depended somewhat upon the hour of the night, 
 the melancholy darkness, and even more melan- 
 choly light of the room. 
 
 " Yes," urged Miriam, " thee must tell me, Ro- 
 sanna. I shall feel better if I know they do come 
 again, if thee says thee has seen them." 
 
 Keeping her eyes averted from the uncertain 
 far corners, Rosanna, to comfort the child, whis- 
 pered : 
 
 " I seen ole missus." 
 
 " Did thee, Rosanna ? " Miriam cried in a tone 
 that sounded like the gladness of hope. " Oh, 
 then, don't thee think I might be permitted to see 
 father?" 
 
 " My sweet lamb ! " said Rosanna, " 'twould n't 
 'stonish me none ef you was let to stan' an' look 
 right into Heab'n's do' ! " and stimulated by Mir. 
 iam's eagerness, she told tales that had circulated 
 among the negroes in the days of her bondage.
 
 210 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Miriam listened with eyes strained wide upon 
 the darkness, and with palpitating breath, that 
 prolonged itself into sighs. When Rosanna had 
 finished, her own teeth were chattering with a 
 ghostly terror, but Miriam was exalted by a great 
 hope. She could hardly speak, her little heart 
 was so full. At length she said : 
 
 " I 'm better now, dear old Rosanna, and I think 
 I can bear it. Good-night." 
 
 " Lor' bress ye, honey ! Don't ye want Rosanna 
 to come an' lay on de flo' by yo' ? " 
 
 " No, thank thee," and Miriam turned away to 
 enjoy this new, great hope in silence and alone. 
 
 After that, a person who had watched her might 
 have perceived that she had an expectant look. 
 She turned, when the door opened, with eager eyes, 
 and looked as if she were ready to smile, then her 
 eyes drooped, and the promise of a smile faded 
 into the old, submissive gravity again, as if the 
 one she expected had, after all, not arrived. 
 
 Thus a few weeks went by, and there seemed, 
 at last, to be a trace of anxiety and disappoint- 
 ment on her patient face, until, one night, Rosanna 
 was awakened by feeling a grasp upon her arm, 
 and starting up with a frightened outcry, she saw 
 standing in the pale light of a low, waning moon 
 a tall white figure, it looked very tall to Ro- 
 sanna. 
 
 "For d' Lord's sake, who is you? " gasped Ro- 
 sanna. 
 
 " I 've seen him ! I 've seen him, Rosanna ! " 
 returned a low, exultant voice.
 
 THE GHOST OF OBED SWAIN. 211 
 
 " Oh, my bressed chile ! Is that yo' ? Sho ! 
 How yer skeered me ! Who has yo' seed, honey ? " 
 
 " Father. I 've seen my father," said Miriam, 
 solemnly. 
 
 "Whar, darlin'? When did yo' see him? 
 Lor', yo' makes my skin creep." 
 
 "Rosanna" 
 
 " What, honey ? Oh, my king ! " 
 
 " Rosanna, I must go and find him. I saw him 
 go by in the street. I was sitting at my window 
 in the moonlight and I saw him ! I tried to call, 
 but I could n't speak. Oh, I hope he won't go 
 away before I speak to him ! Come, Rosanna, 
 thee get up and go with me ! " 
 
 Rosanna's teeth chattered audibly, and the bed 
 shook under her. 
 
 " No, my chile, don't ye do it ! Don't ye do 
 it ! " (in a tone of solemn warning.) " They 
 don't like bein' follered. Jes' yo' stay quiet. Go 
 git right into bed, an' Rosanna '11 come an' lay on 
 de flo' side of yo'." 
 
 Rosanna slipped on her gown and lighted a can- 
 dle with shaking hands. Then she arranged a 
 mattress on the floor in Miriam's room, as she had 
 often done when Miriam was a little child, and lay 
 down beside her. Miriam submitted to Rosanna 
 without words, but she watched with almost un- 
 winking vigilance. All was silent except the clock 
 in the hall. Rosanna left the candle burning on 
 account of what might make its appearance. She 
 preferred cheerful candlelight to ghostly moon-
 
 212 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 light, and she lay shivering with superstitious 
 dread. 
 
 The only apparition, however, which presented 
 itself was that of Susan G. in her green wrapper, 
 with the aureole of her nightcap upon her head. 
 She should admire to know what was the matter, 
 she said, and Rosanna answered that Miriam was 
 rather feverous or on the voyage of it, and Susan 
 G. rejoined that she made a puffect baby of that 
 great girl, and disappeared. That was all. But 
 the sight of the matter-of-fact Susan, and the 
 sound of her moving about, had the effect to dis- 
 sipate a good deal of Rosanna's dread. Miriam 
 seemed quiet, so she presently sank into undis- 
 turbed repose, which lasted until the morning had 
 fairly dawned. But Miriam had not slept. She 
 had watched the candle flicker and go out, and 
 then her eyes had wandered about in the morning 
 dusk with eager restlessness. She had listened 
 with supersensitive ear to every suggestion of 
 sound. The faint crackling of expansion or con- 
 traction in the old woodwork of the room, the 
 nestling of a sleepy swallow in the chimney, had 
 thrilled her over-wrought nerves. When the white 
 dimity curtains shivered, it seemed to be because 
 of something strange, something more than a gen- 
 tle draught of air. 
 
 Suddenly Miriam sat straight up in her bed. 
 What was it she heard ? Something approaching 
 softly. It was at the gate outside. No ordinary 
 sense could have caught that small, almost inaudi-
 
 THE GHOST OF OBED SWAIN. 213 
 
 ble clicking of the latch. A quiet sleeper would 
 never have noticed that faint footfall on the edge 
 of the grass in the yard. 
 
 " Rosanna ! " softly called a voice that Miriam 
 would not have heard if she had not been unnat- 
 urally alert, it was so far away in the backyard, 
 under Rosanna's window. 
 
 Miriam sprang to the floor and Rosanna bounced 
 up with a cry of terror. 
 
 " Oh, for d' Lord's sake, honey, did yo' see it 
 agin ? " she groaned. But Miriam, in one in- 
 stant, had darted through the back entry into Ro- 
 sanna's room, and taken a peep out of her window. 
 
 " It 's father ! It is father I " she cried, in a 
 gasping, husky voice. " He 's calling thee, Ro- 
 sanna! " 
 
 At that moment Rosanna herself distinctly 
 heard the voice which called. 
 
 "Oh, good Lord, he's come for me!" she 
 shrieked, bumping down upon her knees. " Oh, 
 Lord, I ain't perpared. Oh, my bressed Mas'er, I 
 ain't ready ! I 's a pore mis'able sinner ! Gi' me 
 time ! Gi' me mo' time ! " 
 
 This outcry brought Susan G. Even Aunt 
 Hepsy roused up and reached out for her crutch, 
 as if she, too, must try to do something, whatever 
 this dreadful matter might be. 
 
 While Susan G. was dealing with Rosanna, 
 whom she supposed to be suddenly lunatic, Mir- 
 iam flew away down-stairs, like a ray of white 
 light, through the house to the kitchen door, all
 
 214 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 the way grasping her throat, panting and choking, 
 as if in pain. Her trembling hands struggled 
 long with the lock, and then the door flew open, 
 and still gasping and speechless, she was gathered 
 into the arms of Obed Swain. 
 
 "My child! Have I frightened thee ? What 
 have I done to thee ? " he said, in a beseeching 
 tone, gazing with alarm at the pale, wild face of 
 the child, distorted by a vain effort to speak. 
 
 This appearance of Obed Swain had hollow 
 eyes, and the pallid, shrunken look that a ghost 
 should have, but I must honestly confess that it 
 was no ghost at all, but the worn and wasted sub- 
 stance of the living Obed Swain. He tried to lift 
 his child and carry her back to her room, but he 
 seemed not to have sufficient strength, and seating 
 her in Rosanna's rocking-chair in the kitchen, he 
 bent over her, trembling as much as she did, 
 while two great tears rolled down upon her hair. 
 
 " There, my daughter," he said, " let us be calm 
 and thankful. There, there, my little one ! " and 
 he stroked her cheek and her hair and kissed the 
 child again and again, but she did not speak. Then 
 Obed knelt beside her, saying, " Speak to me, 
 Miriam ! Speak to father ! " But Miriam only 
 buried her face on the breast of the drab coat, 
 kissing that, but still saying never a word, only 
 choking and weeping and laughing in a helpless, 
 piteous way ; and her sobs had a tone of joy, but 
 her laugh was like a mournful wail. 
 
 Obed Swain was more and more frightened. He
 
 THE GHOST OF OBED SWAIN. 215 
 
 stepped into the front entry, where he heard the 
 voice of Rosanna praying in a faint and failing 
 tone. Rosanna was probably ill, then. Perhaps 
 the faithful creature was dying. But some one 
 must come to his child. He would call Hepsy 
 Swain. Nothing could ruffle or discompose that 
 strong soul. She would accept his sudden return 
 with the same equanimity which had marked 
 every event of her life. Obed climbed the stairs. 
 The door of his sister's room stood open. He 
 tapped on the wall to give warning of his ap- 
 proach, and called gently, " Hepsy, it is I. It is 
 Obed." 
 
 And directly, in the doorway before Aunt 
 Hepsy, stood what, as I have already said, seemed 
 but the ghost of Obed Swain.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 THOSE quiet ones who came softly to offer sym- 
 pathy to the bereaved came in almost the same 
 hushed and solemn manner to rejoice when the 
 dead was alive again and the lost found. The old 
 home was very still. Miriam lay upon her bed 
 overwhelmed and nerveless, while Aunt Hepsy, 
 smitten by joy more severely than she had been 
 by sorrow, what shall we say ? Was it life or 
 death they looked upon who stood beside her? 
 Down-stairs in the keeping-room Obed Swain sat 
 with head bowed and hands dropped at his sides. 
 It was Obed, and it was not. No one disputed his 
 identity, but where was the cheery Obed of past 
 days? 
 
 Up-stairs in the sombre " spare room," which, 
 in its snowy whiteness, broken only by the black- 
 ness of old mahogany, seemed appropriate to sol- 
 emn occasions, Ruth Haddon was seated in an 
 attenuated rocking-chair, rocking and weeping, 
 and giving her whole heart to it, apparently. On 
 the bed lay something straight and still, wrapped 
 in a linen sheet, like some shrouded thing. It 
 was the lovely white gown that Rosanna had pre-
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 217 
 
 pared to lay away in its eternal rest when she had 
 unpacked the little trunk, but which had lain 
 there embalmed in sorrow and forgotten ever since. 
 
 Presently Aunt Dorcas peeped in at the half- 
 open door. 
 
 " Ruth ! I 'm sorry for this, daughter," she said. 
 " I need thee to stay with Miriam." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! It is just that that breaks me 
 down ; to see the poor little thing lie there so 
 helpless and strange, and she hasn't spoken a 
 word yet. What can be the reason ? " 
 
 " It is probably hysterical. There, now, don't 
 thee get hysterical thyself." 
 
 " Well, Uncle Obed has ridden his hobby into 
 the ground, and the whole family with it, almost. 
 How could he call that wild notion of going into 
 those out-of-the-way regions of the Southern 
 States to help the freedmen a leading, he, a 
 Quaker Abolitionist, and such bitter feeling still 
 remaining there ? Has he said what was the rea- 
 son he did n't let us know before he went on this 
 fool's this foolish errand ? " 
 
 " Ruth, my daughter, think what thee 's say- 
 ing ! They sent letters home by the City of Ha- 
 vana, to let us know their change of plan, and 
 did not hear of the loss of the steamer. Of 
 course, in their imprisonment, they could neither 
 send nor receive messages. The supply ship that 
 they were put on board at Charleston transferred 
 them to a Nantucket packet just before they 
 reached Boston, and they got in here at midnight.
 
 218 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Poor Uncle Obed longed so to get home that he 
 left the packet and came and wandered about the 
 house. When he thought Rosanna was up, he 
 went to the kitchen door and spoke to her. He 
 did n't expect to be taken for a dead man." 
 
 "Does thee think he showed good judgment, 
 mother, dropping down so like a bomb ? " 
 
 " My dear, whatever Uncle Obed's virtues may 
 be in other respects, I can't say he was ever re- 
 markable for good judgment." 
 
 " No, mother ; and I 'm afraid he won't be easy 
 until he goes back South and gets himself perse- 
 cuted again in the Freed men's cause. The sight 
 of a Quaker coat and hat are as exasperating to 
 those Southerners as a piece of red cloth to a 
 bull. Poor little Miriam ! And what does Dr. 
 Mayhew say about Aunt Hepsy ? Is she to live 
 on, if we can call it living ? " 
 
 " Perhaps so." 
 
 " What an awful house, mother ! What an at- 
 mosphere for that child, who needs happiness so 
 much ! " 
 
 " Happiness, dear ? Is that what we 're here 
 for ? It is our duty to be happy if possible, but 
 isn't there a higher and better than happiness? 
 Remember, ' we can do without happiness and in- 
 stead thereof find blessedness.' " 
 
 "But that doesn't apply to a little girl of thir- 
 teen. We surely ought to be happy in childhood." 
 
 "Ought, my dear? Ought? Who is to say 
 when the training of the soul is to begin ? Thee
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 219 
 
 go bathe thy eyes and look more cheerful, and 
 don't expect to see the end of things yet. If thee 
 has any courage or comfort to offer, now is the 
 time ; there 's need enough of it. Try to comfort 
 Uncle Obed. See how the poor man is suffering 
 over the result of his imprudence." 
 
 For many a long, hot summer day, there were 
 in the old Swain house only two relations, that of 
 the ones who needed help and comfort, and that 
 of those who ministered to the need. 
 
 Miriam seemed not to care to ask how things 
 were, nor why they were. She heard new voices 
 in the house, but they awoke no curiosity in her. 
 She missed one feeble voice and the soft thumping 
 of a crutch upon the floor, yet she asked for no 
 explanation, said no word at all, but looked upon 
 whatever passed before her as a marble image 
 might have looked, except that she smiled upon 
 her father and shook her head with a look of sur- 
 prise and something like reproach when questioned 
 or urged to speak. The doctor explained that the 
 entire prostration of nervous force extended to the 
 will; she had no strength of will, which was all 
 that was needed to enable her to speak. 
 
 At length, one day, to the joy of everybody, 
 she made a sign for pencil and paper and wrote 
 very scrawly and feebly, " Who is John Nye ? " 
 " John Nye ! " repeated cousin Ruth, looking 
 doubtfully from Miriam to Rosanna, who was 
 Miriam's nurse. " What can thee mean, dear ? 
 We don't know a person of that name."
 
 220 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 The pencil dropped from Miriam's fingers, and 
 she sat quietly indifferent again, in the great easy 
 chair. By and by, however, she took the pencil 
 again, an'd after a very long, slow, trembling oper- 
 ation, produced the following : 
 
 " I keep hearing somebody say, ' John Nye 
 thinks so,' ' John Nye 's going to do it.' I thought 
 he must be somebody important." 
 
 Just then a great, soft, unctuous, motherly voice 
 came from somewhere down below, in response 
 to Aunt Dorcas, " Yes 'm, it 's all right. John 
 Nye 's done it." 
 
 Miriam pointed towards the open door and 
 nodded. 
 
 " Oh, I see, I see ! " cried cousin Ruth, laugh- 
 ing. " It 's Mrs. Blossom. She means John and 
 7, but she says John 'n' I. John is her son. They 
 came from Barnstable. Mrs. Blossom is going to 
 stay here and keep house, -but she and John are 
 one, thee perceives, and she could n't come unless 
 he did; so he helps Simon Fewer do the work out 
 of doors and helps his mother in-doors, too. The 
 two always think alike, and feel alike, and do 
 alike, and I think Mrs. Blossom could hardly 
 speak of herself alone. It is always ' John 'n' I.' 
 ' John 'n' I thinks it's going to rain,' ' John'n' I 
 ain't feeling very smart to-day.' And John has 
 the same peculiarity, of course. What one has, 
 the other has, really, even to the toothache. I 'm 
 not exaggerating." 
 
 "Laws no, dear, she ain't, Miss Ruth ain't,"
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 221 
 
 said Rosanna, chuckling with a complex delight, 
 made up of her appreciative attitude towards 
 John 'n' I, and her satisfaction in regard to Mir- 
 iam's new interest in things. " Miss Ruth hain't 
 tole yo' haff, for I seen 'em bof setting in the 
 kitchen takin' ginger tea, an' Mis' Blossom say, 
 4 John 'n' I 's got a cramp in the stomick,' 's if 
 they on'y has one stomick a-tween 'em." 
 
 Miriam smiled faintly, but showed no further 
 interest in John 'n' I. 
 
 One charming morning when the clear, cooler 
 atmosphere of September made the blood quicken, 
 and the weak nerves react in a pleasant way, 
 and take all they could of balm and strength 
 from the salt air mellowed with sunshine and aro- 
 matic with the exhalations of sweet, ripe things, 
 Miriam was dressed, and sat trembling a little at 
 the exciting thought that she was to be taken out 
 for a drive. It seemed to her too much to dare to 
 do, and she looked forward to it with a touch of 
 dread. 
 
 Presently there was a step in the entry outside, 
 it sounded like one, and Rosanna, opening 
 the door of the room, disclosed two jocund-looking 
 figures, tall and plump and everything that could 
 denote a prosperous and satisfactory sufficiency. 
 It was John 'n' I. John was smiling, and so was 
 his mother. John possessed what one might call 
 a draughty countenance, and you could plainly 
 see it was taken from his mother, his mouth be- 
 ing singularly broad and a good deal ajar, his nos-
 
 222 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 trils uncommonly expanded, and his ears of a very 
 open and wide-spread order, all of which offered a 
 cool and pleasant effect for sultry weather, but it 
 gave an impression of terrible exposure on a raw, 
 cold, windy day. 
 
 Mrs. Blossom produced the same impression, 
 cheerfully enhanced by a very broad expanse of 
 clean calico, and the biggest and glossiest white 
 apron ever before seen, while, however, the ears 
 which added so much to John's expressiveness 
 were covered by a cap, from either side of which 
 a pink ribbon streamer rested upon Mrs. Blossom's 
 shoulder. She was a very gladdening creature to 
 behold, and her voice poured slowly and smoothly 
 forth like oil. 
 
 " Well, now, there ain't so much of you as there 'd 
 ought to be, by half, nor so much as there will be 
 come Thanskgivin' Day. I s'pose I ought to say 
 Quarterly Meeting Day. I 'm a-going to have 
 plenty of flesh put right on to them little bones, 
 and you must let John 'n' I take you down-stairs 
 and weigh you, so 's we can tell what we hed to be- 
 gin with. Shall we ? " 
 
 The very sight of Mrs. Blossom made Miriam 
 feel stronger and more courageous, and she thought 
 it would be a relief and a blessing to be lifted and 
 carried by those fresh, strong, capable-looking peo- 
 ple, or that was what her manner and the ex- 
 pression of her face said, as she leaned forward in 
 her chair a little, and nodded and smiled pleasantly 
 upon John 'n' I.
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 223 
 
 This unified duality clasped bands in such a 
 fashion as to form a chair, while Rosanna lifted 
 Miriam and seated her upon it, and away she went 
 down-stairs, and through the house, actually look- 
 ing about her with an air of faint, awakening in- 
 terest. 
 
 Obed Swain lifted his eyes from the keeping- 
 room floor, where they had been fixed in grave 
 abstraction, when he saw them coming, and fol- 
 lowed on behind, smiling, quite like the Obed 
 Swain of former days, and Rosanna kept up a suc- 
 cession of triumphant chuckles all the way, as she 
 brought up the rear. 
 
 The scales stood in the middle of the kitchen 
 floor, with a little flag-bottomed chair upon them, 
 John 'n' I having made the preliminary arrange- 
 ments. They placed Miriam in the little chair, 
 and John managed the weights while his mother 
 fixed her eye upon the figures to announce the 
 result. 
 
 " Seventy-five pound," said she, " takin' out five 
 for the chair," and extracting a piece of chalk from 
 her apron pocket she chalked it up on the bottle- 
 green surface of the wash-room door. 
 
 " There ! '"' she said, " that 's where we start 
 from." 
 
 Rosanna placed Miriam in the old kitchen rock- 
 ing-chair for a moment, where she had always 
 liked to sit since the time when she was so little 
 that she could not climb into it without help, and 
 where she had watched Rosanna's performances
 
 224 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 with an attention as concentrated and an admira- 
 tion as profound as a zealous play -goer might give 
 to the greatest actress of the age. Obed stood 
 beside his child, stroking her hair with the dreamy, 
 doubtful look which he had worn ever since his 
 look of anguish had subsided. 
 
 " Stop a bit," said Mrs. Blossom, stepping upon 
 the platform of the scales ; " there 's some of us 
 needs to have some took off. Two hundred weight 
 is all sufficient for folks that only measure five feet 
 ten. How much is it? " 
 
 " Two hundred 'n' ten," replied John. 
 
 "Ten pound too much. Nantucket air is fat- 
 tenin'," said Mrs. Blossom. 
 
 " John ain't weighed hisse'f," remarked Ro- 
 sanna, as the young man was about to take away 
 the scales. 
 
 " Oh, I don't need to be weighed," returned 
 John, " I know how much I weigh." 
 
 " Has yer been a-heftin' of yerse'f some o' dese 
 yer odd times ? " asked Rosanna. 
 
 " N-o," John answered, with a look of grave sin- 
 cerity, as he slowly piled the weights and placed 
 them on the shelf. "/ always weigh just the 
 same 's mother does." 
 
 " For d' land's sake ! Does yo' weigh alike ? " 
 cried Rosanna. " Yo' does n't differ 'bout noth- 
 ing, does yo' ? " 
 
 It was John who brought Jerry to the door, and 
 what Jerry brought was nothing less, I do assure 
 you, than a shining, new, light carriage with an
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 225 
 
 easy step, and two seats, so that Miriam could have 
 other company besides her driver. The only real 
 wish she had appeared to retain daring all those 
 weeks of illness was to have her father near her, 
 or where she could see him, and in this first drive 
 he was seated beside her. Rosanna, who would n't 
 have let the child out of her sight for all Nan- 
 tucket Island, took her place beside John on the 
 front seat. 
 
 They had hoped the new carriage would sur- 
 prise Miriam into speaking, but she only smiled 
 and looked at her father gratefully, before she set- 
 tled into her cushions and pillows. 
 
 The morning had an opal softness with all its 
 brightness. They drove to the south side, past 
 the thickets of scrub oak and dwarf pines, and 
 Miriam looked exactly the same at all things : 
 at the pond with its border of pickerel weed and 
 arrow-head; at the sweet-scented clethra, which 
 she was always before so eager to possess ; at the 
 scarlet pimpernels, the lavish gerardia, the blazing 
 star, and flaming heads of butterfly weed that 
 seemed almost to expect her, she had been so sure 
 to come to seek them. Rosanna got down and 
 filled her hands full of sweet, bright things, and 
 laid them upon Miriam's lap, who looked upon 
 them pensively. 
 
 At the place where the ways divide, and go in 
 one direction to the South shore and in another to 
 'Sconset, Miriam really indicated a preference for 
 the 'Sconset road, to the joy of those who wished
 
 226 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 always that she would choose something. She 
 liked the long beach, with the light-house in the 
 distance, and the row of fishermen's cottages, and 
 even the town pump. There was a group of old 
 women that morning, their caps nodding at each 
 other, and their petticoats flapping in the breeze, 
 and a collection of brown-faced children digging 
 in the sand with clam shells. Leaning on a feeble- 
 looking fence, four or five men fixed four or five 
 pairs of vacant eyes on the horizon, and mixed 
 their meditation with occasional dialogue. Their 
 red and blue shirts made a pleasant bit of color 
 among the neutral tones of sand and dry grass, 
 and on a bush in a dooryard some gay calicoes 
 were spread out to dry. 
 
 The Dagget cottage looked gone to sleep. It 
 was fast closed and the windows darkened. Life 
 had departed from it. Miriam sat up and looked 
 at it, which was enough to awaken an interest in 
 Obed Swain. He stopped the carriage, and would 
 have rehearsed once more the scene of the boy and 
 the town pump. But one of the women, feeling 
 called upon to do the honors of the village, inter- 
 fered with that inclination. A shining new car- 
 riage was a new thing indeed in 'Sconset, but 
 Obed's was a well known face to everybody on 
 the island. The fact that he had been considered 
 dead and was alive again made him a person of 
 peculiar interest, and it was with great alacrity 
 that one of the old busybodies presented herself 
 beside the cai'riage with a profusion of nods and
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 227 
 
 smiles, while her con-soeurs gathered what they 
 could from their more retired position. 
 
 ** Lonesome lookin', ain't it ? " said the self- 
 commissioned delegate, sliding her leather-colored 
 hands back and forth from wrist to elbow on her 
 folded arms. " They 're all gone now, boy 'n' 
 all." 
 
 " What boy does thee speak of, friend ? " asked 
 Obed. 
 
 " Why, Ma'am Dagget's boy, that stayed with 
 her all winter. 'T ain't possible you hain't heered 
 about him, an' the will ! " 
 
 " What will does thee allude to ? Is n't friend 
 Dagget living? " 
 
 " Oh, no, sir ! Why, you hain't heered that nei- 
 ther! She died last spring. She was in such a 
 hurry to clean, after she got spry agin, that 's 
 after her broken ankle got well, that she went 
 at it in cold weather. She was up aloft some- 
 w'er's, a scourin' the chimleys, an' she catched the 
 pneumony. That boy she sot so much by was 
 gone away. I can't tell nothing about what he 
 went for, and I do' know who ken, but so 't was 
 that when he come home, I was there and seed 
 it and heered it all myself, for 's I took care of 
 Ma'am Dagget to the last, when he come home 
 she says to him to go after Squire Coffin quick, 
 an' he went, an' Squire Coffin come right over 
 from town that night, an' she told him she wanted 
 to give everything to the boy, for he'd been 
 good to her ; an' Squire Coffin he writ it all
 
 228 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 down, how that Ma'am Dagget was in her right 
 mind, an' she give an' bequeathed to the boy the 
 house an' furnitoor an' money, everything, old 
 hoss an' all, an' the next day she died ; an' 't wa' 
 n't long afore the boy he shut up house an' locked 
 it an' off he went, an' he hain't never come back 
 sence. There 's them that says John Dagget had 
 a chist of money stowed away somew'er's. I ain't 
 a-going to say as I b'lieve it, nor as I don't, but 
 there was one as did, an' was so besot to git a 
 pocketf nil of it, that he broke into the house an' 
 was a rummagin' of it when some o' the men that 
 come in late from the fishin' saw the light, an' 
 went an' caught him, an' hed him shut up at the 
 town farm. He 's there now, an' he '11 stay a spell. 
 There wa' n't nobody 't ever sot foot in 'Sconset 
 that was liked better 'n Ma'am Dagget's boy. 
 We '11 stand by him an' pertect his property till 
 he comes back to do it for himself, an' ef he needs 
 any help then we '11 give it to him, I can tell ye." 
 
 " He must have been a worthy lad to make such 
 good friends." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he deserved all he got, however much 
 't is, -an' his chist is as safe here as 't would be in 
 the Centre Street Meeting-House, and he a-setting 
 on it." 
 
 " Wai, that ain't any of it what I was a-going 
 to say," resumed the gossip. " What I was think- 
 in' to remark was, that we 're all glad you 're alive 
 agin, sir, to do good to them that needs it, as ever, 
 and to enjy life yourself. How 's the little girl ? 
 Poor Miss Swain, she 's "
 
 THE BLOSSOMS. 229 
 
 " We 're as well as can be expected, thank thee," 
 said Obed quickly and nervously, with the manner 
 of shrinking from the subject, and after a few kind 
 words of inquiry about 'Sconset people be directed 
 John to drive home. " Or would thee like to go 
 farther, my child ? " he asked Miriam. 
 
 But Miriam seemed indifferent, and Jerry set- 
 tled the question, at any rate, by turning about 
 and starting for home with an air of great de- 
 cision.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AN END. 
 
 WHEN Miriam awoke from the long nap which 
 followed her drive, a letter lay upon the candle 
 stand beside her bed. She gazed upon it long be- 
 fore resolving to take it. Everything she did was 
 preceded by a fit of indecision. At length she 
 slowly reached for it and held it, looking at the 
 address and the postmark. The former was in 
 Roland Weir's handwriting, which had reformed 
 from the standard of Aunt Hepsy to that of Mr. 
 Stanley. 
 
 When she had determined to open the letter, it 
 offered her tidings of Roland's progress across the 
 continent of Europe, with Mr. Stanley ever at 
 hand to dip and plunge and steep and soak him 
 in knowledge, to cover and adorn him with coat 
 upon coat of improvement. As Mr. Stanley was 
 a very erudite and accomplished young man, and 
 as all the accumulated advantages of Europe were 
 waiting to be absorbed, there seemed little doubt 
 that Roland would come out drenched and drip- 
 ping with knowledge, thoroughly gilded and 
 garnished with improvement. 
 
 At the time of the writing of this letter, how-
 
 AN END. 231 
 
 ever, lie had only been dipped just enough to leave 
 him in a state of gasping bewilderment. 
 
 " I ought to tell you more about these places," 
 he said, " but I can't. I see so much, and Mr. 
 Stanley tells me so many things that I must be 
 sure not to forget, that you might as well try to 
 find each separate corn when it has been ground 
 and mixed up in Amos Tattle's meal-box as to 
 find anything particular in my head. We 're to 
 stay in Germany, and I 'in to have other teachers 
 besides Mr. Stanley. I shall send some pictures of 
 these places, and it will be almost the same as if 
 you saw them, and then I won't have to describe 
 them. Mr. Stanley says my powers of description 
 are well, he meant bad, you know. When he 
 uses a word I don't understand, I 'm to ask what 
 it means, and get it explained. I knew well 
 enough what t hat ought to mean, so I did n't ask. 
 He says so many of those words that he 's quite 
 incomprehensible at times. That's one of his 
 words! but he didn't catch me there. Aunt 
 Hepsy nailed that into me. He don't find any- 
 thing incomprehensible, except some of the things 
 I learned at Nantucket. He understands all the 
 rent, I can tell you." 
 
 Roland's experience of Europe being, in the 
 main, extremely like that of other travelers, his 
 letter need not be offered in full. It finished con- 
 cisely, in these words : 
 
 "Betty Vinton is coming here in October. 
 There '11 be no pleasure in life, then, for she has a 
 way of making a fellow feel so useless.
 
 232 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Now, Miriam, when shall you be well enough 
 to write to me ? They always say you are bettei-. 
 When will you tell me yourself that you are well ? 
 
 " Do write as soon as you can! " 
 
 This prayer of Roland's was answered, after 
 some weeks, as follows: 
 
 " I have tried to write. I began. There have 
 been a good many beginnings, and there has been 
 an end, too, Roland, and I knew nothing about it. 
 There was a long time that I could not think about 
 things. A little piece of a thought would come, 
 and then fly away again, and I could not remem- 
 ber what it was. 
 
 " Some very nice people came to live with us. 
 They are Blossoms, Betsy Blossom and John 
 Blossom. It makes me feel better to look at them. 
 Betsy Blossom said to me often, ' You hain't 
 got nothing to think of nor to do but to set there 
 and get well and grow fat. I '11 see to the how? 
 That 's the way they talk. One day when she said 
 that, it seemed as if somebody else said to me, 
 ' Hasn't thee got anything else to do? What 
 about thy Aunt Hepsy ? There 's that promise, 
 thee knows.' I was left alone in the south cham- 
 ber. I thought I must go to Aunt Hepsy right 
 away. I got up and held on to the chair back, it 
 made me shake so to stand up alone. Then I 
 walked along zigzag kind of dizzy till I came 
 to Aunt Hepsy's door. It was so still in her room 
 that I thought she might be having a nap, so I 
 opened the door very softly, and looked in. Aunt
 
 AN END. 233 
 
 Hepsy was not there. The bed was all made up 
 as smooth as ice not a wrinkle in it. It was a 
 chilly day, but there was not a spark of fire, nor 
 any ashes. The fireplace looked as if it had been 
 swept and washed out clean. Nothing of Aunt 
 Hepsy's was lying anywhere. There were no bot- 
 tles nor glasses nor spoons. Even ' The Sinner 
 Awakened ' and Barclay's ' Apology ' and ' No 
 Cross, No Crown ' and ' Thomas Chalkley's Jour- 
 nal ' were gone. Everything was gone but the 
 furniture, and that was so still ! It sat up stiff and 
 awful and looked at me. I was so surprised that 
 I sat down in the chair by the door and looked at 
 the bed, and the chair where I used to sit. The 
 chair had a new chintz cover. Everything looked 
 as if Aunt Hepsy had gone. ' Gone where ? ' I 
 wondered. While I was sitting and wondering, 
 I heard Betsy Blossom coming. When she saw 
 me, she did not say anything, only made a queer 
 noise, and took me right up like a baby and car- 
 ried me back to my room. I spoke right out. 
 ' Where 's Aunt Hepsy ? ' I said. I did not know 
 I was going to speak. It came right out. 
 
 " I shall have to tell thee that I could not speak 
 after father came back. I had not said a word for 
 they said it was six months. I see they have 
 n't told thee. I have thought many times, ' Ro- 
 land Weir will never hear my voice again.' I 
 had been struck dumb, like Zachariah, because I 
 was discontented and worldly-minded. My father 
 was given back to me, and my speech was taken
 
 234 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 away instead, because I could bear that, and the 
 Divine Wisdom saw that I could not bear the 
 other. Now it is all forgiven, and I have my 
 father and my speech both, for ever since I said, 
 ' Where 's Aunt Hepsy ? ' without knowing it, I 
 have gone on saying things every day. 
 
 " Just as I asked the question, father came to the 
 door, and Betsy Blossom, instead of answering me, 
 kept saying, * She 's spoke ! She 's spoke ! Bless 
 the Lord ! She 's spoke ! ' 
 
 " ' Where ' Aunt Hepsy ? ' I said again. Now 
 thee knows my father always answers people right 
 out plain. That is his way, and it is the right 
 way. He came and took me up in his arms, 
 I 'm very light though I 'm so tall, and kissed 
 me and seemed glad, but he said, ' Thy Aunt 
 Hepsy has gone where we shall all go, my daugh- 
 ter. She has finished this life.' 
 
 " ' Father ! Is Aunt Hepsy dead ? ' I went on 
 asking. 
 
 " * Yes, daughter,' father answered me. 
 
 " Then I could not say any more. I sat there 
 thinking of Aunt Hepsy dead. But I could not 
 see her that way. I could only see her walking 
 round in heaven and looking at everybody right 
 through the middle of her spectacles, to see if they 
 had any business there. And then I thought of a 
 time when she was on her bed so feeble and 
 we held each other's hands, and a tear rolled out 
 of her eye. Then the tears came to my eyes, 
 and dropped down, a great many of them, on fa-
 
 AN END. 235 
 
 ther's best coat, for he had just come home from 
 meeting. Just to think, Roland, that there will 
 be no Aunt Hepsy any more I Those strange 
 places can't seem much stranger to thee than my 
 own home does to me. Tell me more about them. 
 But I 'm glad to have thee tell more about thyself. 
 Father desires his respects to Friend Payne, and 
 we both love thee, the same as ever. Farewell. 
 
 " MIRIAM."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHAT PAUL HAD TO TELL. 
 
 AGAIN the winter held Nantucket in a five 
 months' grip, and again relented and let the waters 
 ripple in the harbor. The sea-birds made their 
 nests in the long grass and sand on the cliff-side 
 and along the lonely shore. The singing birds re- 
 turned, and the moors recovered the pensive smile 
 with which they listened to the pacified sea. All 
 the gentle things took courage and came forth; 
 the young dove from the cote in the gable of the 
 barn, to take its first look at the sky, the luxu- 
 riant Nantucket arbutus from under the sod, and 
 the Quaker girl herself from under the cloud. She 
 bloomed and was strong again. In that flush of 
 life there was a strange new sense of freedom. 
 She seemed almost to lay hold of the bright im- 
 possibilities which had haunted her dreams. She 
 did lay hold of one with a daring hand. She 
 bought a blue ribbon to tie at her throat. 
 
 " Ah, I do love worldly things ! " she said again 
 with the old sigh, but with such a smile. 
 
 And her own sorrow had opened her heart to 
 compassion, too, so that she not only loved worldly 
 things, but she pitied the sorrows of the world.
 
 WHAT PAUL HAD TO TELL. 237 
 
 And in the month of March, that year, had oc- 
 curred a terrible gale, which strewed the sea with 
 wrecks, and there were 'Sconset fishermen who 
 went out to their work and never returned. Many 
 hearts in the cottages suffered that grief which 
 Miriam had tasted, and the distracted families of 
 the lost fishermen will never forget the sweet 
 presence which came to them when they too were 
 saying, " I cannot bear it ! " 
 
 One day when she was returning from a visit 
 to 'Sconset, one of the little ones wept at the part- 
 ing and Miriam offered to take her home with her. 
 The poor mother thankfully let one of her seven 
 go, and as Miriam rode over the moor with little 
 Sally Martin hugged up to her side, peacefully 
 sucking her thumb, she felt as if Polly Hopkins 
 had come to life. Ah, that was a happy day ! 
 
 Sally Martin did not go back to 'Sconset, except 
 as she went to and from with Miriam and Polly 
 Hopkins during the summer. Again and again 
 being taken to her mother she returned to nestle 
 into the place she had taken in the old Swain 
 house ; so Miriam's summer was devoted to her 
 'Sconset people, especially Sally. By autumn 
 there was a question as to where Sally really did 
 belong. The question, however, was not with 
 Sally herself. Anywhere Miriam might be was 
 the place for her, in her own opinion. She made 
 no exception of Aunt Dorcas's lovely sitting-room, 
 for there she sat in the middle of the sofa, with 
 Polly Hopkins on one side of her and Whisker,
 
 238 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 the cat, on the other, one afternoon in the Octo- 
 ber following her vagrant summer. Aunt Dorcas, 
 cousin Ruth, and Miriam were surrounded by small 
 mountains of heavy cotton cloth and flannel, por- 
 tions of which were cut into garments, and busy 
 fingers stitched and stitched, while placid voices 
 discussed the comparative needs and measure- 
 ments of the poor people at 'Sconset. A lazy fire 
 flickered on the hearth, while the bland, sedative 
 air, that had come from over the sea and over the 
 heathy moors, had free access at the open window, 
 for the warm weather lingered and returned with 
 wavering intention. From the kitchen came far- 
 away tinkling sounds of the dishes and tins that 
 were being washed and put away, and in the li- 
 brary so called because there were a couple of 
 secretaries there with high book cases upon them 
 there was the occasional crackling of a newspaper 
 which Uncle David turned over and resumed be- 
 tween successive naps. All the sounds were gen- 
 tle. There were never any harsh noises in Aunt 
 Dorcas's house, never any slamming and banging, 
 any shouting and bemoaning. Ah, what a place 
 for nerves, especially as Paul was away ! That 
 uncertain person had gone on a vacation voyage 
 with Perez Howard. When Perez had said he 
 was to take to the sea about the first of July, he 
 alluded to a privilege he had enjoyed for two or 
 three summers. His grandfather owned ships, 
 and one of them went to Madeira after fruit and 
 wine, stopping at the Azores, and her captain, a
 
 WHAT PAUL HAD TO TELL. 239 
 
 delightfully good-natured man, had been intrusted 
 with the guardianship of Perez for the space of a 
 voyage, with the understanding that he was to ap- 
 ply the strict and wholesome discipline which he 
 seemed to his tutors and governors to stand in 
 need of very much indeed. This was soon after 
 his escapade with the rye at Haverford. But 
 Perez had found the treatment so agreeable that 
 it had ever since been his chosen diversion in va- 
 cation. This summer he had invited Paul Had- 
 don to take the voyage with him. It was now 
 time they should return, and every day Aunt Dor- 
 cas sat by the window with her sewing, after the 
 arrival of the boat, to watch for Paul. This after- 
 noon, as before, she glanced out of the window 
 frequently and up at the clock. " No," she said, 
 " he has n't come." 
 
 The door which opened into the little dim entry 
 that would take you to the kitchen was lightly 
 clattering and swinging as if moved by a draught 
 of air. Miriam got up to stop the small annoy- 
 ance. As she reached out to latch the door, it 
 opened about six inches, and in the space Miriam 
 saw two round, shiny things, that glittered in the 
 light from the sitting-room windows. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, stepping back. Aunt Dorcas 
 and cousin Ruth looked up. 
 
 " ' It is the ancient mariner, and he stoppeth 
 one of three ! ' " said a sepulchral voice, and a 
 long, brown, bony hand was thrust through the 
 opening of the door, which Miriam was far from 
 ready to clasp.
 
 240 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " ' I fear thee, ancient mariner ! I fear thy 
 skinny hand ! ' " continued the voice. 
 
 Aunt Dorcas dropped her work and hurried 
 across the room, saying, " Paul, Paul ! " and a 
 form that was " long, and lank, and brown," 
 stepped into the room and was folded in Aunt 
 Dorcas's arms. " My dear boy," Aunt Dorcas 
 said, " I 've been watching for thee, this hour. I 
 did n't see thee come. How did thee get in ? " 
 
 " I made a detour of the lane, fell upon the rear 
 of the castle by the back gate ; the garrison sur- 
 rendered without a struggle, and only one small 
 squeal. Officers all asleep, or at their revels," re- 
 turned Paul, while he moved on, kissing cousin 
 Ruth, and even Miriam, for ever since she had 
 suffered, Paul had been very kind to his cousin. 
 
 "What, Paul?" said Uncle David, rousing 
 himself, hearing Paul's last words and emerging 
 from the library. He grasped Paul's hand, gave 
 him a bear's hug, and said they could easily take 
 care of one marauder. 
 
 " Ah-ha ! " said Paul, in that funny, croaking 
 voice that had been growing upon him during a 
 year. " Perhaps thou hast never seen one of my 
 kind, with teeth well sharpened up, that have n't 
 had a good bite for seven hours," and he snapped 
 all his great incisors, cuspids, bicuspids, and mo- 
 lars together in such a way that it was really 
 dreadful. 
 
 " Well, come, my son," said Aunt Dorcas, 
 " there was dinner saved for thee in case thee
 
 WHAT PAUL HAD TO TELL. 241 
 
 should arrive. I '11 go see about it myself. Thee 
 must be famished." 
 
 " Why, what 's this ? " cried Paul, catching sight 
 of Sally Martin on the sofa. " Here 's a bite, 
 handy by. Is it a h-apple ? La, no, it 's only a 
 'uckleberry ! " and he made a feint of tossing Sally 
 into his mouth. 
 
 But Sally, who had witnessed the clashing of 
 those terrible teeth with terror, when she found 
 that she, her own self, was the object to be de- 
 voured, set up such a piercing howl as to make 
 herself a terror in return. 
 
 " By this din we conquer ! " cried Paul. " Oh, 
 don't I " he groaned. " I fly, leaving cannon and 
 flags on the field," and stuffing his fingers in his 
 ears he followed his mother. Uncle David and 
 cousin Ruth followed him, and Miriam remained 
 to reassure and console Sally Martin. 
 
 She wanted to hear Paul tell about his voyage. 
 Since she had grown old, fourteen, and Paul so 
 kind, she no longer dreaded him as she used. After 
 Sally was hushed, she heard the voices in the din- 
 ing-room Paul's slow drawl, Aunt Dorcas's and 
 cousin Ruth's quiet exclamations, and Uncle Da- 
 vid's laugh. She was afraid she must go home 
 with Sally, and not hear anything at all ; but Sally, 
 after weeping abundantly, fell fast asleep, and by 
 and by they all came back from the dining-room. 
 
 "No," Paul was saying, "we couldn't walk 
 about Funchal much, the streets are so steep, and 
 the pebble pavements are so slippery from the
 
 242 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 carros sliding over them all the time, and the 
 grease they throw on to make them slide. We 
 broke our noses trying to get up " 
 
 " Thee try to be more accurate," said Aunt 
 Dorcas, patting Paul's arm. 
 
 " Well, mother, I '11 admit that I may be mis- 
 taken about Perez's and the captain's and Ole 
 Bull's noses, but look at mine ! Don't it seem to 
 thee a little askew ? " 
 
 "I hadn't observed it," replied Aunt Dorcas, 
 looking at Paul's long, drooping nose with no ap- 
 parent concern. 
 
 " Oh, very well," said Paul, with a toss of his 
 head, " if it 's improving, so much the better. I 
 have heard of a man who got quite a handsome 
 nose, at last, by falling on it now and then." 
 
 " This subject of noses is supposed to be a very 
 droll one I don't know why," said cousin Ruth. 
 " For my own part, I think it 's very silly and flat. 
 I'd rather hear what thee promised to tell us 
 about that Ole Bull, as thee calls him." 
 
 " Well, he was a young fellow, a common sailor, 
 who brought a fiddle aboard, and played it first 
 rate, so the people said who know about those 
 things, and that is why they called him Ole Bull. 
 Ole Bull is a great fiddler. The captain used to 
 have this young man or boy I believe he 's only 
 sixteen come aft to play for us evenings. The 
 first mate played a flute, and we called them the 
 band. We had some fine moonlight nights, and 
 sometimes Perez and the other passengers danced.
 
 WHAT PAUL HAD TO TELL. 243 
 
 Of course I disapproved of that, and used to turn 
 my back round and look at the moon and think 
 about very improving things." 
 
 " No doubt, but we 'd rather hear what this re- 
 markable young man was doing than what thee 
 was thinking about," said Ruth. 
 
 " Why, I said he was playing his fiddle." 
 
 " But at other times. How did one of the crew 
 of the ship come to be running about with the 
 captain and passengers on shore?" 
 
 " Thee has n't waited for me to finish my story," 
 said Paul. " The captain was interested in him 
 to begin with, and then he turned out to be such a 
 brave fellow that we all liked him. We had a tre- 
 mendous thunder storm and gale, a sudden squall, 
 just before we got to the Azores, and the fel- 
 low, a perfectly green hand, was aloft on the yards 
 ahead of the old sailors. He was always ahead 
 none of your miserable ones that have to beat 
 their way an inch at a time. The captain said the 
 closer he watched him the better he liked him. 
 Big things or little things, he was always ready 
 for whatever there was to do. He passed for a 
 poor boy, but he seemed to know a good many 
 things that poor people don't get a chance to 
 know, and Perez and I believed he was a rich 
 man's son who had rnn away from home, but the 
 captain said no, he had quite a different account 
 of him. The captain's clerk left him at Madeira, 
 and he put Ole Bull in his place to try him, and 
 he did remarkably well. So you see it was as
 
 244 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 captain's clerk that he was running about with us 
 at Funchal. We were great pals after that, Perez 
 and he and I." 
 
 " Great what ? " asked Aunt Dorcas. 
 
 " Why, good friends, I suppose thee would say, 
 mother," answered Paul. "Excuse the foreign 
 words we use when we first return from abroad." 
 
 "Does that end the story of Ole Bull? " asked 
 Uncle David. 
 
 " Well, no, I think not," Paul answered. " I 
 may as well say ' to be continued in our next.' 
 There 's sure to be more to tell when I come back 
 next year." 
 
 " Next year, indeed ! " said Uncle David. " Thee 
 seems to have thy plans all settled." 
 
 "I only mean to say that I'm invited to go 
 again next year, father. We all said when we 
 parted, * Adios, till next summer.' The captain 
 is going to take Ole with him as clerk again next 
 voyage and teach him navigation. He says he '11 
 be able to take his place in a few years, when he 
 drops anchor for good. The captain is getting 
 rather old to follow the seas. Won't it be uncom- 
 monly good times when we set sail with-Ole for 
 captain ? I should like to have something to do 
 with the cargo. I could never make a sailor, but 
 I might be a merchant. What does thee say, fa- 
 ther?" 
 
 " I was about to say," said Uncle David, " that 
 thee must be ready to go back to Haverford next 
 Second Day, and I guess that is as far as we will 
 look forward at present."
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 BENJAMIN BOOTH'S STORY. 
 
 BUT we may look forward and step forward a 
 little over a time which was occupied with matters 
 not connected with this little history. 
 
 After the hindrances had all been removed 
 which were in Obed Swain's way when he un- 
 dertook to befriend the freedmen, his time and 
 thoughts were chiefly occupied with them and 
 Trinidad, and he went on his way, at length, with 
 the joy of a successful Abolitionist beaming in his 
 face. At sixteen Miriam was quite the mistress 
 of the old home and her own life. During more 
 than half the year she was left to dispose of both 
 as she pleased. 
 
 It was when Miriam was nearly eighteen that 
 such a terrible and sudden cold - weather wave 
 swept over the North Atlantic in the month of 
 February. It had seemed as if spring had come, 
 the weather had been so mild. The harbor was 
 open, and everybody was rejoicing that winter's 
 backbone was broken, when that awful, last, cruel 
 clutch was felt, especially at sea. Vessels put in 
 at Nantucket with men on board who had feet 
 and fingers to be amputated, and innumerable suf- 
 ferings to be alleviated as best they might be.
 
 246 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Why, Miriam," said Dr. Mayhew, " they are 
 very badly off, some of them, and they are rough 
 sailors ; it is n't at all suitable to bring them here." 
 
 " Bring those here who are the worst off, doc- 
 tor," Miriam answered. " They can be taken 
 better care of here than at the town farm. Come 
 and see what rooms we have, and bring as many 
 as they will accommodate. Use the house as if it 
 were a hospital. Don't think of us at all." 
 
 So there they were brought, five of those poor 
 creatures, and as they were borne in, one after an- 
 other, Miriam was pale and trembled, they were 
 indeed such hard and sorrowful-looking men. 
 
 But the doctor never had a better assistant. 
 The brave determination that was in that first 
 Nantucket ancestor, the steel that was in Aunt 
 Hepsy, were preserved in unadulterated strength 
 in the tall, slim girl. She was ready with ban- 
 dages ; she could move more quickly than any other 
 with the warm water and towels. When even 
 stout John Blossom was faint and sick with the 
 smell of ether and the sight of blood, she took 
 the place at the doctor's side. She, too, was faint 
 and sick, and there were fierce questions between 
 mind and body as to which should yield, but, nat- 
 urally, it was the stronger that won. 
 
 Although they almost hated to, one after an- 
 other the poor fellows recovered and went away, 
 with memories that helped them ever after. They 
 all went but one, poor fellow, and he how could 
 he go ? He had no feet to go on. He could not
 
 BENJAMIN BOOTH'S STORY. 247 
 
 even hobble upon crutches, but sat all day in pit- 
 eous consideration of the problem, What is to be- 
 come of an old sailor without feet ? It had often 
 been proposed to take him to the town farm, but 
 Miriam had not the heart to send him away, he 
 seemed so very forlorn. She often sat by him 
 and let him talk to her. There is nothing so 
 cheering to people as the sound of their own 
 voices. No words you can offer them are half so 
 consoling as the words you allow them to offer 
 you. Miriam, too, was frequently interested in 
 the old sailor's stories of his adventurous life. 
 
 ** Well, what has thee to say for thyself, to-day, 
 Benjamin ? " was sufficient to open the way for 
 Benjamin Booth to deliver himself of a chapter 
 of his autobiography. 
 
 " Why, Miss, I 'm a-coasting off the Newfound- 
 land Banks jest now ; " or, " Thank you, ma'am, we 
 was a-putting in to Australy," were the simple be- 
 ginnings of long and tedious, or long and thrilling 
 experiences, as the case might be. 
 
 One warm afternoon in June, Benjamin's chair 
 had been rolled out upon the grass in the back- 
 yard, and he sat in the shadow of the house doz- 
 ing, and starting at the shrill voices of children 
 playing under the bank. Every afternoon he was 
 placed in that position to watch for the boat to 
 round the point and come into the harbor. It was 
 a sweet and peaceful spot. On the slope of the 
 bank the carefully pruned and trained grapevines 
 were in bloom, and their delicate odor came and
 
 248 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 went with the stirring air, as heavenly suggestions 
 come and go in our wavering, worldly minds. The 
 pigeons cooed on the roof, or fluttered down to 
 drink at the wooden trough under the pump spout. 
 On the right was the old garden where Miriam's 
 cats were buried, but the mint and balm, the sage, 
 summer savory, and pennyroyal, that had once pre- 
 vailed, had been put under restraint, and forced 
 to keep within bounds ; while from the time the 
 first crocuses peeped out until the last dahlias were 
 frozen, the little garden blushed and blazed with 
 flowers. Miriam's old passion for brightness rev- 
 eled there, and as she came to the open door at 
 the moment of which I am speaking, and stood 
 brushing loose threads from the skirt of her gown, 
 she wore a rose where the soft niching closed at 
 her throat. 
 
 Before returning she paused to consider the 
 scene before her, especially Benjamin Booth, at 
 the same time smoothing the rather worldly fash- 
 ioned gown with an agreeable, placid air of satis- 
 faction. From her point of view, Benjamin's bent 
 head and drooping figure had a pathetic air. She 
 turned away, but soon came back with some knit- 
 ting work and a chair, and placing herself near 
 Benjamin set the needles flying. This arrange- 
 ment was no sooner made than Miss Sally Martin, 
 similarly equipped with some supposititious knit- 
 ting work and a small chair, planted herself be- 
 side Miriam. Her ringing voice roused Benjamin, 
 who, seeing Miriam before him, straightened him-
 
 BENJAMIN BOOTH'S STORY. 249 
 
 self up, and raising his thumb and finger to the 
 place where his hat brim would have been, if he 
 had been graced with a hat, made what he con- 
 sidered a deferential motion, and prepared himself 
 for the usual question, " What has thee to tell me 
 to-day, Benjamin ? " 
 
 Benjamin scratched his weather-faded beard and 
 then his bushy head, when the question had been 
 proposed. " Well, ma'am," he said, " every time 
 you 've asked me that, I 've had a good mind to 
 tell you a story that I 've been a-thinkin' on ever 
 sence I fetched up at this island." 
 
 A doubtful pause, and then : 
 
 " I s'pose you can't rec'lect the Aurory's comin* 
 ashore here, can ye ? Me and Ezry Hodges and 
 a baby was the only ones that come off alive." 
 
 Miriam dropped her knitting, and gave all her 
 attention to Benjamin. 
 
 " I vowed I 'd stick to sailing vessels after that," 
 he continued. " When the capting was gone, I 
 had no more use for steam-vessels, though I 'd have 
 gone to sea on a'most anything with Capting Allen. 
 He was the best man and the best sailor that ever 
 put to sea. It was him that put the baby in a 
 champagne basket, and strapped a piece o' tar- 
 paulin round it, and sent it ashore. He was fond 
 o' that baby, for he had one about like it. He 
 kerried it in his arms a good deal all the voyage. 
 The little feller was sleeping sound when he laid 
 him in the basket, and the capting kissed him, and 
 fairly cried. He did. George ! ' There 's just
 
 250 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 one chance in a hundred for ye, little one,' says 
 he. 
 
 " Wai ; me V Ezry must ha' been the only 
 tough ones on the ship, for all the rest had the 
 breath o' life beat and washed out of 'em, and we 
 wa' n't fur from it, when we struck the Nantucket 
 shore. But we was on our keels agin the next day 
 and started for New York. 
 
 " On the way, I see Ezry take so'thing out of 
 his pocket and look at it close. Dum'd if 'twa' 
 n't that thing the baby used to wear on his neck ! 
 ' Why, where 'd you git that, Ezry ? ' says I. 
 'Wai, when I was a-holding of the baby for the 
 capting to fish up the basket from the cabin,' says 
 he, ' I thought 't was a pity to let that go to the 
 bottom, when some on us might want it to help 
 us along, having lost our chists, and I 'd had a 
 forerunner that I was a-going to git safe to shore, 
 someways,' says he, ' so I jest put the trinket in 
 my pocket aginst a time o' need, and Lord ! I for- 
 got to give it back to the baby ! ' 
 
 " The next day, after we got to New York, when 
 we 'd been to the company's office, and settled our 
 accounts, and gi'n the partic'lars and bought us 
 some clo's, Ezry says, says he, ' We 'd ought to 
 go and see the capting's wife to offer our sarvices. 
 She '11 want to see the men that was with the cap- 
 ting to the last.' 
 
 " Ezry knew where she lived, for he was a favor- 
 yte with the capting, and had been sent up to the 
 house on arrands often. He come from Cowes,
 
 BENJAMIN BOOTH'S STORY. 251 
 
 near by where the capting found his wife, and he 
 surmised she had n't no relations and 'ud be pretty 
 much alone in the world now the capting was 
 gone. So we went and asked for Capting Allen's 
 wife. ' She 's dead,' they says. ' She died of her 
 heart, when they told her the capting was lost. 
 Won't you come in ? ' We did n't know what else 
 to do, so we went in, and the woman of the house 
 she conie and asked us, ' Be you Mis' Allen's 
 friends ? ' says she. ' We be,' says Ezry. * Well, 
 I 'm glad to hear that,' says the woman, ' for 
 there ain't any friends made their appearance, so 
 fur, and I don't know what to do with the baby.' 
 
 " * Don't fret, ma'am,' says Ezry, ' for I 've come 
 to fetch the baby myself.' 
 
 " Wai, if I 'd seen Ezry swaller the woman, right 
 off, at one gulp, I should n't ha' been more dumb- 
 founded, and I looked at him with all my eyes to 
 see what he meant. He seemed to know what he 
 was about, so I let him alone, and if we did n't 
 walk out o' that house, shortly, Ezry carrying Cap- 
 ting Allen's baby wrapped up in his arms, as handy 
 as you please. * If you '11 hev his things packed 
 up, ma'am,' says he, ' I '11 come agin by 'n' by and 
 fetch them.'' I kept alongside of Ezry a good 
 while before I could muster my speakin' faculties 
 on deck. Then I says, Wai, Ezry Hodges,' 
 says I, * where be you a-going of with that baby ? ', 
 ' I ain't quite made up my mind yet,' says he. The 
 little feller did n't cry, but he looked kind o' trou- 
 bled and puzzled like, and kept u-sayin' * Mamma I
 
 252 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 mamma ! ' We went on as fur as Washin'ton 
 Square, and there we set down. While Ezry was 
 a-th inking what to do next, a boy come along with 
 newspapers to sell, a-hollering * More partic'lars 
 o' the loss o' the Aurory ! ' I took one to see what 
 kind of yarns they had to tell. As I was a-reading 
 the names of the passengers, ' Roland Weir, wife 
 and child,' says I, and then I read that Mr. Ro- 
 land Weir was brother of Mrs. Colonel Payne, of 
 New York, and while I was a-doing of it Ezry 
 pulled the trinket out of his pocket and looked at 
 it. 'Yes,' says he, 'that's it.' In half a minute 
 he fastened the thing round the neck of the cap- 
 ting's baby. ' Now, why ain't he the Weir baby ? ' 
 says he. 'Hey?' I says, for I couldn't take the 
 sense of his observation. ' No matter,' says he ; 
 4 you jest step over there to the 'pothecary's, and 
 look in the directory, and find out where Colonel 
 R. A. Payne lives, will ye ? ' Well, over I went, 
 and when I come back and told Ezry that he lived 
 
 at No. Fifth Avenoo, ' Then there 's where 
 
 I' m a-going to take the capting's baby,' says he. 
 ' How so ? ' says I. ' What f or ? ' ' He 'd be well 
 off there,' says Ezry. ' There ain't much differ- 
 ence in the looks of babies, and this thing on his 
 neck has got the name on it, and it '11 make 'em 
 think he's the Weir baby. Don't you see?' 
 ' No,' says I, for I wa' n't nigh so smart as Ezry. 
 Then Ezry had to tell me, word by word, that he 
 was a-going to take the capting's baby to Colonel 
 Payne's and pass him off for the Weir baby. ' By
 
 BENJAMIN BOOTirS STORY. 253 
 
 the great guns ! ' says I, ' you ain't a-going to do 
 no such a thing, Ezry,' says I. ' 'T ain't right, 
 and you '11 be found out.' ' I 'd do anything for 
 the capting's baby,' says he, ' found out or not. 
 He was very good to me, was the capting.' * Yes, 
 but what about the Weir baby ? ' says I. * Oh, 
 he 's well enough for a while,' says Ezry. ' They 
 '11 find him out fast enough, but they '11 git so fond 
 o' the capting's baby by that time that they won't 
 want to let him go, and he '11 have a nice, soft 
 place, the fine little feller ! ' he says, a-patting of 
 the baby's cheek. * Why, Lord save us ! ' he 
 went on a-saying, ' you need n't look so ! I shall 
 tell 'em myself before long that there 's been some 
 mistake, and that the baby down to Nantucket is 
 the right one ; but there '11 be the capting's baby, 
 anchored in a safe harbor, only jest for the cost of 
 that other one's waiting a bit with them good peo- 
 ple down to the island.' ' Wai,' says I, ' the cap- 
 ting was good to me, too. I 'd like to have his 
 baby well off, and if that 's all we 've got to do to 
 fetch it about, Isha' n't say no more agin it.' So 
 Ezry took the baby to the place on Fifth Avenoo, 
 and that 's the last I ever knew about it, for I 've 
 never seen Ezry nor set foot in these parts sence. 
 Now I should like to know whether Ezry put that 
 matter to rights. Do you happen to know, ma'am, 
 anything about the little one that was left here on 
 the Island?"
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 
 
 A LETTEB, in which Miriam repeated Benjamin 
 Booth's story, lay waiting upon a table which had 
 been laid for the breakfast of two persons. A 
 door of the room stood open upon a terrace. There 
 was silence within, and no sounds without save the 
 droning of insects and a heavy human sigh. The 
 sigh was Colonel Payne's, who sat with his eyes 
 fixed upon a reposeful scene, which seemed not to 
 cheer him. 
 
 This place, to which he had just brought Mrs. 
 Payne, was hung upon the craggy side of the Al- 
 pilles, in Provence. Five years Mrs. Payne had 
 passed in different parts of Europe, the last two 
 in the south of France, for her health, while Ro- 
 land Weir went on with his brilliant career else- 
 where. When assured that she preferred the air 
 of Provence and a quiet life, what was to hinder 
 his pursuing with contentment the sort of life he 
 preferred ? 
 
 It was surely quiet enough here, the colonel was 
 saying to himself, with that heavy sigh. 
 
 Just then the sound of footsteps and the rustle 
 of a cambric morning gown roused him, and Mrs.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 255 
 
 Payne stood in the doorway with Monte Cristo 
 beside her. 
 
 The colonel's face lightened as he rose to meet 
 his wife. 
 
 " Why, Anna, how fresh and bright you look 
 this morning," he said. 
 
 You would have wondered to hear that pale, 
 thin woman called fresh and bright. She, herself, 
 laughed a little and said, " What a dismal thing 
 I must be, commonly, when a smile makes such 
 an impression." 
 
 " But I have n't seen you looking like this since 
 I can't tell when," continued the colonel. 
 
 " I 've had a delicious sleep, and such a lovely 
 dream ! " said Mrs. Payne. 
 
 " Only a dream ! But you looked quite happy." 
 
 " What is happiness but a dream, Randolph ? 
 You know what Rousseau says." 
 
 " Don't tell me any of Rousseau's morbid say- 
 ings. Tell me that wonderful dream." 
 
 "I must tell you one of his sayings. He says 
 people are only happy just before they are happy. 
 I think /must be going to be uncommonly happy." 
 
 " Well, come to breakfast, and let 's have the 
 dream." 
 
 " Ob, it would be nothing, told," Mrs. Payne 
 said, turning and moving slowly towards the table. 
 " It is simply the impression it has left which 
 is so delightful. I thought I was in Nantucket, 
 with that dear Miriam Swain. She seemed to 
 have grown into a woman like the Santa Chiara
 
 256 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 the sisters showed us the other day, and I had such 
 a feeling of heavenly peace and rest, that was 
 all. And, Randolph, it has given me another 
 whim. I want to go to Nantucket, and have that 
 child near me, the placid little thing ! I feel 
 as if my dream might become truth. The little 
 Quakeress would be balm to my soul." 
 
 Colonel Payne dropped the apricot he had taken 
 in his hand, and it rolled upon the floor. 
 
 " Good heavens, Anna ! " he exclaimed. " You 
 will want to go to the wilds of Siberia, or Africa, 
 next. Every new move brings you to a more and 
 more dismal place ! " 
 
 " I knew what you would say, but something 
 tells me, Randolph, that Nantucket would help 
 me. Take me there and leave me for a while ! 
 I won't ask you to stay yourself. It will quiet 
 this restlessness, at any rate. And to take up the 
 broken thread where it was dropped seems, some- 
 how, more hopeful than searching at random. 
 Ah, letters ! " she exclaimed seating herself at 
 table. " What ! There I you see a letter from 
 my little Quakeress has made me glad before I 
 knew it was in the house. It has brought its own 
 atmosphere with it I " 
 
 She opened the letter, but in a moment put it 
 aside. 
 
 " Ah, she has made an important discovery ! " 
 she said with agitation. 
 
 " Important to the'world ? " the colonel asked, 
 while he went on quietly removing the skin from 
 his apricot.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 257 
 
 Mrs. Payne pushed the letter towards her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "Read it for me, Randolph," she said, "and 
 tell me if it is about Rollo." 
 
 "How straight all your roads lead to Rome, 
 Anna! " said the colonel. " Now, in reason, does 
 such a thing seem likely?" 
 
 He dipped his hands in his finger-glass, and 
 wiped them with an air of expedition, as if this 
 small matter might soon be attended to and dis- 
 missed. But as he glanced over the letter, he 
 looked more and more surprised and interested. 
 At length, laying it aside : 
 
 " Your Rollo's story is told, Anna," he said 
 slowly and carefully. " You will be glad to know 
 that he belongs to very respectable people. He is 
 the son of " 
 
 "Belongs to whom ? " interrupted Mrs. Payne, 
 breathing quickly, and raising her head so that 
 her slender neck looked abnormally long. " He is 
 mine ! He is my own ! He grew up out of my 
 arms. No matter where he came from, he belongs 
 to me. Who wants to claim him ?" 
 
 " Why, no one, dear. His father and mother " 
 
 " No, Randolph, I don't want to know about 
 his father and mother." 
 
 " But they died, long ago," said Colonel Payne. 
 
 Mrs. Payne looked relieved, and presently con- 
 sented to hear the story. But she took her break- 
 fast rather silently. Apparently the letter had 
 not delighted her.
 
 258 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 Upon rising from table, she turned suddenly to 
 her husband. 
 
 " Who knows," she said, " but he has found 
 some of these these new people. His lonely 
 heart would turn to them, of course." 
 
 " I never knew you to borrow trouble before," 
 said the colonel. 
 
 " And I never had such a rich fund to borrow 
 from. Randolph, I want to go to Nantucket more 
 than ever. That seems to be the place where 
 everything comes to light. I feel impelled to go, 
 and Miriam's invitation is as urgent as my long- 
 ing. Yes, you dear old fellow," she added to 
 Monte Cristo, who had started up eagerly at the 
 name of Hollo, "you are invited. They know I 
 would n't think of going without you" 
 
 " I don't quite know," the colonel began slowly 
 and meditatively. " You see the chief of the 
 American legation can't start up and leave the 
 country quite so suddenly as this. We '11 try to 
 manage it, but of course I couldn't let you go 
 alone." 
 
 " Perhaps Roland would go with me." 
 
 " Roland Weir ! in Nantucket ! " 
 
 " It does seem strange to think of him in such a 
 place," Mrs. Payne said musingly. " What won- 
 derful things time has done ! But I think upon 
 every account he had best go. This reckless ex- 
 travagance of his will ruin him if he remains in 
 Paris. He always assures me he is ready to do 
 whatever I wish, but I can see how reluctant he is
 
 THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. 259 
 
 to leave the neighborhood of the Vintoris. The 
 foolish boy persists in doing homage to Betty. And 
 somehow Betty does encourage him, at the same 
 time that she sets him at naught." 
 
 " A little more absolute manliness, or a good 
 deal more, would change Betty's attitude, I assure 
 you," said the colonel, sternly. 
 
 " And if Betty would only take a different 
 tone," returned Mrs. Payne, " she might rouse 
 and stimulate him ; she might help me correct the 
 mistake I have made. Ah, my mistakes ! They 
 spoil my own life, how many more I cannot 
 tell!" 
 
 " We won't spoil life farther by useless bemoan- 
 ing," the colonel said, with an attempt at cheer- 
 fulness. " Somebody has said that our mistakes 
 are often the best things we can do for ourselves." 
 
 Mrs. Payne shook her head doubtingly. " Shall 
 I propose to Roland to go home with me ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, I think that will be best," the colonel an- 
 swered. 
 
 But it so happened that Mrs. Payne was not 
 the one to make the proposition. Before she had 
 written, there came a letter from Roland Weir, 
 expressing the same desire, to go to America. 
 
 " Why, what does it mean ? " said Mrs. Payne. 
 
 "The Vintons are probably going home ? Don't 
 you see ? " returned the colonel.
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 
 
 THE southwest chamber of the Swain house, 
 with its dark old mahogany and snow-white cover- 
 ings and hangings, was airing and sunning every 
 day, for Nantucket,. being all the time at sea, is 
 rather a damp place. The solemnity of that once 
 awful room was moderated to quiet cheerfulness. 
 There were other pictures on the walls besides 
 the old one of Solomon's Temple, for Miriam had 
 been to Yearly Meeting with Aunt Dorcas, and 
 brought home from the Newport shops a few 
 things to soften the severity of pure utility. 
 
 And there was a glass bowl of roses on the 
 dressing-table, for Mrs. Payne might arrive any 
 day, and she was to be made cheerful and well. 
 
 Back of the southwest room was the one which 
 had seemed so luxurious to Roland Weir when he 
 first came to it from the Dagget cottage. That, 
 too, had been somewhat embellished, yet it was 
 left much the same as in the old times, for Roland 
 would not like to see it changed, Miriam thought. 
 
 The brass door knobs, the brasses of the fire 
 frames, the andirons, shovels and tongs, and the 
 knocker on the front door, that all shone enough
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 261 
 
 to put your eyes out, were to have one more rub, 
 the furniture a few more polishing touches, the 
 finest linen and the extra silver were to be brought 
 out, and Sally Martin was to be taken home to 
 her mother. 
 
 While Betsy Blossom and Rosanna attended to 
 the works of supererogation, Miriam attended to 
 Sally, who, when she came up to town last, was 
 brought up by John Blossom, so that Miriam has 
 not seen 'Sconset herself for several weeks. What 
 is her surprise, then, when she jogs into its sleepy 
 thoroughfare, to see, in place of the Dagget cot- 
 tage, such a marvelous little piece of architecture 
 as never stood on the soil of Nantucket before. It 
 is, in fact, the Dagget cottage itself, awakened 
 from its nap, yawning and stretching itself in a 
 fine new dress. It has stretched itself to the ex- 
 tent of larger rooms, and one new one, besides 
 a higher roof with dormer windows. There is a 
 broad veranda running round it, the little green- 
 ish panes are removed from the windows and clear 
 bright glass put in their places. The ship's figure- 
 head is no more. The house is covered with coats 
 of Pompeiian red paint, and there are glimpses 
 of dark myrtle green, that show like the facings 
 and linings of a fine gown. 
 
 The same group of old women are gossiping in 
 the sandy pathway again that Miriam had seen 
 there when she first noticed the cottage asleep, or 
 if they are not identically, they are pictorially 
 and historically the same.
 
 262 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 There is no face better known and loved in 
 'Sconset than Miriam's. Each gossip offers her a 
 respectful reverence and a beaming smile, and she 
 pulls up Jerry to speak to them. 
 
 " Why, who is making such a grand display in 
 'Sconset ? " she asks. 
 
 " It 's Ma'am Dagget's boy," is the answer. 
 " He 's come back so altered as nobody would 'a' 
 knowed him, a tall, proper-good-lookin' man, 
 with a grand voice when he speaks. He knowed 
 us, and hed the key to the cottage, so I s'pose 't is 
 him, but my ! he don't look no more like that boy 
 than hen's eggs looks like hens ! I expect he 's 
 found the chist of money, for he had n't been here 
 but a day or so before he had the men come and 
 tear down and build up, and putty and paint, and 
 now look a' there ! There ain't such a pretty 
 house on the island, and he 's gone off island to 
 buy things to put into it. He 's been a-follerin' 
 the seas, and he says he wants a home to go to 
 when he lands, and it looks consid'rable as if he 'd 
 got one, don't it? " 
 
 " Why, ye-s," Miriam said, taking in the whole 
 picture slowly. 
 
 " Funny color for a house, ain't it ? " said the 
 gossip. 
 
 "It's beautiful," said Miriam. " It's so pleas- 
 ant to look at in the glare of the sand." 
 
 At this point, Sally Martin's mother put her 
 head out of the cottage door, having another mo- 
 ment's leisure to bestow in admiration of the great
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 263 
 
 work of regeneration, and seeing her offspring in 
 a position of importance, came out smiling and 
 primming herself to get her share of honor, and 
 Sally's secret sorrow, which she had kept within 
 her own bosom, burst forth amain. 
 
 " I wanted to stay and see the company ! " she 
 cried. 
 
 " Why, the greatest sights are here in 'Sconset, 
 Sally," said Miriam. " I shall bring the company 
 down here." 
 
 " Well, of all the naughty girls I ever did see 1 
 Come here to me ! " said Mrs. Martin, and Sally 
 is dragged down from her high position, and set 
 upon a level with ordinary mortals, where she 
 stands weeping and trying to hide her tears. 
 
 A few words of comfort to Sally, a word of kind- 
 ness to everybody, and Miriam says she must 
 hurry to get home before the boat is in. Sally 
 reaches up a quivering lip to kiss her adored friend, 
 and Jerry, at the sound of the smack, turns and 
 points his nose homeward. 
 
 The day was hot, and the sand seemed deeper 
 than ever to the worthy Jerry. He soon began to 
 make little pauses, which were like commas, and 
 colons, and semicolons, in a long, long paragraph. 
 
 "Come, come, Jeremiah," Miriam entreated, 
 " what can thee be thinking of now ? Thee seems 
 to have lost that lively idea thee started with." 
 
 There was one thing that Jerry started with 
 from 'Sconset, which, unfortunately, he had not 
 lost, however. That was a hard little shell in his
 
 264 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 foot, which gradually worked its way into a place 
 where it gave him much discomfort. He hesitated 
 more than ever, he limped, he came to a full pe- 
 riod. 
 
 After having brought her to the very most in- 
 convenient point in the whole journey, far from 
 'Sconset, very far from town, far even from the 
 two or three farm-houses that sat slowly disinte- 
 grating, miles apart, on the lorn and lone roadside, 
 he absolutely declined to go on. 
 
 Miriam got down and examined his hoofs to find 
 the trouble. There it was, wedged tightly in, and 
 she had nothing with which she could remove it. 
 
 Well, then, what was to be done ? There might 
 no one pass over the road again that day, perhaps 
 not the next day, possibly not for two or three 
 days. The nearest farm-house was two miles away. 
 Looking over " a weary, thirsty land," she could 
 see it "far beneath a blazing vault," sit sulk- 
 ing in the sweltering heat. Jerry was immova- 
 ble. His heart was not to be melted by coaxing. 
 It was far likelier to be melted by the fierce July 
 sun. Miriam looked before her, behind her, on 
 all sides of her, and above her. There was noth- 
 ing everywhere nothing but hot sky, hot 
 sand, and parching heather. 
 
 It seemed impossible to cross the burning des- 
 ert on foot with nothing to shade her, so she sat 
 quietly in the chaise and waited for help to happen 
 along, thinking that when it was cooler she would 
 walk on to the farm-house, if no one should ap-
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 265 
 
 pear and Jerry should not change his mind. She 
 \vaited an hour two hours. 
 
 Meantime the Nantucket boat had arrived at its 
 wharf. Among its passengers was a pale, delicate 
 woman and a distinguished - looking young man, 
 who gave her devoted attention, while every per- 
 son on board gave attention to him, in the way of 
 noticing how handsome he was and how exces- 
 sively elegant. It was unusual, not to say unpre- 
 cedented, for such a dazzling person to be seen in 
 those waters. 
 
 These two appeared to be of especial interest 
 to a young man in the office of the captain. He 
 had retired to that seclusion when he had seen 
 them coming aboard with a beautiful Irish setter, 
 who sniffed about in an uneasy way, seeming at 
 occasional instants to get a frantic idea in his 
 head, and then to lose or give it up again. He 
 took no notice whatever of the commands of the 
 distinguished young man to him to lie down and 
 be quiet, but yielded to a touch of the lady's hand, 
 and seated himself at her feet with an alert look, 
 watching everything, and sniffing the air with an 
 appearance of reconnoitring. Our secluded young 
 man waited for them to go ashore and take a car- 
 riage before he moved from his position, and then 
 followed their example, except that he took his car- 
 riage for 'Sconset, and sat silently within it, while 
 a hundred tumultuous thoughts were seething in 
 his mind. He scarcely saw, away on, in mid-isl- 
 and, a horse and chaise, though he fixed his ab- 
 sent eyes upon it.
 
 266 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Them folks don't seem to git on much, he-y ? " 
 said his driver, and then he noticed that the vehi- 
 cle stood waiting, waiting, waiting, all the time 
 perfectly still, as they approached and approached. 
 
 When they drew up beside it, Miriam explained 
 her difficulty. 
 
 u I '11 see what I can do," the young man said, 
 alighting, and feeling in his pockets for an instru- 
 ment. He was not quick in finding one, however, 
 for ruffled and tossed in mind as he was, it seemed 
 to soothe him to look upon the face framed in the 
 old shay-top. The presence of something serene 
 and noble is quieting to agitation, and nothing 
 more serene and noble could by any possibility be 
 imagined than the lovely young Quakeress, serene 
 in spite of the heat and the weariness and the 
 vexation. 
 
 Our young man felt obliged to discover some- 
 thing to his purpose in the last of his nine or ten 
 pockets. He brought it out, and in the same 
 moderate manner, investigated Jerry's feet. 
 
 It was a simple matter to extract the offending 
 shell. One instant, and it was all over, that pleas- 
 ant little episode, as he supposed. 
 
 "I'm very much obliged to thee," said Miriam. 
 " Now if my horse were only as impatient as I am 
 I should do very well. Some friends may have 
 arrived on this boat, who have come all the way 
 from Europe to visit me, and here I sit in the 
 middle of the island ! " 
 
 " Your horse looks like a capable fellow. Pie 
 ought to take you home very soon."
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 267 
 
 " Oh, he ought to, and he 's capable enough," 
 said Miriam. " But I 've allowed him to have his 
 own way so much that he takes advantage of me. 
 He will never hurry when J'rn driving him." 
 
 " Let 's see what he will do for me," said the 
 young man. " May I ? " 
 
 He mounted into the chaise, with Miriam's per- 
 mission, and took the reins, beckoning his driver 
 to follow. 
 
 When the electric current of a young, mascu- 
 line energy shot down the lines into Jerry's con- 
 sciousness, he started with a jump which surprised 
 Miriam, for she had never before seen such a dis- 
 position in the phlegmatic animal. But Miriam's 
 surprise was nothing compared with Jeremiah's 
 own astonishment. He felt the unaccustomed 
 power and will at the other end of the telegraphic 
 medium, and it roused the same qualities in him- 
 self; roused his latent ambition ; roused memories 
 of youth, when his fiery soul thrilled with longings 
 to go. He perceived that, after all, he was still 
 young, for he felt something of the same thrill 
 again, and rejoicing, as middle-aged people are 
 apt to do, at a return of the waning fires, he forgot 
 himself entirely, and frisked like a yearling colt. 
 He was so eager that his trotting now and then 
 broke into a canter. It was very refreshing after 
 that long, compulsory rest in the desert. Miriam 
 felt admiration for one who could bring such mar- 
 velous things to pass. She looked up at him with 
 a smile of gratitude. He was so tall that his head
 
 268 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 bumped against the top of the chaise. He laughed 
 a little at that, and his fine teeth flashed in beau- 
 tiful contrast with his dark brown skin. Miriam 
 protested against his troubling himself to go back, 
 but he said the privilege of driving such a lively 
 steed was ample compensation. He hoped she 
 would not refuse him the pleasure. She could 
 not, of course. He was very obliging. Miriam 
 declared she had never been in such a dilemma 
 before, as that one with Jerry, and the young man. 
 who, by the way, we may as well call Rollo, re- 
 sponded that to be lost in a great city like New 
 York, he should think would be worse. Then Mir- 
 iam looked at him in a way which asked why he 
 said that, and Rollo went on to tell her about hav- 
 ing seen a little girl in that predicament once ; and 
 then Miriam remembered that one day, in New 
 York, when she had wished to go home from 
 Betty's alone, to enjoy the sensation of a large 
 freedom, she had turned from the avenue into a 
 side street to see a Punch and Judy show, and 
 had crossed the street with it two or three times, 
 until she was quite turned about, and finally found 
 herself in the wrong avenue, very much bewil- 
 dered and distressed, when a sailorish young man 
 with blue eyeglasses had happened along and 
 kindly taken her home. And this was the young 
 man ? How marvelous ! And how had he re- 
 membered her? Miriam wondered a great deal. 
 She declared Rollo was a true knight-errant; and 
 Rollo answered that he should find the profession
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 269 
 
 amazingly dull if it were not for her. All the 
 business he had ever had was what she kindly fur- 
 nished. They laughed at that, and began to feel 
 almost like friends. They found so much to talk 
 about that sometimes the reins slackened, and Jerry 
 lost communication with the battery, and slack- 
 ened too. A southwest wind sprang up, and 
 brought delicious coolness. Miriam pushed back 
 her pretty little hat and let it rest at the nape of 
 her neck, as she had used to do with her prim bon- 
 net when she was a little girl. Her bright hair 
 blew about her temples in captivating rings. The 
 distance across the island seemed very inconsid- 
 erable to Rollo. But at length it was all accom- 
 plished, and he left Miriam at her own door, and 
 walked slowly up the street to meet his carriage, 
 which had not been able to keep up with the ani- 
 mated Jerry. 
 
 Notwithstanding her high expectations, Miriam 
 was hardly prepared to see, through the open door 
 of the south front room, as she entered the house, 
 such a transcendent young man as stood there 
 gazing curiously at one of the new pictures. Mir- 
 iam had never seen such a figure, so smoothly and 
 exquisitely clad ; and that lovely hair, parted in 
 the middle, and those ravishing hands with pink, 
 polished finger nails, she would have said they be- 
 longed to a girl, if they had not been offset by 
 a highly cultivated moustache and the habili- 
 ments of manhood. 
 
 And Miriam, with her hair all tumbled and
 
 270 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 tossed, as she had repeatedly brushed it back from 
 her heated forehead, an excess of redness in her 
 astonished face, looked like Nature confronting 
 Art, 
 
 " Ah ! Miriam ! Don't you know me ? " said 
 the peerless young man. 
 
 " It can't be ! " Miriam murmured slowly. 
 
 " Take my word for it. It is" 
 
 " Why so it is /" cried Miriam, seeing the old 
 smile in his eyes ; and recovering her self-posses- 
 sion, she frankly kissed her old comrade. 
 
 They regarded each other with mutual surprise. 
 They exchanged exclamations of wonder at the 
 marvelous work of time. They were professedly 
 glad. 
 
 But what was it that disappointed Miriam ? 
 There was more there than she had expected, and 
 yet there was something unfulfilled. She felt sud- 
 denly lowered into a cool, damp place. But Ro- 
 land Weir was not at all cool or damp, himself. 
 He was warm and effusive. He paid Miriam 
 graceful compliments, he said beautiful things, he 
 stood before her with an air of having utterly sur- 
 rendered himself to her worship and service, in 
 the most perfect Parisian manner, and yet Mir- 
 iam felt a vague dissatisfaction, which robbed her 
 of her old delight in him. 
 
 Roland perceived something of this in the grave, 
 steady look with which she observed him. 
 
 "What is it, Miriam?" he said. "You look 
 as if you meant to reject me, as an unsatisfactory 
 article."
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 271 
 
 " I shall reject some things, probably," Miriam 
 answered frankly. " Thee 's a good deal 
 changed." 
 
 " Why, unfortunately, I could n't manage to re- 
 main a boy," said Roland. " I 'm an inevitable 
 result ; a poor one, no doubt, but I submit myself 
 to your correction." 
 
 " Oh," said Miriam, blushing and laughing. "I 
 only want to find Roland Weir. He 's there, some- 
 where, I suppose." 
 
 " You believe in him, then ? " 
 
 " With a faith equal to that of Mahomet's good 
 Kadijah," said Miriam seriously. 
 
 "Thanks," said Roland, almost as seriously. "I 
 am in Mahomet's need, when only Kadijah be- 
 lieved in him." 
 
 At this moment, the voice of Rosanna was heard 
 from above in a loud whisper. 
 
 " Is yo' thar, honey ? Shor ? Safe an' soun' ? 
 Nothin' hain't happened to yo' ? Wai, Mis' Payne 
 say do come up ! " 
 
 Miriam responded to this summons, and was 
 shocked to find, resting upon a couch, in place of 
 the beautiful Mrs. Payne of her memory, a thin- 
 faced woman with threads of gray in her hair, and 
 an eager, -wistful look where there had once been 
 unruffled calm. 
 
 She stretched her arms towards Miriam with 
 the exclamation, " Yes, there she is ! exactly like 
 rny dream ! " and when Miriam folded her in strong, 
 gentle arms, she added :
 
 272 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " My dream lias come to pass ! " 
 
 And perhaps, if Monte Cristo could have 
 spoken, he would have uttered words similiar to 
 those last, as he stepped out from under the car- 
 riage, when it stopped at Rollo's door at 'Sconset. 
 
 Miriam had conveniently left her own door open 
 when she entered it, and Monte, looking out to 
 see what sort of a place he had arrived at, had his 
 eyes arrested by the sight of a person walking up 
 the street with an air and a gait which he well re- 
 membered. He had trotted behind that footstep 
 too often to forget it. Those haunting notions on 
 the steamboat were accounted for to Monte's sat- 
 isfaction. He stole down the steps and pursued, 
 more cautiously this time than before, in New 
 York, and shooting under thte carriage, after 
 Hollo had entered it, followed what he considered 
 to be the line of duty, until it brought him to 
 'Sconset. 
 
 Hollo and Monte looked at each other eye to 
 eye, as they each emerged, the one from within, 
 the other from beneath, the carriage. Monte did 
 not spring upon his master as he had done upon 
 the former occasion, but laid himself down at his 
 feet, making little agitated raps with his tail on 
 the ground, licking his lips slowly, and averting 
 his eyes under Rollo's steady stare like a dog who 
 is uncertain of a welcome. 
 
 Again Rollo's heart yearned over the dear, faith- 
 ful fellow, faithful in spite of his cruel abandon- 
 ment ; but the smallest sign of encouragement
 
 THE INCOMING OF THE TIDE. 273 
 
 would make trouble for his owners, so turning to 
 his driver, Rollo paid his carriage hire, and added 
 something for Monte Cristo's fare. 
 
 " I wish you 'd take this dog home again," he 
 said. " He belongs at Mr. Obed Swain's. Here 
 sir ! get up ! Get up here ! " he called to Monte 
 Cristo, who, with a patient grief which his dumb- 
 ness made more eloquent than the most voluble 
 human eloquence could have done, sprang into 
 the carriage, and laid himself down, once more 
 discarded and betrayed.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 
 
 IT was indeed a question of importance, es- 
 pecially in his own mind, what that young ex- 
 quisite was to do with himself, or what was to be 
 done with him, on the homely island, for his ac- 
 quired tastes made him incline to count the dull 
 and simple life there among the things he had es- 
 caped. He could hardly believe he had ever been 
 homesick for such a tiresome place. 
 
 And in addition to some discontent, Roland had 
 one positive woe, which, although it seemed in- 
 finite to himself, may be indicated in very few 
 words. 
 
 On his last crossing of the detestable Atlantic, 
 as he called it, Betty Vinton had shown more 
 plainly than ever her contempt of a certain defect 
 in Roland, in regard to which he, himself, was ap- 
 parently unconscious, or utterly indifferent. This 
 was a conspicuous lack of manly stamina. At 
 length, one day, when she was surrounded on deck 
 by what he considered intolerable fellows, who 
 could offer her perpetual attention because of their 
 abominable sea-legs, he had undertaken to pass 
 them, on the way to his state-room, clinging now
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 275 
 
 to a stanchion, then to the bulwarks, and had 
 finally been precipitated almost at Betty's very 
 feet, in consequence of an inconvenient plunge of 
 the ship, and Hetty had looked up and laughed, 
 actually mocked at him, as he sensitively im- 
 agined. 
 
 Betty's ill-timed laugh, however, had come rush- 
 ing out to hide her compassion. She liked Ro- 
 land well enough to prefer to admire, rather than 
 pity him. If pity and love are kindred, they do 
 detest to live together, and as for Betty, she re- 
 fused, professedly, to harbor either of them. 
 
 Roland received her after-apology with coldness. 
 Nothing could soothe the sting. That laugh would 
 ring in his ears forever ! But he was far too well- 
 bred and too good-natured to allow his trouble to 
 be apparent. It was the secret of his soul, and 
 although he said a good deal to himself about it, 
 he said never a word besides, but submitted with 
 a very commendable show of cheerfulness to the 
 efforts of his friends to give him the pleasures of 
 the island, or what they, simple souls, fondly im- 
 agined to be pleasures. He surrendered himself 
 indifferently to anything. 
 
 One afternoon Miriam asked him to row her up 
 to Polpis to see some person who was ill at one of 
 the farm-houses there. Though it was hard pulling 
 so far against a strong current, and Miriam was 
 sure Roland would be afraid of his lady-like hands 
 and his complexion, she offered the dose with such 
 firmness as a wise mother maintains in the cause
 
 276 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 of a sick child. It was chiefly moral heroism that 
 she looked for in her ideal Roland Weir, but it 
 seemed to her that moral heroism would refuse to 
 consort with such physical softness, which was not 
 the result of frail health, as it had been formerly. 
 Roland's health was fine, but he had become an 
 enervated, self-indulgent sybarite. He dreaded 
 pulling against the tide in any sense, but he ami- 
 ably took to the oars with apparent willingness, 
 while Miriam, turning partly away from him, kept 
 her eyes fixed on the low, sandy shores, fringed 
 with rank beach grass, that looked like a running 
 stream as the wind blew over it. The descending 
 sun put them into such light that they were beau- 
 tiful in a meek way. Miriam seemed to observe 
 this more than she did her oarsman, and talked a 
 good deal, with her eyes fixed always upon some- 
 thing far away. At length the oars ceased to 
 thump in the rowlocks. Something was the mat- 
 ter. The propelling power had given out. It lay 
 upon its oars with a decidedly used-up appearance, 
 making a polite pretense of pausing to enjoy the 
 scenery, while the boat drifted backward. Mir- 
 iam would have been glad to take the oars, but 
 one cannot take a patient's medicine for him, and 
 she had decided that her patient needed a few 
 grains of hardship. Her oarsman continued to al- 
 ternate between feeble pumping and pausing to 
 let the boat slide back again, and they would have 
 remained just opposite Shimmo to this day, but 
 that laugh of Betty Vinton's, which perpetually
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 277 
 
 haunted Roland, seemed suddenly to apply itself 
 to the occasion. It rippled and rang out and re- 
 turned in mocking echoes, or seemed to, until Ro- 
 land fairly ground his teeth, and the occasion 
 reached a momentous crisis. 
 
 " By Hercules ! " he muttered, taking the big- 
 gest breath he had ever drawn, and bending to the 
 oars, he never paused to admire the scenery again 
 until he had brought the boat up at Polpis. 
 
 Miriam took the heroic performance as a mat- 
 ter of course, as if it had been only what she ex- 
 pected of him, though she was almost frightened 
 at the unaccountable effect of her prescription, 
 the expression of the set lips, and the heaving of 
 the tired wrath-expanded chest. 
 
 They floated back with the tide, and the only 
 allusion Miriam made to this wonderful spurt of 
 Roland's was when he gave her his hand as they 
 left the boat. 
 
 " We 've gained one more believer, to-day, Ma- 
 homet," she said. 
 
 " Bless you, Kadijah, who 's that ? " 
 
 " Thee 's beginning to believe in thyself," Mir- 
 iam answered. 
 
 Roland privately doctored his blistered hands, 
 and looked at his sunburned face in his mirror, as 
 if it were the face of some one he took malicious 
 delight in exposing to such treatment, and day 
 after day he repeated it, taking a boat by himself 
 and pulling up the harbor. His face and hands 
 grew brown, and he began to throw out his chest
 
 278 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 when he walked, like a commodore, so that Mrs. 
 Payne expressed frequent wonder, and declared 
 that Nantucket was doing him even more good 
 than it did her. 
 
 " But wait until I Ve done with you ! " Roland 
 would say, shaking his fist at his altered self in 
 the glass on his dressing-table. 
 
 One day he rowed from point to point, until he 
 landed at the Haul-over, where the harbor at its 
 head is only separated from the Atlantic by a nar- 
 row strip of land, a bare sand-bar, of about a fur- 
 long's width, across which a boat may be hauled. 
 It is a rough clasp between the sapphire of the 
 harbor and the diamond of the sea ; or it is the 
 dividing line between home and the wilderness, 
 whichever you will. On one side are safety and 
 peace ; on the other, peril and terror and loss. It 
 is a spot of such desolation that it seems to have 
 nothing to do with life, especially human life. 
 It appears to be there only to keep those waters 
 apart, and yet it is such a little barrier that it 
 might easily wash away and let them flow to- 
 gether. 
 
 The place is a few miles north of 'Sconset, on 
 the same side of the island. 
 
 Roland pulled his boat up on the sands, and 
 crossing over the little isthmus, threw himself 
 down by the open sea and watched the great roll- 
 ers come tumbling in and the clean sweep of the 
 terrible undertow. A stronger than he might 
 have been seized with awe at feeling himself the
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 279 
 
 only human atom in that illimitable space. Not 
 a suggestion of human life was anywhere within 
 the circle of the horizon. He was absolutely alone, 
 on a handful of sand, in infinitude. He might 
 have been the first man or the last. He faced 
 the grandeur with boldness for a time, but at 
 length, overwhelmed, he closed his eyes to shut out 
 an awful impression ; his human soul shrinking 
 back to hide itself among the molecules again. 
 
 When he raised his eyes once more, he was 
 gladdened by the sight of a small sailboat ap- 
 proaching from the south. At once he seemed to 
 have companionship. He watched the sail. It 
 was like something one fixes the eye upon in 
 climbing high, to prevent dizziness. It kept just 
 off shore until it was directly opposite Roland, 
 when it dropped sail and seemed to be making 
 straight for him. He was a nervous young man, 
 and felt as if he were marked and shot at. 
 
 "But it's probably only some 'Sconset fisher- 
 man," he said. 
 
 And indeed it was only they who could catch 
 those wild horses of the sea, with their flying 
 white manes, and ride them safely to shore. An 
 unskilled rider would be thrown and trampled 
 under. This one came magnificently in upon the 
 beach, but he was no 'Sconset fisherman. It was 
 uncommon, perhaps, for two arrivals to occur at 
 the Haul-over in the same hour, or even the same 
 day, and, possibly, never since that period of crea- 
 tion when the land was divided from the waters,
 
 280 A QUAKER CTRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 had one man come up the harbor to meet another 
 man coming from over sea with the punctuality of 
 an appointment; yet Roland was more struck with 
 the look which the stranger bent upon him than 
 he was with the coincidence itself. 
 
 The two exchanged courteous salutations, and 
 the newcomer, taking a basket from his boat, was 
 about to go on across the bar in silence. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake! " cried Roland Weir, "do 
 say something, if it 's only ' How are ye,' for I long 
 to hear the sound of a human voice. I think this 
 must be the lonesomest spot in the universe." 
 
 The stranger was very tall, with broad, square 
 shoulders, well set back, and he carried himself in 
 such a way as to give the impression of remarka- 
 ble freedom and firmness, but he turned to answer 
 Roland in quite a hesitating way. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I suppose I 've crossed here 
 fifty times, and I never met a soul before." 
 
 " Then I 'm a remarkable occurrence. I 'm one 
 in fifty, at least," said Roland. " When I see a 
 man who can pass by something like that with 
 such coolness, my curiosity is aroused. I say to 
 myself, ' That man has seen tremendous things,' 
 and I want to know more about him." 
 
 " I 'm sorry to disappoint you," returned the 
 stranger ; " there 's nothing to know about me 
 except that I 'm named Tuttle, and I came from 
 'Sconset." 
 
 "Tattle! Of 'Sconset! Get out with your 
 modesty ! " said Roland. " I know a good deal
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 281 
 
 about you already. I know two fellows who 
 breakfast, dine, sup, and sleep on Tuttle of 'Scon- 
 set and his new ship. As to me, I 'm only Roland 
 Weir, of nowhere in particular. Have you ever 
 chanced to hear of him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have," Mr. Tuttle replied, flushing in a 
 curious way, and feeling two letters in India ink 
 stinging his arm. 
 
 " Those same fellows have been talking about 
 me, then," said Roland, who had risen, and now 
 came towards Mr. Tuttle with his hand extended. 
 Mr. Tuttle, changing his basket, gave his own 
 hand in return. 
 
 The youth from the inner harbor looked up at 
 the one from the outer sea with a certain wishful- 
 ness, as he took his measure, moral and physical. 
 There was something large and strong there be- 
 sides the tall person. You could never have 
 thought of Mr. Tuttle as being "alone or poor or 
 exiled or unhappy or a client." He seemed pro- 
 vided against those misfortunes, in himself, though 
 he was a very modest, simple sailor, who was only 
 sure of himself as an honest man and a good nav- 
 igator. 
 
 Roland Weir, who had sighed for Paris, was 
 rather surprised to find himself attracted to this 
 plain man. The gravitation of the weaker towards 
 the stronger nature is as irresistible, sometimes, 
 between man and man, as between woman and 
 man, and there are impressions which strike deeply 
 at the first, and become affairs of the heart in
 
 282 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 friendship, as well as in love, especially with a per- 
 son like Roland Weir, whose sensitive nature had 
 something almost feminine to account for it. 
 
 Yet do not fancy Roland jumping at friendship 
 and a new ideal from just having a look at a young 
 man. He knew much about him, as he has said, 
 for he had listened to long and fulsome disserta- 
 tions from Paul Haddon and Perez Howard on 
 " the captain," as they called him. He had heard 
 how " the captain's " bravery, his cleverness in the 
 things connected with his occupation, his modesty, 
 his straightforward truth and honesty, had at first 
 won the good-will, then the admiration, and at 
 last the warm friendship of his captain, who had 
 pushed him on at a pace which, though rapid, did 
 not outstrip his ability ; and how a splendid new 
 ship was building down at New Bedford, of which 
 he was to be commander as soon as it was finished. 
 Paul and Perez had been down there ever since 
 Roland's arrival at Nantucket, so that all this 
 had but freshly come to him. He had listened 
 to it with some interest, and had challenged Had- 
 don and Howard to trot out their prodigy and 
 put him through his paces. His interest was im- 
 mensely increased now that he stood face to face 
 with the prodigy. 
 
 " Well, then, here we are, John Dagget's two 
 boys," he said. " What the dickens do you sup- 
 pose we 've come to a rendezvous here for? There 's 
 something monstrous queer about it." 
 
 "Why, I'm here on my way to market," said
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 283 
 
 Mr. Tuttle. " I go to town this way sometimes, 
 rather than cross the island. It's easier to me, 
 though it 's farther. I keep another little old boat 
 fastened there at the head of the harbor, and when 
 the wind is fair, this is as quick as either way." 
 
 " Well, that accounts for you, but it don't ac- 
 count for me," said Roland, poking the sand with 
 the toe of his boot, and looking intently at the 
 operation. " Do you believe in destiny, and that 
 sort of thing?" 
 
 " No, not much," Mr. Tuttle responded, gazing 
 down at Roland with far the keener sense of the 
 queerness of the situation, for it was but a whim- 
 sical fancy on Roland's part to make so much of 
 the chance meeting. 
 
 "Well, I do," Roland declared emphatically. 
 He enjoyed being dramatic and exciting an inter- 
 est. " We 're here for something, I 'm sure of that, 
 so do sit down, won't you, and let 's see about it." 
 Rollo sat down on the sand, with his basket be- 
 side him, in an automatic way, as if there were 
 nothing else to do. 
 
 " Does n't it establish a relationship between us, 
 to begin with, that we 've both been John Dag- 
 get's boys ? " Roland wanted to know. 
 
 " You 're very kind to suppose such a thing," 
 Rollo replied, not with humility, but with a touch 
 of dignity. 
 
 " Kind? Now that 's great stuff," said Roland, 
 flinging the assertion back with a wave of his 
 hand. " Does it ? That 's all I want to know."
 
 284 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " I hope so," returned Rollo civilly. 
 
 "Well, it does, then. Now, two persons, pre- 
 viously related, meet for the first time in a peculiar 
 way, in the most peculiar spot on the map. Don't 
 you suppose that means something ? " 
 
 " I 'm not much for getting at meanings," said 
 Rol. He was the same old rather-silent Rol that 
 we remember, and he was more than usually dumb 
 upon this occasion. It was Roland Weir who ex- 
 panded and executed the one-sided conversation, 
 holding forth upon all sorts of things. He had 
 naturally a brilliant, rapid, nervous manner, and 
 he took up one subject after another, in quick suc- 
 cession, even touching upon heroism, and matters 
 of that sort, in a few glowing words, which made 
 him a surprise to himself. Rollo listened and 
 watched him, the earnest look growing in his clear, 
 brown face. It grew into admiration, and that 
 again into an expression of real pleasure. He was 
 beginning to like the charming youth whose ini- 
 tials burned upon his arm. 
 
 At length Roland drew in his rattling conver- 
 sational courser, and Rollo took his turn to speak. 
 
 " Do you mean to stay long on the island? " he 
 asked. 
 
 "Why, I can't tell," Roland answered. "I 
 came with my aunt, who is an invalid. She fan- 
 cied it would do her good. It did, at first, but 
 she is beginning to fall back again. She is very 
 restless and nervous, and everything depends upon 
 her."
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 285 
 
 " I hope it is n't serious," said Rollo, overcoming 
 a slight hoarseness, and trying to speak in a tone 
 of simple politeness. 
 
 " I think it is getting to be serious, yes," re- 
 turned Roland gravely. 
 
 " Why, can't they do anything for her, these 
 doctors ? Have they tried everything ? There 
 must be something they haven't thought of!" 
 Rollo said, with eagerness, while his anxiety looked 
 plainly out of his honest face. 
 
 " What a sympathetic nature you have, have n't 
 you ? " said Roland. 
 
 " Ye-yes, I believe I have," Rollo answered, try- 
 ing to recover the manner of a polite listener; but 
 he looked so dejected that Roland quite revered 
 his benevolent spirit. 
 
 " What a kind, noble heart he has," he said to 
 himself. " I don't think it is anything the doctors 
 can help," he continued aloud. " It is something 
 she is worrying about, and it just wears her out." 
 
 Rollo then looked so wretched that Roland Weir 
 again said to himself, " Why, he 's an out-and-out 
 Buddha ! How he takes the troubles of the world 
 to heart ! " 
 
 And this matter upon which he had begun to 
 speak was a trouble to himself. Mrs. Payne had 
 never spoken to him of what was grieving her, 
 she was so eager for him to know nothing but 
 happiness, and Roland had never ventured to in- 
 troduce the subject to her ; but the way was open 
 for guessing, with Betty's help. He had, however,
 
 286 A QUAKER GIRL OF NAN TUCKET. 
 
 never mentioned the matter to any one, except 
 Betty, and Betty knew no more than he did. 
 
 Now he felt a womanish rush of confidence 
 towards this strong, sympathetic nature. He 
 longed to open his mind. Have you never known 
 an impulsive, warm-hearted girl to say to the friend 
 of an hour, " It seems as if I could tell you every- 
 thing ! " Just so it seemed to Roland Weir. He 
 could almost have told Rollo his sorrows about 
 Betty. While he meditated this offer of his con- 
 fidence, a great white skimmer went flapping by 
 with a cry that sounded like " Speak ! speak ! " 
 The two young men watched it in silence, as it 
 swooped along from wave to wave. Was it only 
 a gull, or was it the spirit of that destiny in which 
 Roland Weir professed to believe ? 
 
 Presently Roland started out with his confi- 
 dence. 
 
 "It is a trouble of conscience that affects my 
 aunt," he said. " She fancies she has wronged 
 somebody, and driven him off to nobody knows 
 what, by some little unkindness or neglect. It 
 could n't be so, you know, for she 's the kindest, 
 gentlest person in the world." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Rol. 
 
 " It seems strange for me to be telling you our 
 family affairs, does n't it?" Roland asked. 
 
 "No yes I don't know," Rollo answered, 
 with complete confusion of mind and manner. 
 " Of course," he added, catching his breath, " I 've 
 heard about that strange boy, who was put into
 
 THE MEETING AT THE HAUL-OVER. 287 
 
 your place. Is it is that the person she has the 
 fancy about ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well," Rollo went on, swallowing hard. " I 
 know that person. He 's a sailor, like myself, and 
 he makes quite a friend of me. I wish you would 
 tell your aunt that I have heard him say she never 
 was unkind, never. He 's as grateful to her as can 
 be. He only went away because he did n't want 
 to be a trouble to her. Come, go and tell her 
 that, won't you? Don't don't wait ! It might 
 make her better at once to have that off her mind. 
 I 'in in a great hurry myself. I must go on. For 
 Heaven's sake, don't let 's sit here any longer gab- 
 bing, when she's worrying about that!" 
 
 Rollo got up and started on, forgetting his 
 basket, and panting with impatience and emotion. 
 " Come, I '11 take you down the harbor," he said. 
 " Come ! Come on ! Do come on ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 CAPTUKED. 
 
 IT was not until he had parted with Hollo at 
 the market, and was wending his way up town, 
 with a cautious eye on the ups and downs of the 
 sunken old flagging of the Nantucket sidewalks, 
 that Roland reflected carefully and soberly upon 
 this emotional lover of the human race, that was 
 how he still considered him, for it would be a 
 slow process, naturally, which would bring him to 
 connect the emotions of Mr. Tuttle of 'Sconset 
 solely with his aunt. 
 
 He was still dwelling perplexedly upon this di- 
 vine compassion, when he reached home and pre- 
 sented himself at the door of the south room, 
 where he found Mrs. Payne in the large cushioned 
 chair in which she usually sat, with her thin hands 
 lying listlessly in her lap. This time she was face 
 to face with Monte Cristo, and the two seemed 
 to have been having a discussion without coming 
 to an understanding. 
 
 "What ails the dog?" Mrs. Payne exclaimed 
 as Roland entered. " It is really frightful to see 
 how frantic he gets." Then in a confidential 
 tone she added, " He does n't like to stay here. 
 He is constantly urging me to go."
 
 CAPTURED. 289 
 
 " Go where ? " asked Roland. 
 
 " I 'm sure I don't know. He has been like my 
 shadow, you know, but since we came here he is 
 just a vagabond, goes away and is gone all day, 
 and comes back quite used up and half starved." 
 
 " Goes where, do you suppose ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I can't suppose. The very afternoon 
 we arrived, he started off before we were fairly 
 settled in the house. A public carriage driver 
 brought him back, and said Monte had followed 
 him across the island." 
 
 " To where, in what direction ? " 
 
 " To that fishing village, Siasconset." 
 
 Roland held himself still, to give his mind a 
 chance to settle, and presently that turbid mix- 
 ture of uncertainty and perplexity with which he 
 had come home cleared into limpid enlightenment. 
 Still, as Roland recognized the patent fact that 
 more than half the people who think they have 
 discovered the truth are very much mistaken in- 
 deed, he kept his light to himself for the time, 
 and seating himself on a footstool at Mrs. Payne's 
 feet said : 
 
 " I met a young man this morning who knows 
 Rollo." 
 
 Mrs. Payne started forward in her chair. " Who 
 is he ? Where is he ? " she asked in one quick 
 breath. 
 
 " He 's that remarkable young man Paul Had- 
 don was telling us about Dame Dagget's heir." 
 
 " And he lives at Siasconset ? "
 
 290 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Roland," Mrs. Payne cried, clasping her hands, 
 " don't you see ? Rollo has probably been to this 
 place. Monte has fallen upon some clue and 
 wants to tell me. Oh, I was inspired when I in- 
 sisted upon coming here ! " 
 
 Mrs. Payne looked highly excited, and caressed 
 Monte Cristo, who flounced about, panted, and 
 sneezed at every mention of Rollo's name, like a 
 dog who hopes he is beginning to be understood. 
 
 " But where is Rollo ? What did this young 
 man say about him ? Should you think he had 
 seen him recently ? " Mrs. Payne continued with 
 trembling eagerness. 
 
 "I I should rather think he had," Roland an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Is it some one who knows him well, or only a 
 casual acquaintance ? " 
 
 " Oh, I should think he must know him uncom- 
 monly well," Roland answered with assurance. 
 
 "I must see him, then, though he is of the spe- 
 cies I dread." 
 
 " What species ? " 
 
 "The self-made, self -congratulating sort, 
 strong of their successes, and so unconscious of 
 their ill-breeding." 
 
 *' Why he 's not at all that kind, aunt. He 's 
 a noble fellow quite a splendid fellow as gen- 
 tlemanly as you please, and as modest as a dove. 
 And besides all that, he is so tender-hearted that 
 he could not rest when he heard of your concern
 
 CAPTURED. 291 
 
 about Hollo, but sent me home spinning, to ease 
 your mind." 
 
 " I shall go to see him," Mrs. Payne said rising 
 and moving to the window, from which she looked 
 out with wistful eyes, as if she would have gone 
 on the wing and on the moment. " I must go to- 
 morrow," she added; "I feel uncommonly well." 
 
 " It is a tiresome drive, aunt. You 'd better 
 let him come here and see you." 
 
 " No, I should like to be tired for some reason. 
 I am always tired. Nobody knows why." 
 
 It was then dinner time, and during the dinner 
 it was fully settled that Mrs. Payne and Miriam 
 would drive over to 'Sconset the next day. 
 
 " And I shall take a horse and canter across in 
 advance, to be sure the young man has n't gone 
 a-fishing, and that his mind is prepared," said Ro- 
 land. " He seems rather a shy fellow, and prob- 
 ably isn't accustomed to receiving visits from 
 ladies. It would n't be fair for you to spring such 
 a surprise upon him." 
 
 There seemed no doubt but that Hollo would be 
 taken, when on the following morning Roland 
 Weir went galloping over the moors, as eager as 
 a huntsman with his eye on the game, and after- 
 wards Mrs. Payne, who was like a ferret in her 
 keenness and eagerness and tenacity of purpose, 
 and with her the Quaker girl, full of the spirit of 
 the occasion, which she caught sympathetically, 
 as one who rides with the hunt as a looker-on 
 catches the enthusiasm of the hunters.
 
 292 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 But Monte Cristo was left behind ! It was too 
 long a run for him on a summer's day, Mrs. Payne 
 thought, and so the poor, patient fellow, who 
 had trotted down to 'Sconset again and again to 
 watch his old master from afar, and try to make 
 out what ailed him that he should be so cruel and 
 strange, who had told his story to Mrs. Payne 
 over and over, and lost himself repeatedly in won- 
 der as to what ailed her, too, that she should be 
 so dull, poor Monte Cristo was shut up in the 
 wash-room, to consider with discouragement how 
 much was needed to be done for these humans in 
 order that they might see things with the clear un- 
 derstanding of a dog. 
 
 Ah, what bitterness it would have been to this 
 wise and worthy animal if he could have known 
 that the Pretender so he contemptuously re- 
 garded Roland Weir was leading the way where 
 he had longed and begged to lead, while he was 
 a prisoner in the wash-room ! He got up with his 
 paws on the window-sill, and saw Mrs. Payne de- 
 part in the chaise, yes, and in the right direc- 
 tion, too ! Could it be could it be that she was 
 going there, and he left out? He turned and 
 turned in a frenzy, calling for help with his loudest 
 yelp, and protesting with his fiercest bark ; but no 
 help came. He passed through every stage of an- 
 guish and wild despair which a prisoner suffers, 
 when he knows the hour has come, some blessed 
 hour for which he has waited long, while he is 
 cut off from its joy by only the thickness or thin-
 
 CAPTURED. 293 
 
 ness 'of a wall or a door, which is yet as impassable 
 as the gulf between world and world. 
 
 Monte was, in the main, a reasonable dog, how- 
 ever, and when he had succeeded in making him- 
 self hoarse, he sank downwith a long sigh upon 
 the wash-room floor and waited, while Roland 
 Weir was flying over the moors, drawing near 
 'Sconset, and coming at length within sight of the 
 precious game. 
 
 As Roland swept down upon 'Sconset, the wind 
 from the sea swept down upon him, and blew away 
 his light straw hat. He did not even stop to look 
 back at it, for there on the veranda sat Rollo, 
 playing his violin. 
 
 " Here we are, violin and all, my tender-hearted 
 young man," said Roland. " I don't dare to be 
 sure, even yet, that you are the very one, but I 'm 
 bold to believe you are." 
 
 Rollo turned and saw him coming, galloping on, 
 bareheaded, flushed, heated, and very wild^looking. 
 He started to his feet and turned pale. 
 
 Roland dismounted with a bound, came up the 
 steps with another, and there, for a moment, they 
 stood, confronting each other, Roland speechless 
 and red, Rollo speechless and pale. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you," asked Roland, panting, 
 "that we met for something up there yester- 
 day?" 
 
 "I I believe you did," gasped Rollo 
 slowly, like a waking sleep-walker in growing trep- 
 idation.
 
 294 A QUAKER GIRL OF NAN TUCKET. 
 
 As he looked up at the great splendid fellow, 
 that feeling of attraction which had possessed Ro- 
 land the day before was doubly, trebly strong. 
 With his new longing after manliness, it seemed 
 to him that this example of manliness had come 
 to him as the gods of old came to men's help in 
 times of need. A moment they looked in each 
 other's faces, then the one word that was wanted 
 came from Roland Weir. 
 
 " Rollo ? " and in liis warm-hearted, impulsive, 
 facile, Frenchy way, he threw his arms round the 
 confounded Rollo and gave him there was no 
 mistaking it for anything but a cordial hug. 
 
 " There ! So I take possession of you, deserter," 
 he cried. 
 
 Rollo choked with the suddenness of this gust. 
 But that idea of Roland Weir's possession was not 
 unfamiliar to him. There had been scarcely a 
 day in which he had not looked at the brand upon 
 his arm with some thought of the secondary sig- 
 nificance he had given it. When he had sufficiently 
 recovered the breath and the senses which Roland 
 Weir had quite taken away by his outburst of 
 demonstration, "I own your claim," he said, 
 pushing back his sleeve. " See ? There 's your 
 mark." 
 
 " Good, good ! " returned Roland, bubbling over 
 with satisfaction ! 
 
 " But what does it all mean ? " Rollo begged to 
 know. " How did you find " 
 
 " Find you out ? It was very simple. We had
 
 CAPTURED. 295 
 
 a hint from Monte Cristo, and as for you, you 're 
 a piece of clear, plain glass. I was very dull not 
 to see through you at once. I have only told my 
 aunt that there is a young man here who knows 
 Hollo, and she was for starting on the moment to 
 see him. She is on her way down here now with 
 Miriam Swain. There 's no escape for you, sir ! " 
 
 An energetic person will not rest physically 
 passive under strong mental commotion. Rollo 
 moved up and down the veranda with long 
 strides, not rapidly, he put all his possibility 
 of repression into the effort to go moderately, and 
 shut his hands in his coat pockets as if he were 
 reining in a violent horse, or as if that were a 
 means of self-restraint. 
 
 Roland soon came to his side, took his arm, and 
 walked with him, Rollo checking his great steps 
 to accommodate them to the lesser man. 
 
 " I have remembered a hundred times the lonely 
 boy you seemed when you started away that morn- 
 ing, Rollo, with nothing much but your soul and 
 body to call your own," Roland said. " I want 
 to hear the whole story the most minute history 
 of those years of exile. What became of you that 
 day ? Where in heaven above or on the earth be- 
 neath or in the waters under the earth did you go 
 to?" 
 
 " Oh, there 's no story to tell. I came here." 
 
 " Here ? To John Dagget's, at once ? Well, 
 upon my word, that was quid pro quo ! Did you 
 mean to hold your head high and show me that
 
 296 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 either place was all the same to you ; to give me 
 all the odds and then come out winner ? " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Rol. 
 
 " Well, tell me, like a good fellow, how I can 
 lay hold of a manly life as you have done," pur- 
 sued Roland. " You make me feel as if I might 
 be something yet. I long to be a true man. Steer 
 me a little, won't you ? Shops me the straight 
 course ! Tell me how to begin ! " 
 
 " Why, we 've already begun to be what we long 
 to be, have n't we ? Go on longing, and do what- 
 ever ought to be done, whatever you can do best. 
 Is n't that a fair idea to start with ? " Rollo blushed 
 to find himself taking the part of Mentor. 
 
 " The idea is well enough, yes," Roland as- 
 sented ; " but as a fact, you seem to be the fellow 
 who has had the chances, and I the one who has 
 missed them. It was you, after all, who stepped 
 into a place in life. Yes, hang me if you have n't 
 escaped the drawbacks and made a man of your- 
 self at my expense, thrusting me into abject lux- 
 ury, and seizing the advantages of penury yourself ! 
 Do we need to have our props knocked away, I 
 wonder, in order to discover ourselves, and stand 
 upon our own strength, or get strength to stand 
 upon ? Who knows whether you would ever have 
 been the fine fellow you are, sir, if you had re- 
 mained Roland Weir ? " 
 
 " Oh, come," cried Rollo, by this time, in a tone 
 of strong deprecation, stopping short in his walk. 
 " I can't stand and hear myself called a fine fel-
 
 CAPTURED. 297 
 
 low ! No such names as that, now. Just come 
 with me, won't you, while I catch my fish for din- 
 ner. How soon will my other guests arrive ? " 
 
 " In not much more than an hour, I should 
 think." 
 
 Hollo felt that the only way he could get becom- 
 ingly through that hour would be to do something. 
 He led Roland's horse to the barn, brought out his 
 basket and line, and Roland followed him across 
 the road and down the cliff to the beach. 
 
 The manner of taking the fish was the 'Sconset 
 fashion of throwing the line from the shore. 
 
 Rollo unreeled the long cord and coiled it at his 
 feet, then swung the hook and the heavy sinker in 
 more and more rapid circles above his head, until 
 it had acquired tremendous velocity, when he 
 threw it forward, and it splashed into the sea at a 
 magnificent distance. The fish answered his invi- 
 tation without much delay, and he presently had a 
 fine bluefish napping on the sand. 
 
 Roland was eager to try his own hand at this 
 sport. It looked most easily done when Rollo's 
 strength gave the momentum, and his skill a grace 
 which seemed lightness of hand. 
 
 Again and again Roland made a venture with 
 no success. Again and again he begged Rollo to 
 give him one more example. He was big with 
 determination, swollen with ambition ; he would 
 not give up, and so the time passed on, until Rollo 
 excused himself to go and deliver his fish to Man- 
 uel, the important native of Fayal who had been
 
 298 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 carefully trained to be cook and steward of the 
 new ship, and who, with the occasional assistance 
 of Mrs. Martin, performed the domestic service of 
 the cottage. Roland asked to be left to practice 
 by himself, promising to come up before it should 
 be time for the ladies to arrive. 
 
 When Rollo had ascended to the road, however, 
 he started at the sight of Jerry and the old chaise 
 already at the cottage door, and the ladies, who 
 had made more haste than Roland expected, were 
 just entering the little hall at Manuel's invitation. 
 Rollo hesitated, as if about to turn back. But 
 why should he? he asked himself. He was on 
 the eve of that great moment towards which his 
 ambition had continually pointed for six years. 
 He was about to present himself to Mrs. Payne, 
 unashamed. This was all just as he had hoped, 
 and yet his courage failed him. But putting his 
 will in the place of his courage, he kept on with- 
 out calling Roland Weir, went round to the back 
 door with his fish, and received Manuel's breath- 
 less announcement that there were " ladies in the 
 paii' who had come to see Meest Tuttle," with 
 as much apparent composure as if he were giving 
 receptions to ladies every day, though his big 
 heart pounded like a sledge-hammer. 
 
 During the minutes up - stairs in which he 
 washed his hands and minutely and carefully re- 
 stored himself to freshness, he seemed, as, one 
 often does, to be exactly repeating an experience, 
 to find the same act and the same thought occur-
 
 CAPTURED. 299 
 
 ring simultaneously as they had done long ago. 
 It was as if he washed his objectionable hands, and 
 changed his cuffs again, at Newport, and again, as 
 at that time, he turned those grievous words over 
 in his mind, " It seems as if you were not my 
 boy ! " 
 
 At length he was quite ready, and turning into 
 the little entry went quickly down the short, an- 
 gular staircase, which creaked under his tread, 
 and in a moment filled the small doorway of the 
 parlor with his large presence. The light in the 
 room was dim, for the blinds were all closed to 
 keep out the glare of the sun and the sand, and it 
 did not at once occur to Rol that more light was 
 needed on this matter. His eyes were strong and 
 clear and able to discern the two faces that looked 
 out upon him ; but Mrs. Payne, in advance of her 
 day, had astigmatic vision, and the blur of imper- 
 fect sight, in addition to the dimness of the room, 
 made it impossible for her to clearly distinguish 
 Hollo's features. She saw only the outline of an 
 erect, manly figure, which was quite imposing in 
 the frame of the doorway. It gave her the im- 
 pression of a man of thirty. 
 
 " Mr. Tuttle ? " she asked, rising. 
 
 " Yes," was all Hollo could answer. 
 
 Miriam, with her old-fashioned Quaker manners, 
 rose too, and shook hands with Hollo, reminding 
 him that she was the forlorn maiden whom he had 
 occasionally rescued. 
 
 " I thought we should find my nephew here,"
 
 300 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 said Mrs. Payne, when they were seated. " He 
 started to come in advance of us in order to speak 
 for the privilege of this visit for me." 
 
 Rollo accounted for Roland Weir's absence. 
 
 " Then you do know the errand which brings 
 me here ? " said Mrs. Payne. " But you can hardly 
 understand, Mr. Tuttle, the importance it is to me 
 to have found some one who knows about my 
 Rollo. Tell me at once, if you please, how we 
 should be most likely to reach him." 
 
 " I think," said Rollo, " you would be as likely 
 to reach him here as anywhere." 
 
 " Here ? Then he does come here ? How soon 
 might I expect to see him? Oh, Mr. Tuttle! 
 you cannot guess how much he is wished for and 
 needed ! Is there any way of bringing him at 
 once ? " 
 
 " Nothing could bring him sooner than your 
 commands, madam." Rollo's deep voice said this 
 with a specific earnestness. He felt Miriam's eyes 
 resting upon him with grave scrutiny. " You 
 have only to say the word, and he is here," he 
 added. 
 
 " Ah, no one can know better than I do the un- 
 selfish, obedient spirit of the boy," said Mrs. Payne. 
 " He was as good as gold, as brave and true and 
 kind as any boy could be, and I hope he is the 
 same to this day." 
 
 Rollo believed Mrs. Payne's desire to be mag- 
 nanimous was carrying her far. It was to ease 
 her too-tender conscience that she spoke of him in
 
 CAPTURED. 301 
 
 that tone, he thought. She meant to do him more 
 than justice, rather than less, in future. 
 
 " Oh, he 's quite a common sort of person, every 
 way," he said, " not remarkable for anything in 
 particular." 
 
 " I see you do not know him well," Mrs. Payne 
 said with a certain stiffness of manner, a complete 
 withdrawal from the gracious attitude she had at 
 first thought proper. " You are either unac- 
 quainted with him, or you are unfriendly to him." 
 
 " He never had a better friend," said Hollo, 
 " excepting yourself." 
 
 "Still," said Mrs. Payne, "I do not find the 
 satisfaction I expected in hearing you speak of 
 him. If you will kindly give me his address, I 
 need not trouble you farther." 
 
 Mrs. Payne waited for a reply with nostrils ex- 
 panded and lips parted. It was not to ease her 
 conscience that she breathed in that quick, agi- 
 tated way. Hollo's heart swelled at the sight. 
 
 " I can tell you this," he said, " if there is any 
 good in him, he thanks you for it. Among all his 
 faults there is not a trace of ingratitude to you. 
 He has worked up to a place that he is not 
 ashamed of, and it was the thought of you that 
 helped him. He longed to be something that you 
 would approve." 
 
 The tone in which these words were said, not 
 less than the words themselves, melted Mrs. 
 Payne's iciness, so that there was a -warm mist in 
 her eyes, which threatened to turn into rain.
 
 302 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 " Ah, my dear boy ! " she said, quite to herself, 
 almost inaudibly, but Rollo heard it, and flushed 
 scarlet with surprise and incredulous joy. He 
 leaned forward with a gesture of absolute sur- 
 render, the old true affection thrusting the im- 
 postor pride quite out of the way. 
 
 Miriam saw the whole trath, and rose quickly, 
 with a mist in her own eyes, to leave those two to 
 their very personal interview, when she was fright- 
 ened back by the sound of quick hard breathing, 
 a dash upon the veranda, a plunge through the 
 hall, and Monte Cristo, ready to drop dead, flashed 
 into the room, halted an instant to review the 
 situation, the frantic fear of having arrived too 
 late making his wild eyes gleam like balls of fire 
 in the obscurity of the room. Catching the look of 
 the dear old by-gone days in Hollo's face, he 
 blessed the good dog-star that at last, at last his 
 master was himself again, and with all the breath 
 he had left, gave one cry of exultation, flew at 
 Hollo, and if ever a dog said what he had to say, 
 if ever a dog wept for joy, it was then and it was 
 there. Never, perhaps, had there been such a 
 manifestation from dog to man since there were 
 dogs and men on the earth. Mrs. Payne stared, 
 benumbed. Who was this, who could bring such 
 cries and tears from Monte Cristo ? 
 
 She moved her lips to speak, but no sound came. 
 Then, rising slowly, in a dazed, unsteady fashion, 
 and stretching her hands before her, like a blind 
 person seeking the lost way,
 
 CAPTURED. 303 
 
 " Hollo ! " she hardly more than whispered, as 
 if she feared to say it, dared not believe it. 
 
 Again, faint as the voice was, Rollo heard it, 
 and quicker than a thought, made one step and 
 took the groping hands in his, while Monte 
 Cristo found that he had just life enough left for 
 one mad demonstration more. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " said Rollo ; " I was waiting for 
 courage. See how poor I am! I have n't the 
 courage of a man ! " 
 
 Mrs. Payne brought Rollo to the light, looked 
 long at the face which told such a different story, 
 and as she felt the gentleness of the strong, young 
 arm which offered her support, 
 
 "Ah, but I am rich enough," she said, " and I 
 have the courage of a whole race of men ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 KITH AND KIN. 
 
 I SHALL not invite you to be present when the 
 story was told which revealed to Rollo his true 
 name and place in life, when all that he had ever 
 wished for and more than he had hoped for was 
 poured in one flush stream upon him. Profound 
 joy is as sacred as profound sorrow. 
 
 And if I should show you Amos Tuttle, when 
 he stood with trembling hands on Hollo's shoul- 
 ders, looking into Lydia Macy's blue-gray eyes, 
 while the good-natured creases in his cheeks were 
 turned into water courses, you young people, who 
 know nothing of lonely, unsuccessful old age, and 
 the dearness of the links by which it possesses 
 some remnant of the hopeful past, would call him 
 a foolish old fellow. Ah, but he was a gentle, 
 loving, faithful old fellow, and this was the one 
 great joy, the one true and perfect satisfaction, 
 that had ever come into his patient life. 
 
 It is impossible for a transplanted offshoot of an 
 old Nantucket family to remain transplanted long 
 enough to find himself without relationship on the 
 island. A little genealogical research will supply 
 him with a large family connection, with blood 
 somewhat mixed and diluted, it is true, but while
 
 KITH AND KIN 305 
 
 one has a single drop of the original current in his 
 veins, he is analytically a Macy, a Starbuck, a 
 Coffin, a Swain, a Gardner, or a Folger. As soon 
 as Hollo's history became known, he was cousin 
 to half the people on the island, and they all dis- 
 cussed and compared, at their meetings in the sail 
 loft, or in the old counting-rooms down by the 
 wharves, or at their tea-drinkings, to find who was 
 nearest. Amos was not behind any one of them, I 
 do assure you. When it was seen that Hollo was 
 more attached to him than to any of his new con- 
 nection, he was frequently asked what relation the 
 young captain was to him. 
 
 " To me I Why he 's my own prottyjee ! " Amos 
 would reply with as much arrogance as was possi- 
 ble to his mild nature. 
 
 And at the close of a heavenly day, when the 
 sparse cedars cast long, peaceful shadows in the 
 north bury ing-ground ; when Mrs. Payne and Ro- 
 land Weir, and all the friends and rc4atives unto 
 the sixteenth cousin, stood there with bowed heads 
 to give hail and farewell to some sacred dust, it 
 was Amos, with Hollo, who lifted and placed it on 
 the spot where the motherly old island had opened 
 her bosom. It was Amos who stood side by side 
 with Rollo when the prayer was said. It was 
 his tear that consecrated the earth where Lydia 
 Macy's dust was to lie. 
 
 It was a sweet and hallowed rest, at last, which 
 she found at whose first burial only Ezra Hodges 
 and Benjamin Booth were present as mourners.
 
 306 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 And Pel'tiah, with his long, snowy curls uncov- 
 ered, and shining like a glory round his innocent 
 face, laid the warm earth on gently, for in forty 
 years he had not learned to do this service irrever- 
 ently. He covered those profound sleepers as if a 
 sound might wake them. 
 
 And by and by they had all gone, and there 
 were no sounds above Lydia's grave save the creak- 
 ing and zizzing of insects, the murmur, murmur, 
 murmur of the sea, the cry of a wandering plover, 
 and the low voice of her son that said, " Good- 
 night, mother I "
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 BY RACHEL GARDNER'S QUIET BEDSIDE. 
 
 HOLLO'S errands to town, during those fast-fly- 
 ing days, were more than could well be accounted 
 for by anybody but himself. He rode in that di- 
 rection on a lovely cool morning of September, 
 with Monte Cristo at his heels. Monte, by the 
 way, never lost sight of his master again, and 
 all his life, poor dog, seemed to suffer anxiety and 
 fear least he should take himself off again. 
 
 Rollo's face, that was always aglow, now, with 
 gladness, wore an unusual look of gravity that 
 morning. As he approached the town, he drew 
 his horse into a walk and appeared to consider. 
 
 He was wondering what pretext would take 
 him to the Swains again. He had been there re- 
 peatedly with Roland Weir ; he had stopped to get 
 Mrs. Payne's smelling-bottle, of his own accord ; he 
 had taken a note to Miriam once, from Mrs. Payne, 
 who, with Roland, was passing the last weeks of 
 Rollo's stay on shore at the cottage at 'Sconset, 
 and returned with a feeling of great satisfaction 
 at having the reply in the breast-pocket of his 
 coat, from whence he had withdrawn it several 
 times to stare at the address in a thoughtful
 
 308 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 way. Each time he had had a little chat with 
 Miriam, quite at his ease, for he felt the sustain- 
 ing sense of having a reasonable and evident pur- 
 pose, and every time he went he wished to go 
 again, each time more than the last ; but now, as 
 he rode towards the town, he was destitute of os- 
 tensible purpose, but well furnished with a desire 
 to see the Quaker girl, and hear her smooth, rich 
 voice again. 
 
 Hollo, however, was very shy. He had made 
 trips to town before, with bold intention, but the 
 boldness had completely forsaken him when he 
 came within sight of the Swain house, and he was 
 wondering if he should disappoint himself this 
 time. He was but twenty-one, you know, and had 
 passed five years on shipboard, where there had 
 never chanced to appear such a girl as Miriam, 
 and, indeed, according to his own view, such an one 
 had never appeared in history at all, and the sailor 
 boy had never before been bi-ought to consider an 
 undertaking so important as a formal visit to a 
 young lady, for the sole and definite purpose of see- 
 ing her and having something to say to her. He 
 was sure he should have not a word to speak under 
 those circumstances. Confusion seized him at the 
 thought, for he was far from ready to tell her how 
 he had become saturated with beautiful thoughts 
 of her, though that was exactly Hollo's case. A 
 young man of twenty-one would not need much 
 time to arrive at such a situation, even if he were 
 more reasonable and sensible than Rollo, who was
 
 BY RACHEL GARDNER'S QUIET BEDSfDE. 309 
 
 quite reasonable and sensible enough, and Rollo 
 had been considering, with a mixture of wonder 
 and delight, for several weeks, this lovely girl, 
 and the thoughts and sensations that filled his 
 mind in regard to her were conditioned upon 
 something more beautiful than Miriam's beauti- 
 ful person even, and that was a perception of her 
 beautiful, strong, tender spirit. 
 
 But Rollo had said more than he knew in those 
 casual meetings with Miriam, not in words, of 
 course, but his honest look and manner had re- 
 vealed so much that Miriam perceived, with a 
 shock of surprise, that every vestige of her child- 
 hood was gone, that she was getting really old, 
 and one day she brought out Friend Polly Hop- 
 kins and whispered one more confidence to her, 
 and shed one more tear on her neck. And she 
 took to wandering in her old childish haunts 
 again. She went often to sit by Rachel Gardner, 
 and flattered Pel'tiah and Amos by frequent vis- 
 its to them. She held on to Sally Martin, too, 
 as if she were the embodiment of her lost youth, 
 and meant never to take her back to her mother 
 again. 
 
 On the same morning of this day of Septem- 
 ber, Miriam was in the Friends'"" burying-ground 
 with Sally. She had taken her to see Rachel 
 Gardner's grave, for she had told her the story of 
 this friend she had lost when she was a little girl 
 like Sally herself. As they went slowly on in the 
 narrow paths, bordered and overgrown by -weeds,
 
 310 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 she lingered upon that memory with her eyes fixed 
 dreamily on the untrodden way. 
 
 It was just at that moment that Hollo was pass- 
 ing, and he could see the little Quaker bonnet 
 above the palings of the fence, and the curly head 
 of Sally bobbing along below it. That settled 
 his question for him. He would go boldly into 
 the burying-ground, and meet Miriam, and have a 
 chat with her there. If conversation failed, he 
 could always address a remark to Sally. He was 
 very fond of Sally. Day after day he had seen 
 her sitting in the doorway of her home, watching 
 the road to town, and when he had asked her, 
 " What are you looking for, little one ? " she had 
 always answered, " I am looking for Friend Mir- 
 iam," and Hollo had looked for her too ; they had 
 watched together ; and so he had grown into sym- 
 pathy and friendship with Sally Martin. 
 
 He fastened his horse to the fence, and marched 
 courageously on, crushing deep prints in the moss- 
 covered ground as he went. Miriam saw him coin- 
 ing with a feeling which could not quite be called 
 pleasure, and was not altogether dread. 
 
 She blushed, and so did Rollo, but she expressed 
 no surprise at finding him in that unwonted spot, 
 and Rollo gave no explanation, made no excuse. 
 It was as if they had met there every day. 
 
 Rollo sat down on the grass by Miriam, near 
 Rachel Gardner's grave, after they had exchanged 
 greetings, and at first there was an awful hush. 
 But presently Miriam, laying her hand on the
 
 BY RACHEL GARDNERS QUIET BEDSIDE. 311 
 
 little mound with a caressing touch, stroking 
 the earth which she had always kept smoothly 
 rounded with her own hands, told Rollo about 
 that child friendship, and how she had always 
 loved to come and sit beside little Rachel. There 
 was great tenderness in her look and tone as she 
 spoke. Rachel Gardner had never seemed so dear. 
 
 "Thank you for telling me that," Rollo said, 
 when she had finished. " I was wondering how 
 you could like to come here. But I 'm glad you 
 happened to, this morning" as if the Friends' 
 burying-ground had been his destination and Mir- 
 iam had accidentally fallen upon it. " I 'm going 
 to China so soon, now, that I want to see my 
 friends all I can, you know, in the mean time." 
 
 ' That was quite a little venture for Rollo to 
 call Miriam his friend. 
 
 " I was on my way to China when I brought up 
 at Newport," said Miriam. " Does thee remember 
 that?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " Rollo answered. " My memory is 
 pretty good about some things. What were you 
 going to China for? " 
 
 " I 've always longed to go there since I was a 
 little girl," said Miriam. 
 
 As Rollo had no moustaches to twirl, he was 
 busy pulling and twirling the wild turnip heads. 
 
 " Things must be so curious there," added Mir- 
 iam. 
 
 " Yes, so they are." 
 
 Rollo was uncertain whether to say something
 
 312 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 that was in his mind. He was already so uncer- 
 tain what to say at all that he looked for refuge 
 to Sally Martin, who was petting Monte Cristo. 
 Much as he had depended upon her, he had not 
 fully calculated her power to help him. 
 
 " You like dogs, don't you, Sally ? " he said, 
 with wretched stupidity, he knew. 
 
 " Yes, I like them pretty well," Sally answered, 
 leaving Monte and leaning back against Miriam 
 again ; " but I like Friend Miriam best of every- 
 body. Do you like her? " 
 
 Rollo felt as if caught up and borne on by a 
 strong wind. He was ready to answer earnestly, 
 "Yes, I do!" 
 
 " What does thee hold my hand so tight for, 
 Friend Miriam," pursued Sally, in her drawling 
 child's tone, looking up at Miriam with immense 
 surprise. " I don't want to run away, for I love 
 thee very much, thee knows," and she nestled 
 close within Miriam's arm, looking out upon 
 Rollo from that freehold with the assurance of an 
 established right. She watched him sharply, and 
 then, "Do YOU love her?" she asked, mixing the 
 Friendly manner of speech, which she had caught 
 from Miriam, with her usual worldly fashion. 
 
 Sally touched a match, this time, to the well- 
 guarded powder that Rollo had stored away. A 
 lighted match and explosives ! You know how 
 they work. 
 
 Fizz bang ! It is all soon over. 
 
 " Ah, that is something I must say only to
 
 BY RACHEL GARDNER'S QUIET BEDSIDE. 313 
 
 Friend Miriam herself," Hollo answered. " May 
 I say it ? May I tell you the truth, Miriam ? " 
 
 " Not now not now," entreated Miriam, cling- 
 ing to Sally Martin. 
 
 " Some day, may I ? Some other day shall I 
 tell you all I am thinking now ? And won't you 
 go with me the next time you start for China ; 
 let me guide the ship for you always ? Will 
 you, Miriam ? " 
 
 Though. Miriam did not answer in words, Rollo 
 was just as content, just as exultant, as if she 
 had ; and when they went away from the burying- 
 ground, the childhood which Miriam had buried ' 
 there with Rachel Gardner had had its Easter 
 Day, for out of its ashes had risen her happier 
 womanhood.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 
 
 IT will be impossible to give any just impres- 
 sion of the immense importance of The Ship. 
 Though you have heard of the Armada and the 
 Mayflower and the Great Eastern, these were of 
 no consequence whatever in comparison with The 
 Ship! 
 
 Paul's father and Perez's grandfather were its 
 owners, and Hollo and Paul and Perez were to be 
 interested together in its cargoes, and to have the 
 privilege of buying it, in time. 
 
 The conversation of these young men during 
 the year that ends the events of these little annals 
 was solid ship. You would have said that all the 
 commercial and maritime interests of the nation 
 were in their hands. 
 
 The day for the launching of this precious bark 
 was drawing near ; it was close at hand. 
 
 It had been left to the future owners to choose 
 its name, yet out of a yard-long list, and out of 
 innumerable hours of discussion, no satisfactory 
 name had as yet been extracted. 
 
 At length Paul and Perez came down to 'Scon- 
 set one morning, with a solemn, official air, to say
 
 THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 315 
 
 that the matter was to be left entirely to Rollo. 
 Hollo's surprise was only half equal to his pleasure, 
 for he had longed to give the name to his ship. 
 
 " A thousand thanks," he said. " You shall 
 know my choice at the christening." 
 
 The great day at length arrived, that last day 
 of September, a glorious day, from which all 
 clouds had fled, except the one remaining in Ro- 
 land Weir's sky. 
 
 The ship was to be launched at twelve o'clock. 
 Perez Howard's grandfather had all our friends 
 from Nantucket staying at his charming house on 
 the top of the hill at New Bedford. 
 
 At a little before eleven o'clock this dear old 
 mansion began to give up its occupants with reck- 
 less abandon. Mrs. Payne came first down its 
 smooth-worn granite steps with Rollo. Her happy 
 eyes and returning color made her almost as beau- 
 tiful as when she was the enchanting chaperon 
 who sailed down Buzzard's Bay on board the Juno. 
 Then there were Roland, Miriam and Obed Swain, 
 Uncle David and Aunt Dorcas, Paul and cousin 
 Ruth, Perez Howard's whole troop of relatives, 
 and Perez himself, with a little flotilla of pretty 
 New Bedford girls. 
 
 These the waiting carriages whirled away down 
 the gently-sloping, elm -shaded streets, that give 
 glimpses of the water at the foot of their long vis- 
 tas, and brought them, all beaming and chattering, 
 to the great shipyard, with its piles of huge tim- 
 ber, its fragrance of the sea and newly-made chips.
 
 316 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 There the beautiful creature was waiting, with 
 her flags and streamers flying, and Hollo's heart 
 swelled with pride as he thought that he was her 
 master him she would obey. Just beyond, in 
 the stream, a smart little tug was getting up steam 
 to take all that beauty and that worth, that glory 
 and that loveliness, out across the bay. 
 
 One after another, as they climbed the steps 
 and came upon deck, each person gave an excla- 
 mation of delight. The great smooth, white foot- 
 hold was like the floor of a palace, upon which 
 were scattered about under the awnings light 
 chairs and settees, and everywhere were flags, fes- 
 toons and streamers, knots and garlands, bowers 
 and embankments of flowers, and in the after-part 
 of the ship tables set out to be laid for dinner, 
 in the afternoon, down the bay, and great bas- 
 ets and hampers furnished food and refreshment 
 to the imagination in advance of any lawful 
 claims. 
 
 As many old Quakers as had been beguiled into 
 this unaccustomed path indulgently closed their 
 ears, or tried to, to the music of a choice band 
 from Boston, which offered joyous welcome to the 
 guests as they kept coming and coming. Paul and 
 Perez and Rollo received them. They were the 
 coming men ; they held the future by the fore- 
 lock, and had everything their own way. 
 
 Perez Howard's face wore a look of distinct and 
 evident consternation as he watched Miriam and 
 Rollo. He had long and assiduously observed the
 
 THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 317 
 
 little Quaker girl, who had danced with him at 
 the birthday party, but he had never before felt 
 obliged to include Hollo in his contemplations. 
 
 At length, catching Rollo by a buttonhole of 
 his coat as he flew by, he looked him steadily in 
 the eye. 
 
 " I recognize you, Vespucci," he said. " Do you 
 know me ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know," Rollo answered doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 "I am Christopher Columbus!" said Perez; 
 " and I mean to haunt you, for I see you intend to 
 claim my own discovery. I knew long ago where 
 the best and loveliest part of this world was situ- 
 ated. Ah, well ! Go along with you ! There is 
 more than one America that ought to have been 
 Columbia." 
 
 Perez said this gayly, and he seemed happy 
 with his pretty New Bedford girls, but secretly 
 there was a real disappointment down deep in his 
 heart. 
 
 Roland, having anxiously watched the coming 
 guests until it had grown very late, strolled away 
 by himself with a look of doubt and disappoint- 
 ment, too. Paul, seeing him so much at leisure, 
 called upon him to do the kindness of taking a 
 message to the master workman. 
 
 The steps were crowded with people coming up 
 or going^down. He swung himself over the bul- 
 warks, dropped to the staging, and ran down a 
 ladder, skipping all the lower rounds and coming
 
 318 A QUAKER GIRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 to the ground with a bound, like a man who had 
 been long engaged in shipbuilding, or some such 
 active enterprise. He jumped so near a young 
 girl who had just arrived from Newport, and who, 
 looking up to admire the new ship, had watched 
 his whole descent with some admiration, too, that 
 she retreated with a little " Oh ! " Roland turned 
 to ask pardon, and found himself face to face with 
 Betty, who looked up at his brown face and his 
 more stalwart figure with grave wonder, and in- 
 stead of her old, light, nonchalant greeting, instead 
 of that laugh, she looked just as Roland had often 
 wished she would, hesitated a little, and then put 
 out her hand. 
 
 " I scarcely knew you," she said. " Papa, do 
 you see, here is Roland Weir? " 
 
 And Mr. Vinton himself looked surprised. 
 
 Roland had but a step to go with his message. 
 He hastened with it and returned to Betty's side. 
 The bewildered Betty, strangely enough for her, 
 appeared to have few remarks to offer, and Roland 
 addressed himself chiefly to Mr. Vinton. He 
 poised himself upon his new purposes with a new 
 dignity and a virile security that were strange 
 phenomena to Miss Betty. 
 
 When Betty reached the deck she was seized 
 and borne away by Mrs. Payne and Miriam, but 
 Roland, from time to time, saw her eyes fixed upon 
 him from afar, with a look of penetrating scrutiny 
 that she had never thought it worth while to ex- 
 pend upon him in the past.
 
 THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 319 
 
 To let her see, as he said to himself, that there 
 was none of the small pique remaining which he 
 had disclosed at parting with her a few months 
 before, he went to her at length, and offered to 
 show her how the vessel would be launched, what 
 blocks held her in place, and how the removal of 
 these left her free to go on her way. They stood 
 looking over the vessel's side, watching the row of 
 men hammering at the blocks, in the fresh white 
 shirt sleeves with which they had honored the oc- 
 casion, and Betty had received Roland's informa- 
 tion with marvelous respect, as if it had been of 
 immense importance, and then they both dropped 
 into silence, which lasted long enough for Roland 
 Weir to take the full impression of Betty's ex- 
 traordinary new manner, which was incredibly 
 gentle and subdued. 
 
 " How you are changed, Betty ! " he said, in a 
 tone of slow consideration. 
 
 " Oh, but how you are changed ! " returned 
 Betty, quickly. 
 
 " Do you a do you like the change in me ? " 
 
 " Yes, very much," answered Betty, promptly ; 
 and then, with more hesitation, and a little blush, 
 an actual bona fide blush, "Do you like the 
 change in me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, \m-mensely ! " 
 
 And as Roland looked down at Betty, and Betty 
 looked up at him, that one last woe vanished alto- 
 gether and forever. 
 
 At that moment the sound of the pounding
 
 320 A QUAKER CTRL OF NANTUCKET. 
 
 ceased. There was a cry of " A 11 ready ! " 
 everybody ran forward, the hammers beat the 
 parting blows, and Mrs. Payne proclaimed, in a 
 voice which sounded triumphant, as she broke a 
 bottle of Veuve Cliquot on the bow, "I name 
 this ship Miriam!" while Rollo's own hand ran 
 up a flag with that name in blue letters on the 
 white bunting ; and that blessed ship, laden with 
 joy, slipped down the ways amid shouts of ap- 
 plause from deck and shore, and strains of music, 
 which even the old Quakers listened to with bland, 
 tolerant smiles. The little tug puffed and whis- 
 tled with all its might, and out they sailed, over 
 the bay, to a smooth, bright, summer sea; and 
 on such a sea Heaven be praised ! they are 
 sailing to this very day.
 
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 Edgar Fawcett. 
 
 A Hopeless Case. " Little Classic " style. i8mo . 1.25 
 A Gentleman of Leisure. " Little Classic " style. i8mo i.oo 
 An Ambitious Woman. i2ino 1.50 
 
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 Adventures of Telemachus. I2mo 2.25 
 
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 Baron de la Motte Fouque. 
 
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 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. 
 
 Wilhelm Meister. Translated by Thomas Carlyle. 
 
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 .... 1.25 
 
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 But Yet a Woman. i6mo 1.25 
 
 The Wind of Destiny. i6mo 1.25 
 
 Passe Rose. i6mo 1.25 
 
 Miriam Coles Harris. 
 
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 Frank Warrington. Happy-Go-Lucky. Phoebe. 
 
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 Louie's Last Term at St. Mary's. i6mo i.oo 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
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 The Luck of Roaring Camp, and Other Stories. 
 
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 Tales of the White Hills, and Legends of New Eng- 
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 True Stories from New England History. i6mo, 
 
 boards 45 
 
 Little Daffydowndilly, etc. i6mo, paper 15 
 
 Mrs. S. J. Higginson. 
 
 A Princess of Java. I2mo 1.50 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
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 The Story of Iris. 321110 75 
 
 My Hunt after the Captain. 32:110 40 
 
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 8 Works of Fiction Piiblished by 
 
 Henry James, Jr. 
 
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 Anna Jameson. 
 
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 Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures. Illustrated. i6mo . i.oo 
 
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 Deephaven. i8mo 25 
 
 Old Friends and New. iSmo . 1.25 
 
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 IX. Comedy. XVIII. Authors. 
 
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 Zury : the Meanest Man in Spring County. I2tno . 1.50 
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 Charles and Mary Lamb. 
 
 Tales from Shakespeare. iSmo i.oo 
 
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 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
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 Popular Edition. Paper covers, 1 6mo 15 
 
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 Popular Edition. i6mo 40 
 
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 Roland Blake. i6mo 1.25 
 
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 Beyond the Gates. i6mo 1.25 
 
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 Men, Women, and Ghosts. i6mo 1.50 
 
 Hedged In. i6mo 1.50 
 
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 Doctor Zay. i6mo 1.25 
 
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 Josiah Royce. 
 
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 Joseph Xavier Boniface Saintine. 
 
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 Jacques Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. 
 
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 Old Mortality. St. Ronan's Well. 
 
 Black Dwarf, and Legend Redgauntlet 
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 Bride of Lammermoor. The Talisman, and Other 
 
 Ivanhoe. Tales. 
 
 The Monastery. Woodstock. 
 
 The Abbot. The Fair Maid of Perth. 
 
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 The Pirate. Count Robert of Paris. 
 
 The Fortunes of Nigel. The Surgeon's Daughter, 
 
 Peveril of the Peak. and Castle Dangerous. 
 
 Quentin Durward. 
 
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 Stories and Romances. i6mo 1.25 
 
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 Fiammetta. i6mo 1.25 
 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe, 
 
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 The Pearl of 'Jrr's Island. I2mo 1.50 
 
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 Justin Winsor. 
 
 Was Shakespeare Shapleigh ? A Correspondence in 
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 Lillie Chace Wyman. 
 
 Poverty Grass. iCmo 1.25
 
 A 000025741 o