-^rv #
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 \
 
 '
 
 THE TELL-TALE: 
 
 OR, 
 
 HOME SECRETS 
 
 TOLD BY OLD TRAVELLERS. 
 
 H. TRUSTA, 
 
 AUTHOR OP "SUNNY-SIDE," " PEEP AT NUMBER FIVE," 
 " KITTY BROWN," ETC. ETC. ETC. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 
 
 1853.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 
 
 AUSTIN PHELPS, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 HOBART * BOBBINS, 
 Ntw England Type * Stcrrotjpe Founder}-, 
 * BOSTON.
 
 PS 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 THE following Sketches were nearly all of them origi 
 nally written for the Boston Traveller, in which they have 
 appeared, at intervals, during the last two or three years. 
 
 " Old Travellers," it is presumed, may claim a share 
 of the privilege of old sailors in the matter of twice-told 
 tales ; but the secret of the repetition of these must be 
 found in the interest awakened by them among the per 
 sonal friends of the author. 
 
 The author of this little volume had thus given her sal 
 utation to its readers, and it was just about to be placed 
 in their hands, when she was called into another world. 
 In her last hours she expressed a desire that its publica 
 tion should not be prevented by her departure. Her 
 friends, in obeying her wishes, experience a mournful 
 pleasure, which is enhanced by the assurance that those 
 at whose suggestion the re-publication of these sketches 
 was designed will now feel a new interest in them, as a 
 specimen of the recreations which have occupied her 
 hours of leisure for many years. 
 
 5
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 WHAT SENT ON* HUSBAND TO CALIFORNIA .... 7 
 
 i 
 THE FIRST CROSS WORD 35 
 
 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO ; OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING 47 
 
 THE M AY-QUEEN 5 85 
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE 96 
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT 135 
 
 OLD WITCH MOLL, AND HER BROWN PITCHER . . 169 
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON 193 
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN 230
 
 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND TO 
 CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Mr. WARREN left his counting-room at the hour 
 of one, to go home to dinner. He sauntered leisurely 
 along, for he knew by long experience that din 
 ner never waited for him. As he turned the last 
 corner, he ran into the arms of a man who was ad 
 vancing at a rapid pace. Each stopping to adjust a 
 hat, after such a collision, instantly recognized the 
 other as an old acquaintance. 
 
 " Why, Harry, is it you ? " 
 
 " Ton my word, Charley ! where did you drop 
 down from ? " 
 
 " From the clouds, as I always do," said Charles 
 Morton. " You, Warren, are creeping along as 
 usual. It's an age since I met you. How goes 
 the world with you ? " 
 
 "After a fashion," said Warren; "sometimes 
 well and sometimes ill. I am quite a family man 
 now, you know, wife and four children." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! No, I did not know that; I have
 
 8 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 quite lost track of you, since we were in Virginia 
 together." 
 
 " Come, it is just our dinner hour," said Mr. War 
 ren ; " come home with me, and let us have a talk 
 about old times." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Morton ; " I want to 
 see the wife, and children, too. Has the wife the 
 laughing black eyes and silken ringlets you married 
 in imagination long ago, Harry ? " 
 
 " Not exactly," said Warren, without returning 
 very heartily his friend's smile. " My wife was 
 pretty, once, though ; she was very pretty when I 
 married her, but she is a feeble woman ; she has 
 seen a great deal of illness since then, and it has 
 changed her somewhat." 
 
 By this time Mr. Warren reached his own door, 
 and, with some secret misgivings, turned the key, and 
 invited his friend into his small, but comfortably fur 
 nished house. Glad he was, indeed, to meet him ; 
 but, if the truth must be told, he would have been 
 quite as well pleased if it had been after dinner. He 
 would have felt easier could he have prepared the 
 lady of the house to receive his guest. For his part, 
 he would have killed the fatted calf, with great 
 rejoicing ; but to set wife, children, house and table, 
 in a hospitable tune, required more time than he 
 could now command. 
 
 " Sit down," said he, ushering Morton into the
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 9 
 
 best parlor. " Take the rocking-chair, Charley ; you 
 have not forgotten your old tricks, of always claim 
 ing the rocking-chair, have you ? Stop, a little 
 dust on it." Out came his pocket-handkerchief, and 
 wiped off, not a little, but a great deal of dust. 
 " Never mind," said he ; " make yourself quite at 
 home, while I go and hunt up the folks, will 
 you ? " 
 
 Mr. "Warren thought it prudent to close the parlor 
 doors after him, that all unnecessary communication 
 with the rest of the house might be cut off. His 
 first visit was to the kitchen, to ascertain which way 
 the wind blew there. If Betty, the old family ser 
 vant and maid-of-all-work, was in good humor, he 
 had little to fear. No one could better meet an 
 exigency, when she had a mind to the work. He 
 opened the door gently. " Well, Betty," said he, in 
 a conciliatory tone, " what have you got nice for us 
 to-day ? " 
 
 She seemed to understand, as if by instinct, her 
 importance, and was just cross enough to make a bad 
 use of it. 
 
 " Got ! why the veal-steaks, to be sure, you sent 
 home ; I don't see'what else we could have." 
 
 " Have you anything for dessert ? " was asked, in 
 the same gentle tone. 
 
 " I s'pose there is a pie somewhere." 
 
 " Well, Betty, I wish you would get up a dish of
 
 10 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 ham and eggs, if you can. We are to have a gen 
 tleman to dine with us, and the dinner Is rather 
 small." 
 
 Betty looked like a thunder-cloud. " You '11 have 
 to want a good while, I guess, then ; the fire is all 
 out." 
 
 " Put on some charcoal," said Mr. Warren ; " here, 
 I '11 get it, while you cut the ham. Now, do give us 
 one of your nice dishes, Betty ; nobody can cook 
 ham and eggs quite like you, when you have a mind 
 to. Where is Mrs. Warren ? " 
 
 " In her chamber, I s'pose," said Betty, sulkily, 
 adding, in an under tone, not exactly intended to 
 reach her master's ear, " where she always is." 
 
 He did hear it, however, and with a foreboding 
 heart he went to his wife's chamber. 
 
 The room was partially darkened, and on the bed, 
 in loose sick gown, with dishevelled hair, lay Mrs. 
 Warren. Her hand rested on a bottle of camphor, 
 and on the stand at her side was an ominous bowl of 
 water, with wet cloths in it. 
 
 " Juliette, my love, are you ill ? " 
 
 " 111 ? what a question to ask ! I told you half a 
 dozen times, this morning, I had one of my head 
 aches ; that 's just all you mind about me ! " 
 
 " I am sorry, but I really thought, Juliette, it 
 would pass off. Shall not you feel able to come 
 down to dinner ? "
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 11 
 
 " No, I am sure I never shall want anything to eat 
 again ; it seems as if these head-aches would kill me." 
 
 " Where are the children ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure ; I can't look after them 
 when I am sick ! If Betty can't do that, she had 
 better not try to do anything." 
 
 " I wish you would make an effort, Juliette, and 
 come down to dinner ; I have an old friend to dine 
 with us, Charles Morton, of whom you have so 
 often heard me speak. He has come on purpose to 
 see my wife and children." 
 
 " Dear me ! how could you bring company home 
 to-day, when you knew I was sick ? I don't believe I 
 could hold my head up, if I were to try ! " and, clos 
 ing her eyes, she pressed both hands on her temples. 
 
 Mr. Warren said no more ; he would not urge the 
 matter. He made up his mind to dine without her ; 
 and, with a sigh, he slowly returned to the parlor. 
 Had he spoken out his honest feelings, he would have 
 said, " What a misfortune it is for a young man to 
 have an ailing wife ! My servants rule, my children 
 are neglected, my house is in disorder, my wife does 
 not like it because I do not make a fuss over her all 
 the time, and something is the matter continually ; 
 if it is not one thing, it is another, and I am weary 
 of it ! " 
 
 He found his friend still in the arm-chair, busily 
 reading a scrap-book which was on the table. Fun
 
 12 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 danced in his eyes and twitched at the corners of his 
 mouth; and as soon as he caught sight of Warren, he 
 burst into a merry peal of laughter. Warren could not 
 resist it, and he laughed full five minutes before he 
 knew what the joke was. It was only something in 
 the scrap-book which brought to remembrance an old 
 scrape they had together, but the laugh worked 
 like a charm with him. His family troubles seemed 
 to vanish before it, like mists in the morning. A 
 more manly courage was aroused in him ; he was a 
 better and a stronger man. 
 
 " By George, Charley," said he, something like 
 the Harry Warren of other days, "it does one good 
 to hear your old horse-laugh again ! " An animated 
 conversation ensued, and it was some time before Mr. 
 Warren remembered that they had not yet dined. 
 
 " We are not going to starve you out, Charley," 
 said he, "but my wife is not able to be about to-day, 
 and our cook, I see, is taking her own time. Excuse 
 me a moment, and I will go and stir her up, by way 
 of remembrance." 
 
 Much to his delight, the bell rang. He was 
 saved the trial of bearding the lion twice in his den. 
 As he was going to the dining-room with his friend, 
 a troop of ill-dressed and noisy children pushed by 
 them, and hurried in great disorder to their seats. 
 Mr. Morton spoke to them, but they hung their 
 heads. He was somewhat embarrassed. He felt
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 13 
 
 that he ought to take some notice of them, and yet 
 it seemed as if it would spare his friend's feelings 
 not to notice them. He took hold of the wrong 
 horn of the dilemma. 
 
 " Which of them looks like the mother, Harry ?" 
 
 " The boy nearest you, I think," was the short 
 reply ; then, as if obliged to add, by way of apol 
 ogy, " I am very sorry that Mrs. Warren cannot 
 come down to-day, but she has one of her bad head 
 aches." 
 
 " She is a-coming," said one of the children ; 
 " she says she s'poses she must." 
 
 Morton pretended not t hear this speech. He 
 saw that something was wrong in his friend's domes 
 tic life. Had he, then, married unfortunately ? "I 
 shall be sorry for him, if he has," thought Morton ; 
 " he deserves a good wife ; a better-hearted fellow 
 never breathed." 
 
 Warren's sunshine was fast vanishing, though his 
 dinner, it is but justice to Betty we should say, was 
 well cooked ; yet his table needed the lady. No 
 clean napkins were there ; no nice salters and shin 
 ing spoons graced it; no order and elegance of 
 serving made it attractive. Betty had no eye for 
 the fancy-work. But the food was good, and there 
 was an abundance of it ; and the gentlemen would 
 have enjoyed it, if the children had not been so trou 
 blesome. 
 
 2
 
 14 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 When dinner was about half over, Mrs. Warren 
 made her appearance. Walking in languidly, she 
 took her seat at the head of the table. She still 
 wore her loose gown, over which she had thrown a 
 shawl. Her hair was still uncombed. Her eyes 
 were dull and heavy in their expression, and her 
 eyebrows were elevated. She looked as if she felt 
 miserable. " Ah, Juliette," said Mr. Warren, 
 slightly coloring, " I did not know that you would 
 feel able to come down. Let me introduce you to 
 my old friend, Mr. Morton." 
 
 Mrs. Warren bowed. 
 
 " You have been suffering with a head-ache to 
 day, my friend tells me," said Mr. Morton. 
 
 " Yes, I suffer nearly all the time," was the re 
 ply ; " if it is not one thing, it is another. I am 
 almost discouraged." 
 
 " 0, no, Juliette, it is some time since you have 
 had a bad turn," said her husband. 
 
 " Only last week," was her short reply. " Your 
 memory is not very good on this point. I believe 
 you think I can help being sick." 
 
 Mr. Warren tried to laugh off this thrust ; but 
 there was n'o heart in it. All sociality vanished 
 with Mrs. Warren's presence, and all peace, too ; 
 for the children acted .worse than ever. Mr. Mor 
 ton suffered for his friend, and was much relieved 
 when they were again by themselves in the parlor.
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 15 
 
 He could have forgiven the want of glossy ringlets 
 and laughing eyes, but he could not forgive the want 
 of good humor, in Harry Warren's wife. He felt as 
 if his friend had been taken in ; he pitied him ; and 
 firmer than ever was his determination to run no 
 such hazards himself. 
 
 So much of Mr. Warren's day had been occupied 
 with his friend, that it was quite late before he was 
 able to leave his store. He went home weary in 
 body and mind. How much he needed to have 
 things comfortable and cheerful around him there ! 
 But, much as he loved his family, he found neither 
 rest nor pleasure at home. Work for them he would, 
 like a dog, from morning to night ; but, when the 
 day's toil was over, there were no home attractions 
 for him. This night, it would have been a comfort 
 to him, could he have just thrown himself down on 
 the sofa and taken his book ; but he knew well 
 enough this would not answer. He knew that his 
 wife had been watching to hear his steps, and would 
 feel hurt if he did not go up to her at once. So, 
 with a sigh, he went into the dusky chamber. As 
 he expected, his wife was on the bed. 
 " Do you feel any better, Juliette ? " 
 " Better ? - no ! It seems as if I should go crazy. 
 Those children will kill me. Do, pray, Mr. Warren, 
 send them off to bed, or hold my head, or do some 
 thing. I thought you never would come home."
 
 16 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 The air of the sick-room, perfumed as it was with 
 camphor and ammonia, oppressed the weary man. 
 He said he would go and send the children to bed. 
 
 This was more easily said than done; the children 
 were tired and cross, and full of wants, and Betty 
 would not help him in the least. Patience and per 
 severance, however, got the last little urchin into his 
 nest. " Now go to sleep, boys," said he ; " your 
 mother is sick to-night, and I must not hear a 
 word from you." 
 
 "Seems to me, mother is always sick," said 
 Henry. 
 
 " Then, Master Henry, it is your duty always to 
 keep still ; remember that, will you ! " 
 
 It was after eight o'clock before Mr. Warren had 
 a chance to eat any supper. He went to the dining- 
 room. His tea had stood until it was quite cold ; his 
 toast was cold, and a dim lamp cast a jaundiced 
 light over his uninviting repast. He, however, was 
 used to such things ; indeed, he hardly expected 
 anything 4iff ereilt - The meal over, he drew his 
 evening paper from his pocket and read it, feeling 
 all the time like a culprit. He knew that he was 
 expected in that oppressive chamber, and that the 
 minutes of his delay were counted. After nine it 
 was, the clock was on the point of striking ten, 
 when he reentered it. Camphor and ammonia 
 were as strong as ever, and the head-ache, too, to all 
 appearance.
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 17 
 
 " Can I do anything for you, Juliette ? " 
 
 " Do anything ! I might die, for all anybody 
 would do for me. What made you come up at 
 all ? " 
 
 " You know very well, Juliette, I had to put the 
 children to bed, to get them out of your way ; and, 
 tired as I was, I never got a mouthful of supper 
 until almost nine o'clock. I have done the best I 
 could." 
 
 He said this in a tone which showed that he was 
 both irritated and hurt. Once, Mrs. Warren would 
 have been much grieved, and would have sought 
 earnestly to heal the wound which she made ; but 
 being sick so much was fast making her selfish. It 
 was only of self she thought. 
 
 " I wish you would not complain of me," said she, 
 bursting into tears ; " I have as much as I can bear, 
 without being found fault with." 
 
 " I was not finding fault with you, Juliette ; but 
 a man can't do more than he can do." 
 
 Juliette continued to sob ; her husband was silent. 
 When, at length, they slept, it was with chilled affec 
 tions and heavy hearts, and their slumbers were 
 neither sweet nor refreshing. 
 
 Several years passed, and Mrs. Warren's health 
 
 did not improve. She seemed to have made up her 
 
 mind that she must suffer, and that people ought to 
 
 pity her, and not expect her to do anything. The 
 
 2*
 
 18 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 sunshine that had once been about her vanished ; 
 she spoke at all times in a distressed tone of voice ; 
 a doleful expression became habitual with her. She 
 made no exertion which she could avoid ; she shirked 
 every care which could be avoided. Mr. Warren 
 and Betty must see to things. Now, Betty was no 
 housekeeper ; she could do hard work, but not head 
 work. She did not understand economy. She used 
 up what she had, without thinking of to-morrow. It 
 was not her business to be bothering as to how the 
 two ends should meet. Such management at home, 
 together with the increasing wants of a family, re 
 quired a good income. Mr. Warren's business gave 
 him a comfortable living, but it was not quite equal 
 to filling up flour-barrels which had a hole in the 
 bottom. He began to run behind, and to become 
 discouraged. He got into debt, and then, going on 
 from bad to worse, he became completely disheart 
 ened. His family was a drag on him. He could 
 not tell his wife of his troubles, if he did, she only 
 cried, and said, " she was sure she could not help 
 it; she did all she could, when her health was so 
 poor. She thought he might have more feeling for 
 her than to complain." He, therefore, formed his 
 own plans in silence. 
 
 One October morning, Mrs. Warren awoke with 
 one of her sick head-aches. Finding this to be the 
 case, she went to sleep again, and it was very late
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 19 
 
 before she awoke the second time. Dressing her 
 self at her leisure, she went to the dining-room. 
 Some cold breakfast stood waiting for her, which she 
 partook of alone, neither husband "nor children 
 were there. At dinner she met her children, but not 
 her husband ; he had not returned. This provoked 
 her a little. " He stays," thought she, " just on 
 purpose because I am ill. I '11 keep out of his way, 
 I guess, for one while." With this generous re 
 solve, she took to her darkened chamber, her cam 
 phor and ammonia (which she knew to be particu 
 larly unpleasant to him), and her bandages and ice- 
 water. Tea-time came, but not Mr. Warren. The 
 children had their supper, and went to bed. Eight, 
 nine, ten o'clock struck. Mrs. Warren sprang from 
 her bed and called Betty. " Betty, where can Mr. 
 Warren be ? Here it is ten o'clock, and he has not 
 come yet." 
 
 " I declare, Miss Warren, I don't know what can 
 have become of him. There, now, I do remember. 
 'Twan't but yesterday he paid me up all my wages, 
 and paid a quarter in advance, because, he said, he 
 had the money by him, and might not have it by and 
 by. Then, says he, ' Betty,' says he, ' if I should not 
 be at home one of these nights, you need not be 
 frightened. I have got to go off on some business, 
 and may not get back. You need not keep the 
 doors open after ten for me. I won't tell Miss
 
 SJU WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 Warren,' says he ; 'she '11 worry.' Them 's the very 
 words he said. Now, I '11 bet that 's where he has 
 gone ; and we may as well lock up and go to bed. 
 He won't be here to-night." 
 
 More in anger than sorrow, Mrs. Warren con 
 sented to this arrangement, and went back to her 
 solitary chamber. Seldom thinking of any one but 
 herself, she settled it in her mind that Mr. Warren 
 had chosen this particular time to attend to his busi 
 ness for no other reason than to get rid of one of 
 her headaches. She lay awake until midnight, 
 brooding over his supposed unkindness. She really 
 hoped that he would come, try his door, and find it 
 fast, that she might have the satisfaction of hearing 
 him go elsewhere to seek lodgings ; for she had fully 
 determined not to let him in. Twelve o'clock struck 
 in the old church steeple ; no sound but the heavy 
 tread of the watchman was heard. She then gave 
 him up, and " nursing her wrath to keep it warm," 
 at length fell asleep. 
 
 It seemed as if she had but just fallen asleep, 
 when Betty very unceremoniously burst open her 
 door, and slamming back the shutters to let in the 
 gray light of morning, " Miss Warren," said she, 
 " do, for gracious, see what this means. Here was 
 the market-boy a-thumping me up a full hour 
 before time, and he set down his basket and run 
 like shot ; and I opened it, and what should I see
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 21 
 
 right on top but this letter for you, from Mr. War 
 ren ! Something or other is wrong, you may depend 
 upon it." 
 
 Mrs. Warren, trembling with impatience, broke 
 the seal, and read as follows : 
 
 ' ' DEAREST JULIETTE : 
 
 " Don't be frightened, now, into one of your poor turns. 
 Nothing very dreadful has happened, or is going to hap 
 pen, that I know of. Read my letter quietly, and take 
 what cannot be helped as easy as you can. 
 
 " My business has been running behindhand for a good 
 while. Every year I have found myself deeper and deeper 
 in debt. It wore upon me dreadfully, and I made up my 
 mind at last that I could not stand it so for a great while. 
 I never liked to talk to you about it ; you always seemed 
 to have troubles enough of your own. The other day, 
 when I was looking over my accounts, a friend came in 
 to ask me if I would sell out. He wanted to buy, and 
 offered me a fair price. ' But what shall I do ?' said I. 
 ' Go to California,' says he ; ' there is a splendid chance 
 for you, a ship sails next week.' He said so much that I 
 took up with his advice. I sold out, paid up all my debts, 
 paid your house-rent for two years in advance, and Betty 
 one quarter ahead. After this was all done, I had but 
 just enough to fit me out, and fifty dollars over, which I 
 enclose for you. It will answer for the present. You can 
 by and by let your house, and go home to your mother, 
 if you think it best. I have no time to think or plan for 
 you now. I will write as soon as I can. When you read 
 this, I shall be far on my way, if we are prospered. 
 
 "I love you, Juliette, and my children, and it is for
 
 22 
 
 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 your sakes, mainly, that I have taken this step. You 
 could none of you bear poverty. I go in the ship Emily. 
 I will write you all the particulars by the first opportu 
 nity. Keep up a good heart, now; depend upon it I shall 
 come home a rich man. Gold is plenty as blackberries in 
 California, and I am not ashamed to dig. I have a strong 
 arm and a stout heart. Kiss the children for me, and tell 
 Betty I won't forget her, if she will do well by you while 
 I am gone. Believe me that I am still yours, affection 
 ately, 
 
 "HARRY WARREN." 
 
 The reading of this letter, as might be imagined, 
 was followed by a fit of hysterics, and shrieks, and 
 floods of tears, and wringing of hands. At one 
 time, Mrs. Warren would call her husband the 
 greatest savage living. Then, again, she would 
 soften down into grief, like that of the children, 
 who mourned over him as over one dead. Between 
 them all and her own sorrow, Betty had a hard time 
 of it that day. However, she stood at her post 
 bravely ; with coaxing and scolding, she managed 
 the children, succeeded in quieting them, and before 
 night Mrs. Warren was more calm. Betty had 
 such wonderful stories laid up in some little corner 
 of her brain about the gold in California, how many 
 people she had heard of who had come back rich as 
 Croesus, that Mrs. Warren could not but listen. 
 Then Betty was so sure that Mr. Warren would 
 make his fortune, he was just the man for it,
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 23 
 
 that the hysterics finally had to yield to the golden 
 visions. Still, Mrs. Warren passed from this state 
 into one of settled melancholy, and continued so for 
 many weeks. She took no interest either in her 
 house or children. She gave money to Betty, and 
 let her do as she pleased with it. If they had 
 anything to eat, it was all very well ; and if they 
 had nothing, it was just the same. She neither 
 went out nor saw any one at home. Her time was 
 spent between the sofa and bed. If she tried to 
 divert herself with anything, it was with very light 
 reading, but generally even that required more 
 effort than she chose to make. The children learned 
 to keep out of her way ; she could bear no noise, she 
 said, and they did not like to be with her. Still she 
 had been so long inefficient in her family, that she 
 was not much missed ; they were accustomed to do 
 without her. 
 
 One day Betty came in as usual for money. Mrs. 
 Warren went to her purse, and, to her utter amaze* 
 ment, found that she had but one ten-dollar bill left. 
 She handed it to Betty, and, with the empty purse 
 in her hand, she sunk down into a seat. For the 
 first time it flashed over her that there was a bot 
 tom to her purse ; and, who was to refill it ? She 
 had been so absorbed by her own selfish sorrows, 
 that she really had not before given the subject a 
 thought. She was overwhelmed at this discovery.
 
 24 WHAT SENT ONE HDSBAND 
 
 What was now to be done ? What should she do ? 
 Where should she go ? Roused by this stirring 
 necessity, her mind began to work with vigor. Plan 
 succeeded plan, and thought thought, in wild confu 
 sion. She would go home to her mother. She 
 would not. go home to her mother. The children 
 would kill the old folks. But she must go home to 
 her mother. No, she would n't go home to her 
 mother. A poor, deserted wife, with four children 
 on her hands, the shame of it would kill her ; she 
 would beg first. But, what could she do ? Here 
 gaped before her an empty purse. " What can I 
 do ? I '11 keep school. Oil should die, shut up 
 in a hot room, with a parcel of children. I could 
 not live one month and keep school. Then I must 
 fill up my house with boarders. What could I do 
 with boarders, sick as I am all the while ? I hate 
 house-keeping ; I cannot bear care ! " Wide gaped 
 the empty purse still. She flung it down, and her 
 self, too, on the carpet, and wept like a child. " My 
 children must have bread, and I must get it for 
 them." Ah ! now those tears fall for them ; the 
 first tears which had fallen for any one but self. 
 They softened her parching heart, and refreshed it 
 as summer rain the thirsty earth. 
 
 " I will not go home ! " said she, rousing herself 
 with a sudden energy. " I believe that I can, and 
 I will, support my family myself. I know it is in
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 25 
 
 me. I will fill my house with boarders. I will get 
 a living, and I will set about it before my last dol 
 lar is gone." Back went the clasp of the empty 
 purse, and its gaping mouth was silenced. 
 
 Juliette Harwood had not been like Mrs. Warren. 
 She had both energy and sweetness of character 
 when Henry Warren wooed her. The seeds of her 
 future misery, however, had been carefully sown by 
 her over-indulgent mother. If anything ailed Juli 
 ette, it was a great affair. She was nursed, arid 
 tended, and babied, and never allowed to exert her 
 self at all. She was brought up to feel that every 
 thing must yield to her poor feelings ; so that when, 
 after her marriage, her health really became some 
 what delicate, she had no resolution to meet it. As 
 we have seen, she became selfish and indifferent. 
 Another day had now dawned, and the latent energy 
 of Juliette Harwood must come forth to Juliette 
 Warren. That kind heart and strong arm, which 
 had so long supported her, had been taken away.. 
 Now she had no one but herself to depend upon. 
 
 " I will take boarders." This she settled, and 
 with promptness went immediately about it. For 
 the first time since her husband's departure, she 
 went out on a week-day. She went to her husband's 
 friend, Charles Morton. Mr. Morton could scarcely 
 refrain from expressing his astonishment, when he 
 heard her proposal. Sad misgivings he had as to 
 3
 
 26 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 its success; nevertheless, he promised to aid her. 
 Indeed, he knew then of two young men who were 
 looking for just such a place. As they were near 
 by, he offered to go at once and see them. Mrs. 
 Warren sat down and awaited his return. The 
 young men accepted the offer, and wished to come the 
 next day. This was pressing matters hard. Mrs. 
 Warren calculated on some weeks, at least, for pre 
 paration, she knew she must get used to effort; but 
 here it was, she must take the boarders at their 
 time, or lose them. She decided to take them. 
 
 Betty as yet knew not a word about the matter. 
 " Would she consent to remain," anxiously thought 
 Mrs. Warren, " to remain and work so much harder ? 
 Then she had had her own way so long, would she 
 bear a mistress ? If she should go, how was her 
 place to be supplied ? She had been so long in the 
 family, she knew everything they had, and where it 
 was kept." Mrs. Warren felt her ignorance. She 
 would have to go to Betty to ask about everything. 
 Indeed, she did not know what she had. It seemed 
 .as if she could not stir hand or foot without Betty. 
 Yet, if she would go, she must make up her mind to 
 it ; for here she was, her boarders were engaged. 
 More than anything else she dreaded breaking the 
 subject to Betty. This was her first trial ; it was a 
 severe one, and we must not blame her too much be 
 cause, woman-like, she sat down first and had a good
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 27 
 
 cry over it. But crying did not help it any, and 
 time pressed. So she wound up her resolution once 
 more, and called Betty. 
 
 " Marm ? " said she. 
 
 " I want to see you a few minutes, Betty." 
 
 " I am busy now ; I '11 come by and by." 
 
 " I cannot wait, Betty. I want to see you now." 
 
 The very unusual tone of decision in which this 
 was uttered surprised Betty into instant obedience. 
 
 " What do you want of me ? " said she, rather 
 pettishly, as she entered the parlor. 
 
 Mrs. Warren's heart sunk. " I want to talk with 
 you, Betty, a little about my plans. I 've got to do 
 something to get a living. My money is all gone. 
 I gave you the last dollar, this morning." 
 
 " The land ! Well, I 've been expecting it, this 
 some time. I s'pose now you will go home to your 
 mother." 
 
 " No, I have decided not to go home. I am go 
 ing to fill my house up with boarders, and two are 
 coming to-morrow," said she, making a desperate 
 effort to get the worst out. 
 
 " Well, if that an't a pretty piece of work ! " said 
 Betty, her face turning all manner of colors ; " and 
 you think I am going to take care of you and the 
 children, and a house-full of boarders into the bar 
 gain, do you? I tell you, Miss Warren, I won't 
 slave myself to death so, for nobody ! "
 
 28 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 " I did not think you would," said Mrs. Warren, 
 slowly and sadly. " I had about made up my mind 
 that you would leave me, and I should have to get 
 another girl. I will go to the office now. You will 
 stay, Betty, long enough to teach her the way round, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 Betty looked thunderstruck; she could not im 
 mediately speak. 
 
 " And you sick all the time ! " said she, at last. 
 " You can't do nothing. How will you look going 
 down and seeing to dinner, with one of your head 
 aches, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " I expect it will come hard on me, Betty; but I 
 cannot help it, it must be done. I have made up 
 my mind to it. You will stay with me a fortnight, 
 won't you ? I don't expect to get any one to fill 
 your place, you have been with us so long ; let me 
 .gee, now, ever since Henry was born ; you seem like 
 one of us. Still, I must do the best I can. Do, 
 for my sake, Betty, try and make it easy for me to 
 break in a new hand. I will go right out now, and 
 see what I can do." 
 
 Mrs. Warren began to tie on her bonnet. 
 
 " Well, if this an't pretty times ! " said Betty, 
 her face becoming redder and redder, while her voice 
 grew husky. " Do you think, Miss Warren, that I 
 am really a going off to leave you in such a pickle ? 
 I guess I can work as hard as you, any day ; and if
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 29 
 
 we can't both of us together get victuals and drink 
 for the children, why, we '11 give it up. When I am 
 gone, you can get another gal, if you are a mind to." 
 
 So Betty remained, and took hold of her new la 
 bors courageously. This was an inexpressible relief 
 to Mrs. Warren. Indeed, it is somewhat doubtful 
 whether she could have gone on without her. 
 
 Her house filled up rapidly, and unwearied exer 
 tions and care were necessary to keep it in order. 
 After some severe struggles with her old habits of in 
 dolence and indulgence, she came off conqueror. She 
 found out there was such a thing as keeping illness 
 confined within its proper sphere, that is, to the 
 body, while the mind might go free. She found out 
 that throbbing temples and disordered nerves could be 
 made to obey, as well as rule. At those times when, 
 if left to the dictates of her own poor feelings, she 
 would scarcely have dragged one foot after another, 
 she found out that she could step about her day's 
 work, and briskly, too. Every victory gained made 
 her stronger. Then, in addition to this moral reno 
 vation, her health really improved. She found out 
 there was no doctor for her like Dr. " Hai-e-to." 
 Her cheeks became ruddy and her eyes bright, and 
 her mind awoke to cheerfulness and activity, in the 
 pleasant society which was now about her. Juliette 
 Warren, in a few months, was very much changed, 
 as all would have seen, could they have gone with
 
 30 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 Betty to her chamber, when, for the first time since 
 the day the boarders came, she carried up a meal to 
 her, and found her on the bed with her mending- 
 basket by her, thimble on, work in hand, trying 
 between the paroxysms of pain to set a few stitches. 
 
 " The land, Miss Warren ! " said old Betty, " if 
 I was as sick as to go to bed, I am sure I would n't 
 sew." 
 
 " 0, 1 must ; I cannot afford time to be sick." 
 
 " Well, now, if I shall not give it all up ! What 
 do you think Mr. Warren would say, to see you 
 now ? I '11 bet he would n't believe his own eyes." 
 
 Mrs. Warren made no reply ; but this remark of 
 Betty's went like an arrow to her heart. In an 
 instant a gleam of light shot across the past. As 
 if by a sudden revelation, she saw at a glance all its 
 mistakes. Days, months, nay, years, were mar 
 shalled before her ; through all of which she had 
 been the sick, complaining, inefficient wife and moth 
 er. She was almost overwhelmed; she had never 
 seen it so before. Scene after scene crowded upon 
 her mind, in which she had taxed her husband's pa 
 tience to the utmost. And what had she given him 
 in return for all his kindness ? Nothing. His home 
 had been uncomfortable, and his money had been 
 wasted. Now she could see plainly enough why he 
 left her. Now she felt how deeply she had wronged 
 him. She longed to throw herself at his feet, and
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 31 
 
 implore his forgiveness. All her early love for him 
 revived in its intensity. " my God ! " she ex 
 claimed, in a burst of grief, " spare him, 0, spare 
 him to return, that I may make some amends for the 
 injury I have done him, and that he may know of 
 my penitence and love ! " 
 
 For many days after this, Mrs. Warren carried 
 with her an aching heart. It required a prodigious 
 effort for her to make exertion, in this state of feel 
 ing ; but it must be done. Even sorrow could not 
 be indulged in selfishly. 
 
 She sought some comfort by writing to her hus 
 band, stealing time for this from her sleep. These 
 letters, by the way, never reached him ; neither did 
 his reach her. 
 
 At this time, also, she formed another plan, which 
 was a comfort to her. She determined to lay by 
 every cent which she could possibly spare from her 
 earnings, hoping to collect at least a small sum tow 
 ards assisting her husband in setting up in busi 
 ness, should he come home as poor as he went. This 
 gave her a new motive for exertion. She gave her 
 whole mind to her business. Her house was popu 
 lar ; her table was filled to overflowing ; her affairs 
 were well managed. She was, as she deserved to 
 be, for there were not ten ladies in the city who 
 made more effort, she was successful. Her children 
 were put out to the best schools. They improved
 
 32 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND 
 
 rapidly in mind and manners. Henry was a great 
 help to her ; he was a manly little fellow, with his 
 father's kind heart. 
 
 Betty continued to rule in the kitchen, though a 
 stout girl was brought in to serve under her. The 
 boarders always knew Betty's cooking, no one else 
 made things taste quite so well ; so she kept on her 
 way, doing her full share of the fretting and scold 
 ing, and her full share of the work, too. She never 
 let her mistress go ahead of her ; on her feet she 
 would stand " as long as Miss Warren, she knew," 
 if she was tired enough to drop. 
 
 One morning Mrs. Warren was presiding, as usual, 
 at her cheerful breakfast-table. She looked the per 
 sonification of health and neatness. Her soft, glossy 
 hair was brushed back under an embroidered cap, 
 which was tied with rose-colored strings, deepening 
 a little the shade of the peach-blossom on her cheek. 
 A neat morning dress, fitting her trim figure, was 
 finished off at top by a white collar, which encircled 
 her white throat. She was handing a cup of coffee, 
 when she heard the front door open. As her table 
 was full, she set down the cup to listen. Steps were 
 heard on the stairs. Mr. Morton entered the dining- 
 room, and a gentleman followed. A stranger, was 
 he ? His sun-burnt face was almost concealed by 
 immense mustaches and whiskers. He was stout 
 and short, and singularly dressed. A stranger, was
 
 TO CALIFORNIA. 33 
 
 he ? Eye met eye and heart leaped to heart, and 
 with a scream of joy she sprang to meet her hus 
 band. Yes, it was he. There he was, safe and sound, 
 toils and dangers notwithstanding, safe in his own 
 home ; the wife of his early love restored to him ; 
 his children, boys of whom any man might be proud, 
 shouting around him ; and there, in the rear, faith 
 ful old Betty, wiping her eyes with the corner of 
 her apron, and crying, because " she did not know 
 what on airth else to do." 
 
 As we are strangers, it would be polite for us to 
 withdraw, with the boarders, and leave the family to 
 their well-earned joy ; but we cannot refrain from 
 stealing, by and by, away from the children, up 
 stairs with Harry Warren and his wife, into the old 
 chamber. No camphor and ammonia are there now, 
 I promise you. They sat down in the old arm-chair 
 together, and Juliette told over her story, showing 
 the purse, which, when empty, with gaping mouth, 
 preached to her so loudly and fearfully one day, and 
 what effort and toil it cost her to fill it, and how 
 much good the toil had done her. Then, with trem 
 bling voice and bowed head, she lingered on that 
 night of bitterest sorrow, when Betty gave her the 
 key of the past, and she saw how, through excessive 
 selfishness, she had sinned. She told, too, how her 
 heart hud asked for her husband's forgiveness. Then 
 came the plan she had found comfort in. With
 
 34 WHAT SENT ONE HUSBAND TO CALIFORNIA. 
 
 glistening eye and trembling fingers, she snapped 
 open the purse before him, and showed to him her 
 little treasure of hoarded gold, hoarded for him 
 alone ; she poured it all out into his hard, brown 
 hand, while the tears, big tears, rolling down his 
 swarthy cheeks, dropped upon it. He, weeping over 
 a little heap of yellow dust, who, in California's 
 mines, had gathered it by the spade-full ! Yet not 
 California, with all her golden treasures, could have 
 purchased for the grateful man what this had given 
 him. 
 
 "We must not linger over the opening of the old 
 chest, which was so well freighted with native ore ; 
 enough for all, Betty included, and enough, we pre 
 sume, to have set Mr. Warren up in that very hand 
 some store where last we saw him. 
 
 Juliette Warren is still in comfortable health, an 
 energetic woman, and a first-rate housekeeper. If 
 ever she finds herself " running down" as they 
 say, she takes to her old Doctor Have-to ; and if no 
 necessity is laid upon her for exertion, she lays it 
 upon herself. Long life and happiness to them and 
 their children ! 
 
 Should there be any wives who have not yet been 
 able to find out what sent their husbands to Califor 
 nia, Juliette's history may give them a little light on 
 the matter.
 
 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 
 
 " You seem happy, Annette, always. ' I have 
 never been in a family where the husband and wife 
 seemed more so." 
 
 " Well done, Kate," said Mrs. Huntington, laugh 
 ing ; " you have used the word seem only twice in 
 that short sentence. And now you have a begging 
 way about you, as if you were really in earnest to 
 hear something about married life, before taking the 
 fatal step. It is well Henry is not here, to see the 
 look of sadness in the eye of his bride-elect. He 
 might fancy her heart was full of misgivings, instead 
 of wedding finery." 
 
 " Don't laugh at me, Annette ; talk with me as 
 you used to do. I love Henry, you know, and yet 
 I have many misgivings about married life. 1 see 
 so few who are really happy in this relation, I 
 mean happy as I should wish to be. You seem to 
 come nearer to it than any one else. Don't you 
 ever " 
 
 " Quarrel ? no, not often, now. We had our 
 breaking in. I believe it must come to all, sooner 
 or later."
 
 36 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 
 
 " Do tell me about it, will you, Annette ?" 
 " Yes, if you are very desirous of it. You may 
 learn something from it. 
 
 " I was a romantic girl, as you well know, Kate. 
 Some few friends I had, whom -I loved dearly ; but 
 these friendships did not quite satisfy my heart. 
 Something more it craved. I hardly knew what, 
 until I loved my husband. When we were first 
 married, I used-sometimes to ask myself, ' Now, do 
 I find in this life all which I expected to find ? Am 
 I as happy as I thought I should be ? ' My heart 
 always responded, Yes, and more so.' With us the 
 romance of married life if I may call it so 
 held on a long time. For my part, I was conscious 
 of a pleasurable excitement of feeling, when we were 
 together. I enjoyed riding and walking alone with 
 him. The brightest hours of the day were those in 
 which we sat down alone together, to talk or read. 
 For a long time I felt a gentle restraint in his pres 
 ence. I liked to be becomingly dressed, and to feel 
 in tune. When dull, I made an effort to be social 
 and cheerful, if he was present. I had a great fear 
 of getting into the way of sitting down stupidly with 
 my husband, or of having nothing to talk about but 
 the children and the butcher's bill. I made a busi 
 ness of remembering every pleasant thing which I 
 read, or heard, or thought, to tell him ; and when 
 all these subjects were exhausted, we had each of us
 
 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 37 
 
 a hobby we could ride, so that we were never silent 
 for want of something to say. Thus we lived for a 
 year or two. I was very happy. I think people 
 were often surprised to see us continue to enjoy 
 each other's society with so much zest. 
 
 " But there was this about it. As yet I had no 
 thing to try me. We were boarding, I had no care, 
 and his tenderness and interest were a sovereign 
 panacea for the little ails and roughnesses ' which 
 must fall to us in our best estate. But this could 
 not last forever. He became more and more 
 occupied in his business, and I at length had 
 a house and a baby to look after. Then, for the 
 first time, our mutual forbearance was put to the 
 test. Hitherto we had been devoted to each other ; 
 now the real cares of life pressed upon us so as 
 often really to absorb our energies. I was the 
 first to feel the change. It seemed to me as if 
 something were overshadowing us. Sometimes I 
 would get sentimental, and think he did not love me 
 as he once did. As I look back now, I am convinced 
 that here was my first wrong step. Indulgence in 
 these moods weakened my resolution. It was an 
 injustice to him of which I ought not to have been 
 guilty. It left me, too, with a wounded feeling, as 
 if I had been wronged, which began to affect my 
 spirits. 
 
 " Once, I had for some time carried about this 
 
 4
 
 38 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 
 
 little sore spot in my heart. I kept the matter all 
 to myself, for I was in part ashamed and in part 
 too proud to speak of it. Here was another wrong 
 step. There is no security of happiness in married 
 life but in the most perfect confidence. 
 
 " There came a season of damp, chilly weather. 
 One morning I got up feeling very irritable. I had 
 taken cold, my head ached, and my baby had been 
 troublesome during the night. In my kitchen I had 
 a cross, ignorant servant-girl ; and on this particular 
 morning she had done her very worst for breakfast. 
 The beef-steak was burned to a cinder, the eggs 
 were like bullets, the bread was half-baked, and the 
 coffee, which was our main stay, was execrable. My 
 husband was very patient with all this, until it came 
 to the coffee ; and this upset him. He put his cup 
 down, and said, in a half-vexed tone, ' I do wish we 
 could ever have any good coffee ! Annette, why can 
 not you have it made as my mother does ? ' 
 
 " This was the drop too much for me, and I boiled 
 over. ' You never think anything on our table fit to 
 be eaten ! ' said I, and I almost started at the sound 
 of my own voice. ' You had better live at home, 
 if you are not satisfied, or else provide me with de 
 cent servants. I cannot do everything, take care 
 of my baby all night, and get the breakfast too.' 
 
 " ' I did not know before that I was so very 
 .unreasonable,' said he, in a tone of injured feeling.
 
 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 39 
 
 He sat a few minutes, then rose, left his untested 
 breakfast, put on his hat, and went off. 
 
 " When I heard the door shut behind him, all my 
 temper left me. I went into my room, locked my 
 self in, sat down, and cried like a child. This was 
 ike first cross word I had ever spoken to my hus 
 band. It seemed to me as if some sudden calamity 
 had befallen us. I worked myself up to such a pitch 
 of feeling, that I walked about the room wringing 
 my hands. 
 
 " ' 0, it is all over with us.' thought I ; ' we 
 shall never be happy together again in this world.' 
 This thought made me unspeakably miserable. I 
 felt as if a black pall had fallen around me, and in 
 the future there was only blank darkness. In my 
 misery I sought to comfort myself by blaming him. 
 ' He need not have spoken so to me, at any rate,' 
 said I, out loud. ' He might have seen how I felt ; it 
 was too much for any one to bear. It really was 
 not one bit kind in him. It is plain enough that he 
 does not care for my comfort as he once did. Then 
 to be always telling jne what nice things his mother 
 cooks, when he knows I am trying to do my very 
 best to learn to please him ! It is too bad.' 
 
 " Don't look so dreadfully sober, Kate. My baby 
 cried just here, and I had to run before I was 
 through with my catalogue of grievances ; yet I had 
 gone far enough to get well on the wrong track
 
 40 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 
 
 again. I began to calm myself with the reflection 
 that if there had been a great wrong done I was 
 not the only one to blame for it. I was dreadfully 
 sorry that I had spoken cross to him, but I thought 
 he ought to be sorry too. Before my baby had 
 finished crying, I came to the conclusion that I would 
 not exhibit signs of penitence until I saw some in 
 him. 
 
 " So I bathed my face, that no traces of tears might 
 remain, dressed myself with unusual care, and went 
 down to old Bridget, to give some very particular 
 directions about the dinner. I did this with a 
 martyr-like spirit. I meant to try my best to make 
 him sorry for his injustice. I resolved to reproach 
 him with a first-rate dinner, good as his mother 
 could cook. To whet the edge of my delicate re 
 proof, I made, with my own hands, a most excellent 
 cup of coffee. 
 
 " One o'clock came at last, though I thought it 
 never would ; the door opened, and I heard his quick 
 step in the hall. Of all things in this world, he 
 was whistling ! He came to the table with a bright 
 face, from which every trace of the morning's cloud 
 had disappeared, and, as he sat down, looked around 
 with a pleased expression. 
 
 " ' Why, Annette,' said he, ' what a nice dinner ! ' 
 
 " ' I am glad you are pleased,' said I, in a sub 
 dued tone.
 
 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 41 
 
 " ' Capital ! ' said he ; ' the best roast we have 
 had this season ! ' 
 
 " He was so much taken up with my delicate re 
 proofs as not to notice that I was out of spirits. I 
 was half pleased and half provoked ; but I kept 
 rather still, making little conversation, excepting in 
 reply to him. 
 
 " After dessert, I handed him his cup of coffee. 
 He was quite astonished. ' Why, Annette,' said he, 
 ' I do believe you went to work to-day to see what 
 you could do.' 
 
 " He had hit the truth, though without the least 
 suspicion of the cause. My first impulse was, to be 
 honest, and out with it, by replying, 'Is it as 
 good as your mother makes ? ' This would have 
 given him the key to the whole story, he would 
 have ferreted it all out, and we should have settled 
 it there ; but I felt ashamed to. I sipped my coffee 
 in silence. The golden moment passed, and my 
 good angel took his flight. Pride had the' day. I 
 even began to be vexed at his enjoying a good dinner 
 so much, and so easily forgetting what had caused me 
 so much suffering. He was very busy on that day, 
 and did not stay with me as long as usual to chat, 
 but went off whistling even more cheerily than 
 when he came. 
 
 " I went up into the nursery, and sat down to think 
 it over. Baby was asleep, the rain was pattering
 
 42 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 
 
 against the windows, the wind was rising, and to 
 me the world looked dreary enough. I had tired 
 myself all out getting up such a dinner ; and now 
 the excitement was over, and I felt the reaction, I 
 began to ask myself what I had got for it. Just 
 nothing at all. My husband either did not or would 
 not see that there was anything to be reconciled 
 about. I blamed him for his insensibility. ' Once,' 
 thought I, ' he would have noticed any change in 
 my voice, or any shadow which came over my spirits ; 
 now, I can really be cross to him, and he does not 
 mind it at all.' 
 
 " I had a doleful afternoon of it. I was restless 
 enough ; trying first one employment and then an 
 other, but finding nothing that would suit. I went 
 down to lea, further, if anything, from the right 
 point than I had been at noon. I sat dejected and 
 silent. My husband tried once or twice to engage 
 me in conversation, without success. 
 
 " ' Annette,' said he, at length, in a kind tone, 
 ' do not you feel well to-day ? ' 
 
 " ' Not very,' said I, with a sigh. 
 
 " ' What is the matter ? ' 
 
 " My head aches ; the baby kept me awake al 
 most all night.' This was the truth, but only in 
 part, and I felt guilty as I said it. Then he 
 begged me to go and lie down on the sofa in the par-
 
 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 43 
 
 lor, and said he would read to me anything that 1 
 would like to hear. 
 
 " I felt that this was kind in him. It was like 
 old times ; the new times, you see, had been but a 
 day, but to me it seemed very long ; yet it was not 
 what I wanted. I wished to have the trouble cleared 
 away, not bridged over ; and I determined to hold 
 out until it should come to this, and he should see 
 and feel that I could not be made happy, after a 
 cross word, without a scene of mutual contrition 
 and forgiveness ; so I would not stay and be read 
 to, but told him I must go to bed. I left him in 
 his easy-chair, with his study-lamp and book and 
 bright fire, in regular old-bachelor style, and went 
 off into my nursery, and then to bed, and cried my 
 self to sleep. You laugh, Kate, as if you thought I 
 was a fool. I think so myself now." 
 
 " How did it all end, Annette ? " 
 
 " I held out a week, becoming every day more 
 and more sad, and sulky, I may as well call it. 
 When I was left alone, I used to take my baby up 
 and cry over him, as if my husband were dead, and 
 the child were all I had left in the world. Dear 
 me ! how unhappy I was, and every day added to it. 
 I would find something in his conduct to pain me, 
 every time we met. Either he was too attentive or 
 not attentive enough ; talked too much or too little 
 
 " He bore my moody ill-humor most patiently,
 
 44 THE FIRST CBOSS WORD. 
 
 thinking I was ill. One day he came home, and 
 told me he had obtained a week's leave of absence, 
 and had engaged a buggy, and I must pack up my 
 self and baby, and be ready to start off in an hour. 
 He was going to take me home to my mother's. 
 ' We may as well have a journey as pay doctors' bills, 
 Annette,' said he ; ' and as to having you drooping 
 about in this style any longer, I am not going to. 
 We will send off old Bridget, lockup our house, -run 
 away from all care, and have some fun.' 
 
 " He looked up so kindly I could have fallen 
 upon his neck and wept my heart out, to think how 
 ugly I had been ; but there was no time then to talk 
 it over. I hurried away to pack, but before I was 
 half through with the packing, I resolved that I 
 would tell him the whole story, from beginning to 
 end. The moment I came to this determination, 
 the load was gone ; my heart seemed light as a 
 feather ; the expression of my countenance, the 
 tones of my voice, changed. I was conscious of it, 
 and he noticed it as soon as I joined him at the 
 appointed hour. 
 
 " ' Why, Annette,' said he, ' getting ready has 
 cured you. We may as well stay at home, now.' 
 
 " That will do, Kate. The rest of the story will 
 sound sentimental to a third party." 
 
 " No, no, Annette ! that would be leaving out the 
 very cream of it. Tell me how you settled it."
 
 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 45 
 
 " Well, we rode on, enjoying the change, until 
 towards dark. Baby then fell asleep. It was a 
 very quiet hour, everything about us was beauti 
 ful and serene. I felt deeply, and I longed to have 
 all in my heart pure and peaceful. Tears of real 
 penitence came into my eyes, and before I knew it 
 they were dropping down upon the baby. My hus 
 band turned and saw them. 
 
 " ' Why, Annette,' said he, with the utmost sur 
 prise, ' what is the matter ? ' 
 
 " ' 0, I am so sorry ! ' said I. 
 
 " ' Sorry for what, love,' said he? ' Are you not 
 happy ? Does anything trouble you ? ' 
 
 "' I am so sorry,' said I, ' that I have been so 
 ugly, this week ! ' 
 
 " ' What do you mean ? ' said he, looking more 
 and more puzzled. 
 
 " ' How can you help knowing ? ' said I. Then I 
 began at the beginning, and told the whole story. 
 How I rose feeling irritable, and was provoked to 
 speak the first cross word ; how he told me my 
 things were not as nice as his mother's, and went 
 off vexed ; then how he got over it, and forgot all 
 about it, and would not help me to feel good-natured 
 by saying he was sorry. How I had brooded over 
 it all the week, how it had festered away in my 
 heart, and poisoned all my enjoyment. What tor 
 rents of tears I had shed when alone, as I thought
 
 46 THE FIRST CROSS WORD. 
 
 it was all over with us, and we never should love 
 again as we had once loved. 
 
 " He heard me through without making a single 
 remark, and then he burst into a loud laugh. ' I 
 want to know, Annette,' said he, ' if this is what 
 has ailed you, all this week ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes,' said I. Upon this, he checked our Dob 
 bin, and began to turn round. 
 
 " ' What are you going to do ? ' said I. 
 
 " ' Going back,' said he, ' if this is all that is the 
 matter with you." 
 
 " I laughed as heartily as he did ; for, now my sin 
 was confessed, I felt very happy ; but I pulled the 
 other rein and drew the whip-lash over Dobbin's 
 ears, and away he went like a bird towards my 
 mother's home. 
 
 " But we made a resolution, then, Kate, that if 
 either had aught against the other, it should be set 
 tled before the sun went down ; that we might go 
 to sleep, if not at ' peace with all the world,' at 
 least at peace with each other, forgiving and for 
 given. This resolution we have faithfully kept, 
 and I have never seen another week of such misery 
 as I have been telling you about, and I trust I 
 never shall. I hope you will find in your new 
 relations, Kate, all the enjoyment we now do. This 
 is the best wish I can offer you, and that your 
 first cross word may also be your last."
 
 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO: 
 
 OR, 
 
 A HOUSE-CLEANING. 
 
 " DON'T sew any longer, Mrs. St. John ; it is too 
 dark." 
 
 " I can see very well, Mr. St. John, and I must 
 finish my stint." 
 
 " Why, what is the hurry ? " 
 
 " My sewing must be done this week, for next 
 week is house-cleaning; and here it is Thursday 
 night, and I am not half through. Where is my 
 spool ? There, now, it is lost ! That is too bad. It 
 is always the way when I am in a hurry. Edward, 
 do help me find the spool." 
 
 Edward, the eldest child, came readily to his 
 mother's assistance. Chairs were moved, cushions 
 shaken, crickets upset, but no spool could he find. 
 The light was fast fading away, and Mrs. St. John 
 was getting nervous. 
 
 "Dear me," sighed she, " how unfortunate ! See 
 if the baby has not got it. Where is he ? he was 
 here a minute ago."
 
 48 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO. 
 
 No one could tell. " Do look," said Mrs. St. 
 John, in alarm ; " perhaps he has crept into the 
 entry ; he will fall down stairs." 
 
 There was a general rush for the entry, but there 
 was no baby there. 
 
 " I 've found him ! " shouted Mary, the eldest girl, 
 with a loud, merry laugh, which was strangely out 
 of harmony with Mrs. St. John's tune. " Come 
 here, mother, come quick ! " 
 
 There was a rush to the parlor again, and there, 
 behind the sofa, sat the baby, in a corner, entangled 
 in a very large net of his own spinning head, 
 neck, arms, hands and feet, tied up again and again, 
 crossed and recrossed by thread from the missing 
 spool. He seemed to be just about completing his 
 novel design to his own satisfaction, and a hearty 
 laugh from all the family, the mother alone excepted, 
 announced his victory. Beginning, however, to find 
 himself uncomfortably imprisoned, he looked up with 
 a half-frightened expression on his baby face, which 
 was very comical. Mrs. St. John had no time to 
 smile at it, for the light was still fading, and her 
 stint was undone. She broke off a needleful of the 
 thread, and returned to the window. Her face was 
 about as glum as the twilight. Stitch stitch 
 stitch went her fingers, now somewhat nervously 
 fast. 
 
 Edward and Mary tried to unwind the baby, but
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 49 
 
 found it no easy task. They pulled the threads too 
 tightly over his tender flesh ; he did not like the 
 operation, and cried lustily. 
 
 " Do, Mr. St. John, get that baby out ! the 
 children hurt him." 
 
 Mr. St. John took hold, but with no better suc 
 cess. 
 
 " I cannot do it, wife ; you must come." 
 
 " Then ring for Hannah." 
 
 So Hannah came and tried, but the baby screamed 
 louder than ever. The joke was becoming rather a 
 serious one, and both father and children were a trifle 
 nervous ; but still Mrs. St. John stitched away at 
 the window. 
 
 "Do, Mrs. .St. John, put that work down," said 
 her husband ; " it is too dark to sew." He spoke, 
 now, quite in earnest. 
 
 " Only a few stitches more," replied his lady. 
 
 Mr. St. John was a very decided man. He put 
 the baby down, walked across the room, took the 
 work out of his wife's hands, and tossed it into a 
 sideboard drawer. 
 
 " You shall not be so foolish," said he ; " your 
 eyes will feel it for a week, and there is no manner 
 of need of such a hurry." 
 
 Mrs. St. John's dark eye kindled for a moment, 
 and her cheek flushed ; but her children were by, 
 and she remained silent. 
 5
 
 50 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 " Come and help us to get the baby out, do, 
 Mrs. St. John," said her husband, in a pleasant, per 
 suasive tone. 
 
 She complied, still silent. Baby was released, and 
 dismissed, with Hannah, for the night. Edward and 
 Mary hung about listlessly a short time longer, and 
 then, after receiving from Mrs. St. John a doleful 
 " good-night," retired, and she remained looking 
 into the fire, silent still. Mr. St. John read the 
 Traveller, laughed at its jokes by way of winding 
 off, then laying it by, was quite ready for a social 
 chat ^vith his wife. There she still sat glum 
 mum looking into the, fire. 
 
 " Come will'," said he, " don 't be so disconsolate ; 
 what is the matter ? " 
 
 "Nothing," said she, with a sigh. 
 
 " Nothing ! well, I would not look so blue about 
 nothing." 
 
 " I do not like it very well that you took 'my 
 work away from me." 
 
 " You are so careless about your eyes, wife, that 
 I have to look after you. You drive yourself almost 
 to death, when you have anything to do. I cannot 
 teach you moderation in any other way. Come, 
 cheer up. You shall have your work, now there are 
 lights ; I will get it for you." 
 
 " No, I do not wish it." 
 
 " Well, what is the matter, then ? "
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 51 
 
 " Why, I have so much to do to get ready for 
 house-cleaning, that it seems as if I never should 
 live through it." 
 
 " Now, I will tell you what it is," said Mr. St. 
 John, " I am going to have my way about house- 
 cleaning this year. I am determined not to have 
 you worried by it as you generally are. I intend to 
 hire it all done in three days." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Mrs. St. John, " nothing 
 would worry me more." 
 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " For two reasons ; because we cannot afford it, 
 and because I hate new servants." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. St. John, " I am convinced 
 that it is the least of two evils ; and, furthermore, 
 I mean to send in a sewing-woman to-morrow, to 
 relieve your present burden." 
 
 " Pray do not," said Mrs. St. John ; " we ought not 
 to be at the expense of such an arrangement. If we 
 hire two great girls the year round, I feel as if we 
 ought to meet these extras among ourselves. I 
 shall get along, if you will only let me take my own 
 course." 
 
 " 1 will agree to it, on one condition only," said 
 Mr. St. John. " If you will take it easy and keep 
 happy, you shall manage it your own way ; but if 
 you cannot, I shall try my way. Come, now ! 
 Cheer up, do, wife. Let me see you smile."
 
 52 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO ' 
 
 " I do not feel like it," said Mrs. St. John, at the 
 same time smiling, in spite of herself. 
 
 " How funny Bub looked, all tied up in your 
 thread ! " said Mr. St. John, laughing again heartily. 
 
 " The little rogue ! " replied the mother, laugh 
 ing now in her turn. She had emerged from her 
 cloud ; for over the huge mountain of house-clean 
 ing, still before her, easy paths were opening, and 
 a cheerful, quiet spirit, a trusty guide, beckoned 
 her thither. 
 
 " Ring the up-stairs bell, husband, will you ?" said 
 Mrs. St. John. " It is morning, and we must all be 
 up bright and early ; we begin house-cleaning to 
 day." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Mr. St. John, whose 
 morning dreams were thus unceremoniously put to 
 flight, " it seems to me there is no need of being 
 in such a hurry." 
 
 " One hour in the morning is worth two at night," 
 replied she ; " I will call Hannah myself." 
 
 She stepped softly into the nursery, roused the 
 sleepy girl, cautioning her not to wake the children. 
 
 Then came hurrying here and bustling there ; 
 the rattling of coal and the clatter of dishes. The 
 early breakfast was getting on as well as could be 
 expected. In the midst of this, a corps of young 
 volunteers, fresh from the nursery, all in bed-gown
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 53 
 
 uniform, came down over stairs and balustrades, to 
 witness the muster. Hannah, then, must be dis 
 missed to make them presentable, and Mrs. St. John 
 must take her place. In an incredibly short time, 
 the breakfast-bell rang, and the family assembled at 
 this unusual hour. Mrs. St. John looked very reso 
 lute. She was an energetic woman ; she always 
 meant to carry an enterprise through, when she un 
 dertook it. They had got an early start, as Mr. 
 St. John could testify, quite too early for his 
 appetite. He ate nothing, and looked sleepy. 
 
 " I mean to make thorough work, this spring," 
 said the lady, breaking the silence ; " the house 
 has not been cleaned to my mind since we moved 
 into it." 
 
 " But why do you drive all before you so, Mrs. 
 St. John ? " 
 
 "0, there 's no other way to accomplish any 
 thing." 
 
 " Just remember our agreement, will you ? " said 
 he. " If I find you getting worried over it, I will 
 have in cleaners, if they are to be found in the city." 
 
 " Yes, I will remember," said she. 
 
 The family had breakfasted. " I think we will 
 let the girls come in here and eat," said Mrs. St. 
 John ; " it will save time." 
 
 " Where shall we have prayers, then ? " 
 
 " 0, yes, prayers, well, in the parlor." 
 5*
 
 54 TUB OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 " There is no fire there," said Edward. 
 
 " Never mind it is not cold," replied his mother. 
 The family adjourned to the parlor. 
 
 " It is too cold here for the children," said Mr. 
 St. John ; " Jane will take cold." 
 
 " You had better omit reading, then," said his 
 wife. 
 
 The reading was omitted. Mrs. St. John tried 
 to listen to the prayer ; but no, she was wondering 
 whether the water was getting hot, and where she 
 could have put away that piece of wash-leather. She 
 rose from her knees. The golden opportunity of 
 prayer had fled. To her restless and care-laden 
 spirit no strength and comfort had been imparted, 
 for none had been asked. 
 
 " Come, Mary," said Edward, " let us go to 
 play." 
 
 " You cannot go out, this morning, until school- 
 time," said their mother. " I want you to stay in, 
 this morning, and look after Jane and George." 
 
 Mary began to cry at this. Bridget, with pail in 
 hand, entered at one door, as Hannah, with the 
 baby, opened the other. Mr. St. John seized his 
 hat, and hastily beat a retreat. 
 
 When the nursery arrangements were completed, 
 house-cleaning commenced in earnest. In the attic, 
 Bridget worked here, Hannah there, and Mrs. St. 
 John set herself down before a pile of rubbish.
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 55 
 
 Here was any quantity of cast-off clothing ; " she 
 would have it no longer breeding moths ; it should 
 be given to whoever would take it." There were 
 broken chairs and rickety tables, waiting for a 
 mending-day, which never had and never would 
 come ; they should be split up for kindlings. Old 
 crockery wearing away a useless existence in vain 
 hopes of aid from a little cement ; old boots and 
 shoes, ends of stove-pipes, useless fire-boards, boxes, 
 looking-glass frames, what a medley! Vigorous 
 Mrs. St. John determined that she would tolerate 
 it no longer. Her aides-de-camp, Bridget and 
 Hannah, were summoned, and a vigorous assault 
 was commenced. 
 
 In the midst of the melee, pleasant young voices 
 were heard calling from the nursery-door, " Mother, 
 mother, i't is time for us to go to school now." 
 
 " Could it be nine o'clock ? was it possible ? where 
 had the morning gone ? " But it had gone. Mrs. 
 St. John must now take her turn in the nursery ; so, 
 giving line upon line to the girls, she at length 
 went down. 
 
 To sit there quietly building block-houses for her 
 baby, when her attic was in such a state, was a trial 
 which Mrs. St. John's patience would not bear ; so 
 she wrapped him in a shawl, and made frequent ex 
 cursions, with him in her arms, up two flights of 
 ?tairs, to see how matters were advancing. This
 
 56 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 was hard work for her, and she was rejoiced when 
 the time came for his nap. She sung away to him, 
 but he was not used to her tunes ; it was Hannah's 
 music which lulled him every day, and he did not 
 fancy this change in his arrangements. He had 
 none but waking associations with his mother ; so he 
 cried. This wearied and worried her, but still she 
 sung heroically, for Hannah could not be called down 
 from her work, and then she told the boy firmly 
 that he must go to sleep. Finally, when he could 
 cry no longer, he obeyed her. She felt as if it were 
 a great victory. Fearing to arouse him if she moved 
 his crib nearer the bed, she contented herself with 
 gently tucking him in, and then stole out, and 
 returned to the attic. 
 
 Great improvement had taken place there ; the 
 rubbish had nearly disappeared. Mrs. St. John, 
 elated by success, went cheerfully to work, with 
 tobacco and camphor, on what remained. All was 
 going on swimmingly, when suddenly a loud cry 
 came up from the nursery, no common cry, it 
 was the cry of suffering. To drop everything and 
 run, was but the work of an instant. The mother 
 was first there, and found the baby lying on the 
 floor. He had fallen out of his crib, cut his lip, 
 which was bleeding, and bruised his forehead. This 
 was sad enough to Mrs. St. John ; for, if there was 
 any one class of accidents which she dreaded more
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 57 
 
 than another for children, it was injuries to the 
 head. She reproached herself for having left the 
 child ; she wished she had no house to clean ; she 
 almost determined not to try to do any more, for 
 she was both agitated and alarmed. The baby was 
 soothed and quieted before she was, and he soon fell 
 asleep again. The mother's agitation subsided, but 
 not her fears ; for she was in doubt whether she 
 ought to let him sleep or not. She laid him, this 
 time, in his cradle, and sat by him, gently bathing 
 his forehead in cold water. Gloomy fancies crowded 
 upon her excited mind. She wept over the child, as 
 over one dead. In a moment of time, life had turned 
 its serious side towards her ; she felt humbled and 
 ashamed as she remembered what insignificant things 
 had been fretting her spirit. What was her house- 
 cleaning, that it should absorb her quite, to the neg 
 lect of her family ? But it must be done, and she 
 must do it. How could she, then, keep a quiet 
 spirit in the midst of such contending cares ? She 
 began to reproach herself for her neglect of prayer, 
 this busy morning. Had she prayed, she might 
 have felt calmer, when called to meet untoward 
 events. But then, again, she might not. Her 
 house-cleaning now must be done; so she resolved 
 to prosecute it vigorously, finish it as quickly as pos 
 sible, and to set a seal upon her lips, through the 
 whole operation, that no impatient expression should
 
 58 TUB OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 escape. She hoped this would compose her spirit ; 
 and, if more composed, she could go better through 
 what was before her. But, come what might, the 
 baby was not to be again neglected, and she resolved 
 to keep Edward and Mary at home, alternately, to 
 look after him. 
 
 When she joined her family at dinner, her coun 
 tenance betrayed the harassed state of her mind. 
 Mr. St. John instantly observed it. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " he asked. 
 
 " Why, the baby has tumbled out of his crib, and 
 almost killed himself." 
 
 Mr. St. John only laughed. " The blow fell on 
 the right place," he said ; " for the skull was thick in 
 front, and the child, very likely, would have forty 
 more just such tumbles before the house was cleaned ; 
 so she had better make up her mind not to be trou 
 bled about that." 
 
 Mr. St. John had a pleasant way of helping his 
 wife over her troubles. He gave her cheerful and 
 encouraging words ; paid her kind and considerate 
 attentions ; and, above all, was patient with her. 
 Was she depressed, worried, overburdened with care, 
 there was Mr. St. John never in finer spirits, mak 
 ing her laugh in spite of herself, turning out the 
 " silver lining " of all her clouds, parrying off impa 
 tient shots, and never getting wounded. Thus 
 assisted, the wife soon found her way into stiller 
 waters.
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 59 
 
 Then perchance it came the husband's turn. Busi 
 ness went wrong ; his partner was unfaithful ; he 
 met with losses, and his brow was clouded. What 
 a comfort then was his wife, who, grateful for what 
 she had received, hastened to let down her pitcher 
 into the well of Hope, and bade him drink the cheer 
 ful draught ! Husband and wife thus helped each 
 other over life's rougher places, and made their jour 
 ney easier. 
 
 After dinner, Hannah brought down the baby. 
 A piece of brown paper disfigured his fair brow, but 
 he was bright as a new dollar. Mr. St. John con 
 cluded that it was not best to send for the physician 
 this time ; they would keep that in reserve for the 
 more serious bumps yet to come. His wife's spirits 
 revived, and she arranged her nursery tactics, for 
 the last part of the day, more to her satisfaction. 
 Edward was to remain at home. 
 
 "Where shall we work this afternoon?" said 
 Bridget. 
 
 " Finish the attic," said Mrs. St. John. 
 
 "We are all done there, ma'am, but the eaves." 
 
 " We will go to the eaves, then ; for I intend to 
 make thorough work, now I am about it. You take 
 a lantern, and I will go up with you, while Hannah 
 clears away." 
 
 The eaves of Mrs. St. John's house had been 
 partitioned off expressly, it would seem, to catch 
 rubbish. Small doors opened into these dark holes.
 
 60 TilE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 " Take your light, Bridget, and creep in ; let us 
 see what there is there." 
 
 Bridget hesitated. " Why, the land, Mrs. St. 
 John, there '11 be mouses there, and no cretur livin' 
 is so 'fraid of mouses as I am." 
 
 " Nonsense ! there are no mice there ; there is 
 nothing for them to eat." 
 
 Bridget advanced timidly. There seemed to be 
 nothing but boards and shingles there, until, quite 
 at the extremity, the light of her lantern fell upon 
 an old box. 
 
 " Anything in it ?" said Mrs. St. John. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; it is full of something." 
 
 "Push it along, then." 
 
 It was pushed out into the attic, and left there 
 until the eaves had been put in order, according to 
 Mrs. St. John's notions. This accomplished, she 
 proceeded to examine it. The board cover was 
 easily forced off, and the box appeared full of old 
 pamphlets and papers, stained and mouldy ; dating 
 back to a period previous to the Revolution, and 
 running on For almost half a century. There were 
 sermons, almanacs, dictionaries, dog-eared spelling- 
 books, and finally, at the bottom of all, an old 
 leather portfolio. To all appearance, it had once 
 been handsome, for dim traces of crimson and gold 
 were yet visible, though it was now mouldy and 
 worm-eaten.
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 61 
 
 It was fastened, hut a little pull tore the lock 
 from the rotten leather. Mrs. St. John opened it 
 eagerly. What treasure was there hidden here ? 
 No treasure, apparently ; some common engravings, 
 old writing-books, and sheets of paper covered with 
 a child's drawings. A little inner pocket now 
 arrested her attention. 
 
 This was found to contain musty letters, seeming 
 to be merely family letters. There still remained a 
 drawer, at the bottom of the portfolio, to be exam 
 ined. This required some prying before it was 
 forced out. It had been intended, originally, to 
 hold a writing apparatus, but all its compartments 
 were now stuifed with MSS. The name of Brad 
 ford, Samuel, John, or Eliza, or Sarah, had 
 been found, thus far on almost everything ; but the 
 contents of the drawer seemed to belong exclusively 
 to one, a Mrs. Nancy Bradford, and appeared to be 
 her private journal. 
 
 Mrs. St. John wished very much to look over these 
 papers, but Bridget and Hannah, both waiting for 
 work, forbade it ; so she replaced the papers in the 
 portfolio, and sent it to her dressing-room, meaning 
 to read them at her leisure. 
 
 This discovery tended to strengthen her resolution 
 to make thorough work, for once ; and, as the baby 
 was good and Edward faithful, she had the after 
 noon quite undisturbed. Still, the western light 
 6
 
 62 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 had almost died out from that attic window before 
 her work was done ; then, weary enough, but with 
 her sky-parlor in fine order, she went to tea. 
 
 She told Mr. St. John of her discovery, and the 
 interest which this excited tended to divert his 
 attention from her ; so he did not observe that 
 already, on this, her first day of house-cleaning, 
 she had so over-worked herself that she could not 
 eat. Had he seen it, Hale and Putt would have 
 made their appearance the next morning. 
 
 But he thought it was curious about that box. 
 It must have been left by some one who had pre 
 viously occupied the house. Could they discover 
 the owner ? 
 
 Mrs. St. John thought not, as it had been for so 
 many years used as a boarding-house. 
 
 " Some one will be sorry to lose it. It is proba 
 bly all that remains of some old family, who, for 
 aught we know, were an influential family in Revo 
 lutionary times. Perhaps it is all their present 
 descendants have to show that they had a grand 
 mother." 
 
 " If they prized it much, they would have taken 
 better care of it," said Mrs. St. John. " I dare say 
 they are glad to get rid of it, for there is nothing in 
 it of any value, it seems." 
 
 " Nothing, unless Mrs. Nancy Bradford's journal 
 proves to be valuable," said Mr. St. John.
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 63 
 
 His wife did not seem to think this a very proba 
 ble hypothesis. 
 
 Again an early summons roused the sleepy in 
 mates of Mrs. St. John's dwelling ; and again Mr. 
 St. John, two-thirds asleep, came down uncom|la5n- 
 ingly to an early breakfast ; he meant to do the 
 best he could to help his wife along. Again came 
 the hour of morning prayer, and Mrs. St. John, as 
 she knelt, remembered now with gratitude that no 
 midnight cry of danger and distress had alarmed 
 them, that they had lain down and slept in peace. 
 She recalled, also, tKose serious moments, on the 
 preceding day, when life had seemed so frail a thing, 
 the concerns of time so trivial, and she really felt 
 that the spirit with which she was undertaking her 
 work needed purifying ; yet where and how she 
 could not determine, for she had an indefinite and 
 unformed impression that her duty to God and her 
 duty to her family could not tally exactly, at least, 
 until house-cleaning was over, that what she had 
 now to do could not be done " to His glory." Such 
 Christian effort must be reserved until her house 
 was put " decently in order." So she quieted her 
 half-satisfied conscience with a fresh resolution to 
 guard her lips. This added care gave a serious 
 expression to her face, which the children observed, 
 for they will detect every change in a mother's 
 countenance.
 
 64 TIIE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO 
 
 " What makes you look so sober to-day, mother ? " 
 said Mary. 
 
 " I have so much before me, my child." 
 
 " Shall not I send for Hale and Putt ?" said Mr. 
 St. John, standing with the door half open. 
 
 " By no means," said Mrs. St. John ; "they would 
 be a great deal more plague than profit. I shall 
 keep Mary at home this morning to help me, and 
 Edward this afternoon." 
 
 " I doubt whether this is the best way," replied 
 the husband. " Will they not run behind their 
 classes ? " 
 
 " Not if they study their lessons at home, which 
 I mean they shall do," said his wife. " I can hear 
 them recite." 
 
 Mr. St. John drew down his face with a comical 
 expression, and took his leave. 
 
 This day's work proved to be a very tedious one. 
 The two aids were to commence on beds and bed 
 ding, and the lady of the house was to precede their 
 cleaning by putting closets and drawers in order. 
 This, to her, was the most perplexing part of house- 
 cleaning. After a winter's campaign, so much would 
 accumulate ; and now, as summer was advancing, 
 there was such a medley of summer and winter 
 clothing ! What could be put away, and what must 
 be retained ? So many things, too, there were, too 
 good to throw away, and yet not quite good enough
 
 OR, THE HOUSE-CLEANING. 65 
 
 to keep ; much that might be worn, and yet looked 
 hardly well enough ; much that might be made over 
 for the little ones, and yet, were they worth the 
 time ? 
 
 Once she thought, in her perplexity, she would 
 make one bundle of all the doubtful articles, and 
 send Hannah out to give them to the first poor per 
 son she met ; then she remembered that their income 
 was by no means such as to exempt her from econo 
 my. She must make what she had go as far as it 
 would respectably ; then, how far was that ? Her 
 mind became weary, and her head began to ache. 
 She sat down for a moment on a trunk, sighing 
 and wishing the job was done ; then, summoning 
 her resolution, went once more heroically to work. 
 Now she opened the under drawer ; brimful it was 
 of perplexity. Here were half- worn shoes, leaky 
 rubbers, old stockings, the nursery refuse of a sea 
 son. This was, indeed, discouraging, and Mrs. St. 
 John was irritated. Hannah ought never to have 
 stowed away things in that style ; she had half a 
 mind to dismiss her, and try a new hand, and see 
 if she could not get a more tidy one. She sat down 
 again on the old black trunk, more discouraged than 
 ever. At this very auspicious moment, Bridget 
 burst into the room. 
 
 " The land ! Mrs. St. John, you never see sich a 
 sight ! "
 
 66 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 " What is the matter now ?" said Mrs. St. John, 
 trembling with vague apprehensions. 
 
 " 0, the beds ! such a sight to behold ! " 
 
 "What of them?" 
 
 " All alive, Mrs. St. John," . said Hannah, who 
 now appeared in the background, looking as if she 
 had met the cholera. 
 
 It required all of even resolute Mrs. St. John's 
 resolution to rise and follow her girls with the seal 
 still upon her lips. She found they had brought a 
 true report of the land. Now, of all the conditions 
 of a five years' rented house, none could have been 
 more annoying to our lady than this. With such 
 partners she would not have accepted of one in 
 Beacon-street or Broadway. 
 
 Was it not a little singular that when she had so 
 much to do, and was trying to do it in the best way 
 she could, just those things should come upon her 
 which would trouble her the most ? She did not 
 understand it ; it was pressing her without mercy, 
 and her ill-temper rose, with a sense of injustice. 
 
 " This is enough to kill anybody ! " said she, with 
 flashing eyes. " I will not live so ! I '11 move off. 
 Take those down into the yard, and set fire to 
 them ! " 
 
 " No, Mrs. St. John," said Hannah, "that '11 never 
 do. We should have all the engines here, in less 
 than no time."
 
 OH, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 67 
 
 " Carry them down, then, and leave them there 
 until Mr. St. John comes home," said she, impera 
 tively ; " and do you bring up water boiling hot and 
 pour in every crack. I '11 have all the paper off the 
 walls." 
 
 "Take hold there, Hannah," said Bridget; "don't 
 be so afraid of lifting a finger ! " 
 
 The aids were catching the commander's tone. 
 Mrs. St. John thought it prudent to retreat. She 
 went to her own room, locked herself in, sat down, 
 and cried like a child. Two opposing currents of 
 feeling set in, whirling her round. Her troubles 
 were worrying, irritating, and making her indig 
 nant ; conscience was making her ashamed, and 
 humbling her. She shed bitter tears in view of her 
 own character ; now and then it seemed to her as 
 if life did not pay for the struggle it cost. But 
 now her tears must cease to flow, for there is Mary's 
 gentle voice. " Mother, George is so cross, I cannot 
 stay with him any longer." Mother, then, must go 
 to him. 
 
 Her eyes were still red from weeping, and her 
 heart was heavy, when Mr. St. John came in to tea. 
 These were symptoms which he had been expecting; 
 so he could not refrain from smiling, as he inquired, 
 " What has turned up now ? " 
 
 Mrs. St. John told him of Bridget's discovery. 
 As she went on to relate it, her temper warmed
 
 68 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 again. " It is just what I expected, coming intr 
 such an old boarding-house ! " said she ; " I told you 
 so, then." 
 
 " No, wife, you forget. It was your choice to 
 come here ; do not you remember ? I wished to take 
 that new house in Suffolk-street ; I '11 take it now, 
 if you say so." 
 
 Mrs. St. John knew that the rent of that desira 
 ble house exceeded their means. She knew, also, 
 that her husband was always for going the whole 
 length of his string ; and that, if prudence and econ 
 omy were ever practised, and both were neces 
 sary, she must practise them, for he never would; 
 it was n't in him. She, therefore, was always the 
 one to hold back, and it was this which kept them 
 up so comfortably. 
 
 " No, we cannot afford to do it," said she ; " and 
 I am sure I do not know what to do. We cannot 
 live so." 
 
 " I '11 burn up the bedsteads, if you say so, or sell 
 off and get new ones," said her husband. 
 
 " No, we ought not to incur even that expense." 
 
 Mr. St. John sat down, and related, in a most 
 humorous way, his college experience in this line. 
 Mrs. St. John had to laugh, and finally their plan 
 of operation in attacking this new enemy was agreed 
 upon. Offensive war was proclaimed; no quarter
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 69 
 
 was to be given ; the hatchet was never to be buried 
 until the old settlers were exterminated. 
 
 On the fourth day of this memorable house-clean 
 ing Master George began to assert his rights. He 
 would not stay any longer either with Edward or 
 Mary, and Jane could scarcely come within sight of 
 him. Mrs. St. John had to give up to him. With 
 him in her arms she now attempted to do the lighter 
 work, washing dishes, cooking, etc. Tying him 
 into a high chair, she began to prepare a simple 
 dinner. She set the table in the kitchen, without 
 cloth or napkins, to save herself trouble. While so 
 doing, the door-bell rang. Edward brought her 
 word that Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were in the parlor. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were friends from out of town, 
 who came to the city frequently in the spring to 
 shop, always making their home with her. 
 
 " I cannot have company," said she, when Edward 
 announced them ; " there is nothing to eat in the 
 house ; and, besides, I am not dressed. What shall 
 I do ? It does seem to me as if everything came 
 together. I shall die before we are through with 
 it!" 
 
 To whom are you talking, Mrs. St. John ? Not 
 to those children, surely. Mary had just entered. 
 See, there are four beaming hazel eyes fixed upon 
 your worried face. They are carrying impressions 
 to those young hearts ; impressions which you can
 
 70 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 more easily make than erase ; impressions which 
 will be found there long after your house is in order; 
 BO, be careful. 
 
 " Well, shall I tell them to go, mother ? " said 
 Edward. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. St. John, struggling to be calm. 
 " No, that will not do. Ask them to take their 
 things off and sit down. Tell them I am house- 
 cleaning, and engaged, just now, but will be up in a 
 short time." 
 
 Mrs. St. John went on mechanically with her 
 simple dinner, for she did not know what else to do. 
 Her husband's welcome step was now heard on the 
 stairs ; he came directly to her. 
 
 " 0, Mr. St. John," said she, " I am so glad to 
 see you ! What shall I do ? We have company, 
 and here we are, and this is all the dinner we have 
 in the house ; George is cross, and it seems as if I 
 should give up ! " 
 
 " Never mind, wife," said he. " The darkest day, 
 live till to-morrow, will have passed away. We will 
 ask them down to dine just as we are. Here is meat 
 enough for half a dozen more. They know all about 
 house-cleaning. Now, don't take an extra step. I 
 will put on a couple more plates. Here, Master 
 George, come with papa. Edward, if you will keep 
 him happy in the nursery until after dinner, you 
 shall go out to Roxbury with me this evening.
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 71 
 
 Wife, slick up your hair a little, and send Mary up 
 to call me when you are ready, and I will bring 
 them down." 
 
 " How considerate he is, when I am in a worry ! " 
 said Mrs. St. John to herself. " I wonder how 
 he can be so patient. I will try now to do my 
 best." 
 
 She smoothed her hair, put on a clean collar, 
 added a luxury or two to her table, in the shape of a 
 castor and salters, etc. ; and then, making a hearty 
 effort to appear cheerful, met her friends, and wel 
 comed them to the best she had. And they had a 
 pleasant time of it at dinner. Mr. St. John was in 
 fine spirits ; he did the honors from stove, dresser 
 and pantry, gracefully ; and Mrs. St. John felt con 
 scious that she was doing her best to show hospital 
 ity ; and the friends felt that they were adding no 
 trouble ; so that all enjoyed the dinner. 
 
 After the company had left, however, there was 
 a reaction in Mrs. St. John's spirits. Jane began 
 to cry with the toothache, and George was ready 
 with his chorus. Bridget was getting cross, and 
 Hannah becoming ominously silent. Mrs. St. John 
 again took her room ; she began to feel desperate ; 
 she had half a mind to let things go. What was 
 the use of trying any longer, when everything 
 opposed her ? She might as well give up first as
 
 72 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 last. In this mood her husband found her at 
 night. 
 
 " Now," said he, in his peremptory manner (and 
 wo have seen that he could be peremptory), " I have 
 set my foot down, that I will not have things go on 
 so any longer. You have had your way, now I 
 shall have my way. Hale and Putt shall come to 
 morrow." 
 
 Mrs. St. John knew that arguing the matter 
 would now be of no further use. 
 / "You gentlemen," said she, " have such odd ideas 
 of house-cleaning ! You imagine you can do it up 
 just as you buy and sell, so much labor for so much 
 money. Now, the fact is, the simple labor is the 
 easiest part of it. It is the getting ready for labor, 
 contriving, planning, arranging, that is so wea 
 risome. \ Putting this carpet here, and turning that 
 thereTaeciding where this thing had better go, and 
 what must be done with that ; this is what makes 
 house-cleaning such a trial, and it is work which 
 you cannot hire." 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. St. John ; "and if you do 
 this part of it, you do your share ; but now you are 
 attempting to do, not only the head work, but the 
 hand work also. Division of labor is as proper here 
 as in my store. You do not understand business, 
 you see." 
 
 "And you do not understand house-cleaning."
 
 OK, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 73 
 
 " Well, we will see," said Mr. St. John, laugh-, 
 ing. 
 
 With the morrow came Hale and Putt, stout 
 Irish women, whom Mr. St. John frequently em 
 ployed about his store ; and there they stood, await 
 ing Mrs. St. John's orders. With a sigh she ushered 
 them into the dining-room. They might clean there 
 in the early part of the morning she went once or 
 twice to see what progress they made. 
 
 " Do not put sand upon the paint," said she; "you 
 will scour it all off." 
 
 " yes, indeed ma'am, we knows it," said Putt. 
 . " Be careful not to let your wet cloth touch this 
 light paper." 
 
 " Indeed, and I will be very careful, ma'am," said 
 Hale. 
 
 From the nursery to the dining-room was a long 
 journey, and Mrs. St. John, having taken cold, found 
 herself too stiff and lame to make the effort more 
 than once or twice. Jane also had taken cold, and 
 was now in bed, feverish and restless. George 
 remained indisposed. Mrs. St. John had about 
 reached that state of feeling in which she did not 
 care whether the house were cleaned or not. She no 
 longer had any mind about it, she was heartily 
 sick of it. Yet still, with contradictory impulse, she 
 urged on the work, so that as little as possible need 
 be hired.
 
 74 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 It was a sorry dinner which Mr. St. John found 
 waiting for him that day. The children murmured, 
 and he, after partaking, omitted altogether returning 
 thanks. 
 
 " Are not you most through, wife ? " said he. 
 
 " I do not know that there is any end," repLed 
 she. 
 
 " How do my cleaners work ? " 
 
 "I have not been in, since morning. I must go 
 and look." 
 
 Mrs. St. John entered the dining-room. All up 
 and down by the windows, and under the moulding, 
 were wide, black stains of dirty suds. How it looked 
 on that light paper ! Around the door-handles the 
 paint was all off, and the polished and shining boards 
 attested to the strength of the scouring. 
 
 She looked on in dismay. " Only see there ! " 
 said she ; " ten dollars will not repair the mischief 
 your cleaners have done. I told you so, to begin 
 with. Now, Mr. St. John, you ought to let me 
 manage these things. What shall I do ? " 
 
 " Do ? why, it looks nicely, I think," said he ; 
 " it smells as clean as a whistle. As to the paper, 
 I meant to have a new one on at any rate, and it is 
 as well now as any time." 
 
 " What shall I do with them, this afternoon ? " 
 
 "Who, Hale and Putt? Put them into the 
 kitchen and cellar ; they will work well there."
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 75 
 
 When once more alone, with 7 four cleaners await 
 ing her orders, Mrs. St. John felt that the time had 
 come when she must either sink or swim. Summon 
 ing all her resolution, she once more breasted the 
 waves. Much progress of a certain kind was made 
 this day, and the poor, ransacked tenement began to 
 settle down a little. 
 
 " Mrs. St. John," said Bridget, opening the door 
 at tea-time ; " the cleaners, ma'am, wants to know 
 as how if you want them to come to-morrow." 
 
 " No," said the lady, in a tone not remarkable for 
 its gentleness. 
 
 " Had not they better, Mrs. St. John ? " 
 
 " No, unless you have a particular fancy for pa 
 pering more rooms." 
 
 Mr. St. John laughed, paid Hale and Putt, and 
 dismissed them. 
 
 There was no early breakfast on the following 
 morning. Mr. St. John had his nap out, and Mrs. 
 St. John, at a late hour, dragged herself down stairs. 
 She felt miserably ; she was more than half ill ; she 
 did not know as she could hold her head up. The 
 breakfast was uninviting. Bridget was getting out of 
 sorts. The children came in, fretting ; Hannah was 
 cross, and "scrubbed their noses off" when she was 
 washing them. No one in the house seemed to feel 
 just right, but Mr. St. John. All undisturbed as 
 ever, bright side up, he came among them, singing.
 
 76 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 " Mother," said Mary, " what makes you look so, 
 this morning ? You don't look happy." 
 
 " I don't feel well." 
 
 " But you have looked so all along, mother," said 
 Edward. 
 
 " Well, I have had a great deal to worry me, 
 Edward." 
 
 " But father says," continued Mary, " that wor 
 rying does not help us any." 
 
 Mrs. St. John was silent. She did not wish to 
 argue the point with her children. 
 
 " Father," said Edward, " I do not want to go to 
 school to-day. I have not got my lessons, and I 
 shall get marked." 
 
 " I thought you were going to study at home." 
 
 " So I was ; but Georgy was so cross, and mother 
 so busy, I could not." 
 
 Mr. St. John made the best of it. He was far 
 too considerate to say " I told you so." Mrs. St. 
 John felt his kindness. She wished she could have 
 got through this house-cleaning without causing so 
 much discomfort to her family. Was there no 
 golden road to a tidy house ? Could she not find 
 some path over the mountain easier than the one 
 she had trodden ? Surely glimpses of such an one 
 had once cheered her. True, but she had not 
 followed the trusty guide, and so she had lost her 
 way.
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 77 
 
 Now she was really ill ; and, as the day wore on, 
 it required the courage of a martyr to keep about 
 and attend to the finishing of her work. But it 
 must be done, and she must do it. And she did 
 do it. 
 
 The moon rose that night, and through Mrs. St. 
 John's clear windows poured a flood of silver light 
 in upon her z#eZ/-cleaned house. Yes, it was at 
 last all in order. She had a good opportunity to 
 congratulate herself, for slumber did not visit her 
 eyelids that night. She was tossing to and fro, and 
 in the crib by her side Jane moaned in her feverish 
 sleep. Both had taken cold, were seriously ill, and 
 the next morning the doctor was called. 
 
 " It costs more than it comes to," Mr, St. John 
 might have said ; but he did not, he was considerate. 
 
 He knew, also, that his wife was abundantly able 
 to draw her own moral inferences, and he left her to 
 do so. 
 
 For the first forty-eight hours in which she lay 
 there, the consciousness that her house was all done 
 was very comforting ; but, as other days passed, and 
 found her still confined there, she also began to put 
 the question, " Has n't it cost more than it has come 
 to ? " This query was silenced again and again by 
 the stern reply " But it must be done, and I 
 must do it." " Well, then," asked conscience, " is 
 there no better way ? Cannot I accomplish it with- 
 7*
 
 78 TUB OLD LEATHER POUIFOLIO : 
 
 out its proving such a sore trial to my temper ? " 
 Weary at length with thinking about it, she deter 
 mined to divert her thoughts. The old portfolio 
 was remembered, and she sent for it. 
 
 She first looked over the letters ; they were cu 
 rious as matters of family history. Mrs. Bradford 
 was the mother of several children ; many of the 
 letters were from them, and some were from her 
 husband, who it appeared held some office in the 
 army. The drawings were the work of one son, 
 who seemed eventually to have become a painter. 
 Mrs. St. John could understand that love which pre 
 served all these memorials of a childhood long since 
 passed away, and she became interested in Mrs. 
 Nancy Bradford. She was now quite eager to read 
 the manuscript in the drawer. She found it, as she 
 expected, a private journal. It was written on 
 coarse paper, now yellow, stained, worm-eaten, the 
 writing almost illegible, yet she managed to de 
 cipher much of it. We make a few brief extracts : 
 
 " No letter now, from Mr. Bradford, in five 
 months ; I am afraid that he, too, has been taken 
 prisoner. My boys are out of shoes, and my chil 
 dren want frocks. I can't buy clothing, for there is 
 none to be had. My money is most out, and here is 
 a cold winter coming. There is no schooling to be 
 got for the children ; and I can't get anybody to 
 haul wood for us. We must have some, I shall
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 79 
 
 have to take the team and the boys, and go myself; 
 we must get what we can. No flour in this region. 
 If it was n't for our stock of potatoes, we should go 
 hungry. We can't get along so all winter. If I 
 don't hear from Mr. Bradford pretty soon, I must 
 decide on something ; for live we must. I am sorely 
 tried." 
 
 " Dear me ! " thought Mrs. St. John, " that was 
 worse than house-cleaning ! What should I do with 
 my four children, even with so many comforts 
 around me, if Mr. St. John were away, I knew not 
 where, perhaps dead, perhaps in prison ? Why, I 
 cannot very well spare him for a few hours, as it is. 
 What wives and mothers there were in those days ! " 
 She read on. Mrs. Nancy Bradford came at length 
 to a decision about her plans. 
 
 She wrote : " I have determined to keep tav 
 ern ; for I think I can turn a penny or two in 
 this way to help along. Daniel is painting the 
 sign. I thought and prayed about this a good 
 while, before I made up my mind. At last I came 
 to the conclusion that there was no use in asking 
 God to help us, unless we tried to help ourselves. 
 He would n't do it. If I want His aid, I must do 
 the best I can for myself." 
 
 " There ! " said Mrs. St. John, dropping the 
 musty paper on her white quilt ; " there is good 
 sense in that. I '11 remember it. If I want His
 
 80 TUB OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 aid, I must do the best I can for myself. I don't 
 believe I have been doing this. I should not wonder 
 if I had been demanding the gift of a peaceful 
 spirit, as but fair pay for the bother I 've had. 
 Then, as to doing the best. I have done, but 
 have I done the best ? " 
 
 This was opening the vexed question again, and 
 conscience was all ready for the debate. Of this, as 
 we have seen, Mrs. St. John was weary, and 
 returned to the papers. 
 
 " Not a word about Mr. Bradford yet. All I 
 can do is to hope for the best. I am getting ready 
 to open tavern. The sign is almost done. I mean 
 to begin in a small way, and use what I have ; for I 
 will not run in debt on uncertainties. We don't 
 know in these times what a day may bring forth. I 
 shan't buy new beds. If I have more lodgers than 
 beds, the boys must go into the barn-chamber to 
 sleep ; and if we are running over then, I can take 
 the girls and go too. The barn is dry, and the hay 
 sweet. I '11 count my timber, and not lay out a 
 broader foundation than I can build upon. That is 
 good sound doctrine, about sitting down to count the 
 cost. The Bible is as good to live by as to die by. 
 I won't kill myself nor the children with work. I 
 won't undertake more than I can go through with. 
 I '11 know what the cost will be ; then I shan't be 
 disappointed.
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 81 
 
 " I just hear Mr. Bradford is in prison, sick. 
 Perhaps he will never see his home again. Many a 
 neighbor has rotted in those York jails." 
 
 'I won't undertake more than I ca?i go through 
 with. I 'II count the cost ! " " That is the right 
 policy," thought Mrs. St. John. " I always make 
 a mistake at this point. I see it now. I undertake 
 too much. I lay too much foundation for my tim 
 ber. This is one reason why we all get so over 
 worked. Mrs. Nancy Bradford manages matters 
 better. I can learn a lesson from her, which I 
 will remember the next time I have a house to 
 clean. I will first count the cost. If I cannot 
 command money, I will give myself more time. 
 If I cannot have either, I will undertake the less , 
 work. I feel sure I should get along better to 
 start on this principle. I do push matters too hard, 
 when I have great things to do." 
 
 Mrs. St. John began already to feel stronger ; she 
 sat up in bed, and resumed her reading. 
 
 " Daniel has finished his sign to-day, and I think 
 it is a beauty. I only wish his father could see it. 
 He has painted the rising sun on one side, and the 
 American eagle on the other, which I think looks 
 very natural. He is varnishing it now, and will 
 have it up to-morrow. I have already had some 
 company, but they were not very clever folks ; they 
 found some fault with everything that was set before
 
 82 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO : 
 
 them, and took more liquor than they needed. I 
 felt a good deal tried when they said, in my hearing, 
 'that my doughnuts were hard as bullets; ' but I 
 got over it again ; for I have made up my mind 
 that if I keep tavern I must take what a tavern 
 brings. I know 1 shall be sorely tempted to anger 
 often. I can say, with good Mr. Contrite, ' 'T is 
 hard keeping our hearts and spirits in good order, 
 when we are in a cumbered condition.' But I 
 must take the lot that 's given me, and I find there 
 is no comfort like believing that God plans it all out 
 for us, great and little. ' Keep near to God,' as 
 our good minister said. This is the right way ; 
 this keeps your mind easy ; and when your mind is 
 easy, the rest soon comes right." 
 
 Tears began to fill Mrs. St. John's eyes. " Dear 
 old Mrs. Nancy, did you write those comforting 
 thoughts so long ago, to help me over some of life's 
 rough places ? ' If your mind is easy, all the rest 
 toll soon come right. Make it easy, by keeping 
 near to God.' " Mrs. St. John pondered long over 
 this before she resumed her leading. 
 
 " When I have such company come," continued 
 Mrs. Bradford, " I have to make a point of speak 
 ing in a low, slow tone. If I don't, I find my 
 voice sometimes runs away with me, and I get 
 scolding the children before I know it. I don't 
 want to have their young tempers fretted."
 
 OR, A HOUSE-CLEANING. 83 
 
 " Have not I been thoughtless about the com 
 fort of my children, through house-cleaning ? " said 
 Mrs. St. John, with a sigh. 
 
 " Part of a regiment," continued the journal, 
 " quarter here next week. I don't know hardly 
 which way to turn. Isaac is sick, and he is my 
 right-hand man. I must provide beds and food, 
 and there is so much to do I hardly know which 
 end to begin at. But begin I will ; for, when my 
 business gets into a tangle, there is no way for me 
 to work but to take right hold and straighten it out. 
 If I can only see my way clear, I can get along, if 
 there is ever so much to do." 
 
 " I understand this," thought Mrs. St. John. 
 " My work lies in a tangle before me, much of the 
 time, particularly if it is any great work. It would 
 help me, as much as it did her, to take right hold of 
 it and straighten it out. If I could see my way 
 dear, it would help me keep an easy mind." She 
 read on. 
 
 " I have now kept tavern a year ; perhaps I shall 
 have to keep it another year, before I see Mr. 
 Bradford at home ; but the boys are bigger, and can 
 help me more than they did when 1^ began, and I 
 have got more used to it. I can have a system 
 about it, which I could not at first ; and this is the 
 beauty of doing work. I have got along wonder 
 fully. The greatest trouble I have is the fear, lest
 
 84 THE OLD LEATHER PORTFOLIO. 
 
 when I am so worried and hurried, I should bring 
 reproach upon the name of Christ. I think a good 
 deal of what Mr. Holyman said, ' There are two 
 things which they have need to be possessed with, 
 who go on a pilgrimage : courage, and an unspotted 
 life.' If I can only have these, I shall never mind 
 these hard times." 
 
 " What a life of faith and energy ! " said Mrs. St. 
 John. Yes, faith and energy ; and if it would carry 
 a woman safely through those dark and perilous 
 times, is it not abundantly able to carry her through 
 the lighter troubles of these prosperous days, when 
 we all sit unmolested beneath our own vine and 
 our fig-tree ? Will it not at least carry her safely 
 through the modern perils of a "House-cleaning" ? 
 
 We leave Mrs. St. John to make her own moral 
 reflections, believing, with Mr. St. John, that she is 
 abundantly able so to do.
 
 THE MAY-QUEENS. 
 
 WE all welcome May. March shakes his fist 
 roughly at us, showing that he is a regular " chip 
 of the old block," inheriting the surly temper of his 
 father. April is capricious, all smiles and tears ; 
 there is no dependence to be placed upon her ; but 
 May comes in with her love-tokens of crocuses and 
 daffodils, aod wins us over to the faith that Spring 
 is far advanced, and Summer is at hand. Now, in 
 the morning, with the children, we loiter before the 
 southern grass-plats, and peep through the dusty 
 fences, to see and enjoy the young flowers, and at 
 noon-time we are found on the shady walks. We 
 are quite ready for a stroll to the Common, on May 
 day ; though we loiter still before cages which are 
 hung out here and there, that we may listen to the 
 canary-birds. They delight in the balmy air and in 
 the blue sky. unconscious apparently of their cage- 
 wires ; for they sing away as if they would sing 
 their little hearts out. Nor are they the only ones 
 who delight in May-day. On such a morning as is 
 here described, when we entered the mail and took 
 our seat under the budding elms, we found that a 
 8
 
 00 TEE MAY-QUEENS. 
 
 May-pole had sprung up in the night, and was in 
 full bloom with roses. Around it young girls, 
 dressed in white, danced hand in hand ; and one with 
 flowing golden curls wore gracefully a crown of 
 roses. She was the May-day Queen, chosen, as 
 one could see at a glance, for her great beauty. 
 She was tall for her years, which could not have 
 numbered more than fifteen ; she had a figure light 
 and fairy-like, and a countenance cast in the Grecian 
 mould, almost faultless in its profile. With cheeks 
 flushed by excitement, eyes sparkling, her broad 
 forehead subdued in the mellow shadow of the rose- 
 crown, she was exceedingly lovely. Round and 
 round her, hand in hand, merrily singing, danced 
 her white-robed friends, stopping every now and 
 then, in the evolutions of the figure, to pay their 
 obeisance to the queen, and cast flowers at her feet. 
 This homage she received and acknowledged with 
 much grace and an innocent pride. It was a beau 
 tiful sight, in full harmony with the beautiful 
 May morning. The old apple-woman under the 
 trees forgot alike her knitting and her customers ; 
 even the man of business paused in his hurried work, 
 and expended several golden minutes on such a 
 pretty sight. 
 
 After a time, a somewhat singular spectator 
 appeared. A gentleman, apparently a young gen 
 tleman, wrapped in a Highland shawl, with which
 
 THE MAY-QUEENS. 87 
 
 he concealed his face, and wearing a little jockey 
 cap, began to pace back and forth in the mall, not 
 far from the May -pole. It soon became evident that 
 he was attracted by the May-queen. Once, when 
 she was singing to her court, he almost stopped oppo 
 site her; then he recommenced his slow pacing, 
 back and forth. His manojuvres at length attracted 
 the attention of the party. The young girls smiled 
 significantly one to another, and besought the queen 
 to look upon her admirer ; and she, though with 
 becoming dignity resenting his homage, yet followed 
 him with side-way glances. The color deepened a 
 little in her cheeks, and there was now and then an 
 added grace, which showed that she was conscious 
 of being observed. Still, while the dance continued, 
 back and forth passed the Highland plaid. At 
 length the little dancers were weary, warm and 
 thirsty, and the May-queen proposed rest and re 
 freshment, and cooling ices at Vinton's. Thither 
 her party, still in rose-wreaths, followed her. Room 
 was given them on the side-walks, and also an hon 
 orable place at Vinton's. When merrily seated at 
 their ices, the May-queen, who had laid aside her 
 crown in order to cool her brow, looked up and 
 caught a glimpse of the Highland plaid at the door. 
 It fluttered there a few seconds ; its wearer, care 
 fully concealing his face, reconnoitred the premises, 
 and then disappeared. The young girls broke out
 
 88 THE MAT-QUEENS. 
 
 into a merry laugh, while the queen, with burning 
 cheeks, tried in vain to look dignified. 
 
 " Perhaps the Highland chief intends to wait 
 and follow you home, Rosa," said Nannette, her 
 sister, who was also her maid-of-honor ; " how father 
 will laugh ! " 
 
 " Don't tell him, Nannette," said Rosa ; " he will 
 think we were foolish to take any notice of him." 
 
 Nannette, however, did not obey this injunction, 
 for, as soon as they were seated at the dinner-table, 
 she told her father the story ; how Rosa had been 
 chosen Queen of the May, and had been closely 
 watched, through the morning, by a gentleman in a 
 Highland plaid. 
 
 " Indeed ! " said her father, with much surprise ; 
 " who was he ? With your majesty's permission, I 
 must look into this a little. Did you encourage 
 him, may I inquire ? " 
 
 " Indeed, papa, I did not," said Rosa ; " I only 
 looked, once in a while, to see if he was still there ; 
 and at last, when we found he would not go off, we 
 left the Common, and went to Vinton's." 
 
 " Yes, and don't you think, papa," said Nannette, 
 " he came there and looked in at khe door ; but he 
 kept his face so wrapped up in his shawl, we could 
 not even see his eyes. He pulled his cap down, too. 
 We concluded he was discouraged by the sight of 
 Rosa's great glass of cream, and would not wait for 
 her to finish it."
 
 THE MAY-QUEENS. 89 
 
 " This is a marvellous story ! Who was he, I 
 wonder ? Did he remind you of any one in par 
 ticular ? " 
 
 " Yes, papa, he was just your height." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes, and he walked like you ; and his hair in 
 his neck looked just like yours; I noticed it." 
 
 " You must have noticed him a great deal, then, 
 my little May-queen." 
 
 " Indeed, I could not help it, papa, it was so very 
 singular." 
 
 " Father," said Nannette, " how roguish you look! 
 I do believe you know something about it. Look at 
 him, Rosa, his eyes are full of fun ; and now mother 
 is laughing too." 
 
 " // how should /know anything about it? " 
 
 " Ah, but I know you do. And now I do really 
 believe it was you, yourself, papa, in a borrowed 
 shawl and cap. Wasn't it? There," said Nan 
 nette, clapping her hands, " you laugh; now I know 
 I 've found you out." 
 
 " Yes, you are right, Nanny," said her father. 
 
 " 0, Rosa ! only think, it was father ! What 
 will the girls say ? " 
 
 Rosa tried to laugh, too, but she felt more like 
 crying ; tears really came into her eyes. She felt 
 a little ashamed of herself; she would not willingly
 
 90 THE MAY-QUEENS. 
 
 have exhibited so much vanity before her father. 
 He understood her feelings, at once. 
 
 " My dear daughter," said he, drawing her to 
 him, and placing her head on his shoulder, " are 
 you not as much pleased with the admiration of 
 your father as you would be with that of any other 
 gentleman ? " 
 
 " Yes, papa," said Rosa, " but I am so afraid 
 that I was silly ! " 
 
 " And if you were, my child, would any other 
 gentleman be as ready to make allowances for it as 
 your father would ? " 
 
 Roia nestled nearer him. 
 
 ' I wished to enjoy the day with you, my child. 
 It gave me a great deal of pleasure to watch you 
 and Nannette, unknown to you. It made me happy 
 to see you bear your honors so gently, and also to 
 see that you were considerate of the comfort of your 
 young friends." He pushed aside her ringlets, and 
 kis.sed her fair brow. " My little Nanny, here, 
 also made her father glad, by her generous devotion 
 to the queen." 
 
 His young daughters looked up, smiling ; they 
 returned his caresses affectionately, and laid their 
 soft, blooming cheeks to his, and felt happy, and 
 satisfied, and secure in his love. 
 
 He, with a full heart, wished they might always 
 thus confide in him, and that he might ever thus
 
 THE MAY-QUEENS. 91 
 
 encircle them in his protecting arms. The affection 
 of such a father for his daughters is tender and 
 beautiful ; it does us good to contemplate it, and to 
 keep our hearts sensitive to its value. In its charge 
 we cheerfully leave our May-day queen and amiable 
 maid of honor, for the May-day sun shines brightly 
 on other spots than Boston Common, and another 
 May-day party claims our attention. 
 
 This party belonged in one of the country towns 
 adjacent to Boston. They had left their homes 
 early, and were' now straggling through dewy leaves 
 and wet fern, climbing stone walls and slippery 
 rocks, wading through meadow lands intersected by 
 running brooks, that they might hold their festival in 
 a distant grove. They reached it, but, of course, with 
 wet feet and draggled dresses, and then found the 
 grove so chilly and damp, they were glad to adjourn 
 to a dry, flat rock, in an open field. Having taken 
 possession of the sunny side, they deposited their 
 baskets, and proceeded first to gather wild-flowers, 
 with which to crown a queen. They could find only 
 a few violets, and butter-cups, and dandelions ; but 
 with these they wove fox-berries and evergreens, and 
 made a pretty wreath. They then chose their queen; 
 and their choice fell upon one who, like our Rosa, 
 was about fifteen, tall also, and delicate. Her 
 face, with its regular features and pure complexion, 
 ought to have been handsome, and would have been
 
 92 THE MAY-QUEENS. 
 
 so, but for a certain sad and mature expression which 
 it generally wore ; an expression which indicated 
 that, young as she was, she had known trouble. 
 Her name was Susan Price. She was a kind- 
 hearted, generous girl, and a general favorite among 
 her companions. She was much pleased at being 
 chosen queen ; an unusual light danced in her blue 
 eyes, and a hidden spring of gayety came bubbling 
 up for the occasion. She entered into the sport as 
 she did not often do, and sang and danced on the 
 rock with the rest. She seemed to receive with 
 intense satisfaction the courtesy and consideration 
 which was paid her. She seemed to enjoy her brief 
 season of power with her whole soul ; she almost 
 felt as if she were really a queen, and for the time 
 forgot she was only a child of sorrow. The dance 
 over, the weary girls threw themselves down on the 
 rock, and prepared their breakfast, serving it on 
 fern-leaves and flag-root rushes. It was a merry 
 breakfasting ; and when it was over, the sun had 
 mounted somewhat high, blue-birds were singing, 
 and it was time for a homeward start, for all the 
 party, young as they were, had yet a day's work 
 to do. 
 
 The May-queen now picked her way carefully 
 through the meadows and over the fences, for she 
 feared to disturb her crown, and dispel the bright 
 illusion which was born with it. She wore it quite
 
 THE MAY-QUJEENS. 93 
 
 through the village, home to her own door. Here 
 she took her leave of her young friends, and when 
 they were out of sight, she stopped and listened. 
 All was still ; so she gently raised the latch of the 
 door, and went softly into the kitchen. As she 
 hoped, she found her mother there alone. 
 
 " Mother, mother ! " said she, with unusual eager 
 ness, " look at me. I am Queen of the May. See 
 my crown, is it not pretty ?" 
 
 " Yes," said her mother, turning round a pale, 
 worried face, and looking up with a heavy eye ; 
 " yes, I see," and then she returned to her work. 
 
 Susan began to tell her, in an earnest tone, the 
 adventures of the morning ; she could think of noth 
 ing else, for the May-crown was yet on her fair brow, 
 and she was yet a queen. 
 
 " Hush ! " said her mother, significantly, pointing 
 to the bed-room. Susan hushed in an instant, for 
 she now heard a loud and angry voice. Her father 
 was scolding one of his boys. 
 
 " What again, mother ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Bad as ever?" 
 
 " Just as bad." 
 
 " dear ! dear ! " 
 
 A heavy step, her father was approaching. 
 Susan Price turned, slipped out the back way, and 
 softly closed the door after her. She sat down on
 
 94 THE MAY-QUEENS. 
 
 the stone step. The May suu still shone brightly, 
 and the blue-birds sung, and seemed to wish to cheer 
 her. She took off her crown, rearranged its rubies 
 and diamonds, and then put it on again. She then 
 took off her shoes, and held out her chilled feet into 
 the friendly sunshine, and spread her draggled dress 
 to dry. She was still a queen, for the illusion would 
 not so soon vanish ; and she hummed softly the May 
 day songs, which had been sung that morning. Sud 
 denly she received a hard blow on her head, her 
 crown fell into the mud, her song ceased. She 
 sprung up with a bitter cry, for her angry father 
 stood behind her. ' 
 
 " You lazy slut," said he, "why an't you in help 
 ing your mother get breakfast ? Up, and along with 
 you, I say ! " 
 
 Susan obeyed instantly. She did not stop even 
 to look for her crown, she no longer had subjects, 
 alas, poor girl ! she no longer had a father. 
 Drinking had turned him into a brute ! 
 
 That hidden spring of gayety which had bubbled 
 up so freshly at early dawn was sealed as if with 
 seven seals. The past vanished ; she lived only in 
 the dreary present ; and, with a countenance fully 
 reflecting her mother's worried expression, and with 
 the same heavy eye, she went about her day's toil. 
 
 Orfce there had been no need of toil, for this fam 
 ily were in easy circumstances ; the father was a
 
 THE MAY-QUEENS. 95 
 
 .sober man, and they were a happy family. But 
 times were sadly changed ; for he had engaged in 
 business in Boston, and then, in respectable places, 
 yes, in dazzling saloons and " first-class " hotels, 
 frequented by the rich and the honored, he had 
 been tempted, and had fallen. The result was the 
 scene in that desolate home, on May morning. 
 
 Thus, even to-day, all around us, young hearts 
 are breaking, and gentle spirits are crushed and 
 bleeding, because he on whom they leaned has sold 
 his soul for strong drink. Yet we must not save 
 them ! 0, no ! for are we not told that we must 
 not interfere with the trade of our goodly city ? 
 The tempter who pockets the gain builds his palace 
 on the ruins of many such desolate homes ; and 
 young May-queens hush their songs, and weep 
 around it, and grow old in very childhood. But 
 we must not cheer them ! 0, no ! for the interests 
 of a great trade would suffer, and then how could 
 we compete with rival cities ? So they that are in 
 authority tell us, and their voice is echoed from high 
 places, and surely 
 
 " Brutus is an honorable man ; 
 So are they all, all honorable men."
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 MARION GRAY'S room was all in disorder. The 
 table and chairs were covered with her clothing; 
 books and pamphlets, writing-desks and port-folios, 
 lay scattered here and there on the floor. 
 
 Marion was packing, and those huge trunks were 
 to be sent in the afternoon by the express train to 
 a distant home. She was to be married on the mor 
 row, and after a wedding tour follow them thither. 
 
 Marion was nearly in the same state of confusion 
 as her room. She told, by flushed cheeks, and 
 bright eyes, and a hurried speech and manner, that 
 she was becoming very nervous. She could have 
 written a scientific tract with less effort and more 
 self-possession than she exhibited in packing her 
 trunks and settling the little practical questions 
 which were continually coming up. Her friends, 
 who were helping her, seemed also much hurried, 
 all but Aunt Clara, who sat at a favorite window, 
 quietly drawing the heels to several new pairs of 
 Angola stockings. 
 
 "There is one pair ready to pack," said she, roll 
 ing them up and tossing them into the midst of a 
 heap of papers.
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 97 
 
 
 
 " You are very kind, Aunt Clara," said Marion ; 
 " but you would help me more if you would stitch 
 these papers together." 
 
 " I know it," said Aunt Clara, in her blunt, good- 
 natured way, " I know what you want; but I shall 
 not do it. I Ve lost my reckoning, if you don't 
 find a new meaning in what I 've so often told you, 
 that you 'd a deal better be running stocking-heels 
 than scribbling up so much paper." 
 
 Marion smiled, not in reply to her aunt's re 
 mark, however. She found at that moment among 
 her loose papers a missing article, for which she 
 had long searched in vain. 
 
 " 0, I am so glad ! " exclaimed she. 
 
 " And well you may be," said Aunt Clara, " as 
 long as you have some one to run them for you." 
 
 " Marion ! Marion ! " was called from the foot of 
 the stairs. 
 
 She started up at the well-known voice, and gave 
 a hasty glance at herself in the glass. " Do not I 
 look too bad to go down ? " said she appealingly to 
 Aunt Clara. 
 
 Her morning dress was certainly the worse for 
 wear ; she was without a collar, and her soft, black 
 hair had partially disengaged itself from the braids 
 and fallen down. But there was a light in her 
 hazel eyes which her spectacles even did not dim, 
 and a blush on her still youthful cheeks ; and not- 
 9
 
 98 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 
 
 withstanding her dishabille, she had not often looked 
 better. 
 
 "No, run along," said her aunt; "he will see 
 you looking worse than this, some morning, if ho 
 sees you as long as I have, I reckon." 
 
 Marion hasted; she was much in love. 
 
 " To-morrow was the wedding day, 
 And she was going." 
 
 She sat down with her friend Ashton, to talk a 
 few minutes, and soon quite forgot her half-packed 
 trunks. The bell rang one, and the express was to 
 leave at four. She started up, recalled to life's 
 practical duties, and hurried to her disordered cham 
 ber; but Aunt Clara's strong arm and good \\ill 
 had done the work for her, and her trunks stood 
 there, all ready to lock. She gratefully acknowl 
 edged a kindness which she appreciated better than 
 she had done the needle-work. 
 
 Marion was up with the first timid blush of the 
 bridal morning. Indeed, she had slept but little 
 through the night, she could not. She felt that 
 she was about to cut adrift from her old moorings, 
 and sail into untried seas. Again and again con 
 science questioned her closely. Ought she to venture 
 there, with her ignorance and dislike of all domestic 
 duty ? What was she fit for but study ? Nothing, 
 and she knew it. Ought she, then, to take charge 

 
 THE HUSBAND OP A BLUB. VJ 
 
 
 
 of a home of her own ? This question vexed her, 
 she was glad when night vanished. She sat in the 
 dim light by the window, and recalled all which 
 Mr. Ashton had said to comfort her when she had 
 conversed with him on the subject. She had told 
 him frankly, with look and voice, which spoke more 
 even' than her words, " that she loved him, but she 
 hated house-keeping, and that next to his society 
 she cared for little but her books/' But Mr. Ash- 
 ton was in love, and what does a man in love care 
 for domestic accomplishments ? "A house-keeper 
 he could hire, but where could he find another wo 
 man like Marion Gray ? " This iu the pride of his 
 heart he tokl her, and thus sought to remove her 
 difficulties and put her mind at rest; and he suc 
 ceeded then, but she was too sensible to remain long 
 satisfied with conclusions from such premises. Yet 
 what good would anxiety do her now ? The sun is 
 rising higher and higher; before he starts on his 
 journey again she will be a wife, the wife of him 
 she loves. Once then for all, she flings her fears to 
 the winds ; she resolves to be true to herself, to 
 follow the bent of her tastes, and, whatever else she 
 neglects, she resolves not to neglect her studies; 
 and, as the sun shines out brighter and brighter on 
 this resolution, she is more fully convinced that such 
 a course will best insure their mutual happiness. 
 Now there is no more time to think. The fam-
 
 100 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 ily are astir, there is running hither and thither, 
 bells ring, bouquets arrive, it is like Flora's 
 gala-day. Quickly it passes ; the sun, all undis 
 turbed, jogs on and finishes his task on the second ; 
 he will work no longer, even for Marion's bridal. 
 
 Company arrives ; the bride is dressed and veiled, 
 and blushingly places her gloved hand within that 
 of the bridegroom. Her broad, intellectual fore 
 head is softened by the shadows of the orange-buds, 
 and about her mouth plays that expression which 
 makes even the face of a homely woman fair to 
 look upon. The groom was not the only one who 
 thought Marion Gray handsome on her wedding 
 eve. In his admiration there was much pride 
 mingled, and in an impulse of generous devotion he 
 determined that he would so adjust the cares of his 
 new home that his wife's studies should not be 
 broken in upon. 
 
 On the morrow there were tears at parting ; but 
 such tears are like those April showers which fall 
 sparkling in the sunshine. The bridal pair whirled 
 away, towards a distant city, and Aunt Clara re 
 turned to the deserted room. She also could have 
 shed tears ; for Marion, with all her faults, was a 
 favorite niece, whom she had almost brought up. 
 She knew that she should miss her, but shedding 
 tears was not quite in her line ; so she comforted
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 101 
 
 herself by setting the room to rights, and thinking 
 of the time when Marion should revisit it. 
 
 Much more time passed than she had anticipated 
 before Marion came to her old home again. The 
 wedding-wreaths had long since faded, and Flora 
 had thrown out many fresh flowers for other brides. 
 The sunshine and music, all the glad beauty of that 
 happy time, had mellowed down into the quiet light 
 and tones of every-day life. Marion did not come 
 back to her room a bride ; she had become a wife 
 and a house-keeper. How she sustained herself in 
 these new relations Aunt Clara was curious to 
 observe, and she could not avoid marking some 
 changes. Mr. Ashton had become grave, and Marion 
 " fidgety." When more at home in her old quar 
 ters, she also exhibited other traits which pained her 
 friend. She spent the best part of the d;iy at her 
 own study-table, apparently forgetful of her hus 
 band's comfort. It being his vacation, he had pur 
 posely left his books behind him, as he needed recre 
 ation. He tried to persuade Marion to do the same, 
 but in vain. She was an indefatigable student, 
 working even at unseasonable times, regardless of 
 any complaint from her over-taxed nerves. He was 
 therefore compelled to amuse himselT in the best way 
 he could devise. Sometimes he would lounge into 
 his wife's study ; but he found that she was too little 
 accustomed to such interruptions to make them
 
 102 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 altogether agreeable to her. Now, Aunt Clara 
 thought this selfish. With her strong common 
 sense, and her benevolent heart, she appreciated 
 much more readily those qualities which make one's 
 friends happy, rather than those which make them 
 proud. One day she spoke to Marion : 
 
 " It seems to me," said she, " that I would not 
 study the whole time. Why did you not go out to 
 ride with Mr. Ashton ? He has gone alone." 
 
 " I told him I would go after tea," was her 
 reply. 
 
 " But that is too late for the ride to benefit either 
 of you." 
 
 Marion did not think so. From this time her 
 aunt quietly took it upon herself to ride with Mr. 
 Ashton when he seemed so disposed, and the more 
 she became acquainted with him the better she liked 
 him. She thought he had but one fault, and this 
 was an over-indulgence of his wife. As she viewed 
 the matter, he humored her in her tastes and no 
 tions far too much for her best good, or his own 
 comfort. She saw plainly enough that his kindness 
 made Marion's selfish heart the more exacting in its 
 demands. She seemed to feel it her right to call 
 upon Mr. Ashton to accommodate himself to her 
 hours and plans; for had she not married him ? If 
 he failed to do so, she was sufficiently offended to be 
 moody. Did he urge her leaving her study at an
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 103 
 
 inconvenient time, to receive and entertain callers, 
 her brow was clouded ; in short, whenever his 
 wishes crossed hers, and he did not readily yield 
 them, she fell into what must, even in a learned 
 lady, be called the sulks. She was unsociable and 
 reserved ; she read almost constantly, and there 
 was an indescribable chill and constraint about her, 
 which sensibly affected one's spirits like going into a 
 damp cellar. Aunt Clara saw that Marion was 
 never gemal, excepting when she had her own way. 
 This she felt was all wrong, and she became anxious 
 to have any error which the husband might have fallen 
 into corrected early, lest the whole of their days of 
 married life should be passed in shadow. This was 
 one of her ways of doing good, and she determined 
 to go and visit them in their own home. 
 
 One who had seen less of the world than Aunt Clara 
 would have been surprised at such a development of 
 Marion's character as a wife, for she used to dis 
 course most beautifully on the self-sacrificing devo 
 tion which a wife should cherish for her husband. 
 This, however, was before she had tried it, it was 
 when she was in love. 
 
 But, beautifully as she talked, her old aunt 
 knew that it was one thing to preach, and quite 
 another to practise ; that sentiment would not 
 sugar selfishness long ; and that Greek and Hebrew
 
 104 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 were but cold comforts to a man who must buy 
 them with a moody and exacting wife. 
 
 The more she saw into the state of things, the 
 more bold she became in her exposure of them. 
 
 " What is the matter with you to-day ? " said 
 she once to Marion. 
 
 " Matter ? Nothing, why ? " 
 
 " I see, the moment your husband comes iu, you 
 take up your book and go to reading ; and the more 
 gently he speaks to you, the more offish you are." 
 
 Marion colored deeply, she was both offended 
 and ashamed. She " offish," and to her husband, 
 and others seeing it ! This was a picture with 
 out varnish, but she saw its truthfulness at once. 
 With a sudden and strong impulse of right feeling, 
 she determined to make amends for the wrong 
 she had done, and retrieve her character. When 
 next her husband entered, he saw that a change 
 had come over her mood ; her glance was full of 
 affection, and her looks and words were kind and 
 genial. She seemed willing to beg that the past 
 might all be forgotten. He gladly met this feeling 
 with a sympathizing kindness, and a generous for 
 getful ness. 
 
 This unusual sunshine, seeming like the light of 
 the bridal times, lasted many days. Aunt Clara 
 wished she began even to hope that a new 
 day-star had arisen on their path, and that Marion,
 
 THE HUSBAJJD OF A BLUE. 105 
 
 having caught a glimpse of her faults, had deter 
 mined to mend them. 
 
 But, alas ! that new day-star set, to rise no more, 
 on that unfortunate morning, the morning after 
 ironing-day. 
 
 Marion, her husband, aunt and father, happened 
 to be together in her chamber, when the clean 
 clothes came up from the wash. Aunt Clara began 
 to look them over, carefully selecting such as needed 
 mending. In a few minutes she had taken up every 
 one belonging to Mr. Ashton. She ran her hand 
 first into one and another and another stocking ; 
 they seemed equally full of holes. 
 
 " You would have done well had you taken 
 my advice," said she to Marion, " and learned to 
 draw stocking-heels before you were married." 
 
 " He wears them out so fast," said Marion, try 
 ing to lauo;h it off, " there's no use in it." She 
 
 O O 
 
 looked over to Mr. Ashton, but he did not appear 
 to notice her laugh. 
 
 " But look at this ! " said Aunt Clara, holding 
 up a shirt which was literally in rags. 
 
 " My child," said the father, " you ought not to 
 let your husband wear such linen as that." 
 
 " Why, father, I cannot help it, unless I spend 
 all my time mending for him, and I am no sewer ; 
 and, besides, I think the washerwoman tears them." 
 
 " It is your business to attend to it, Marion."
 
 106 THB HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 " Well, father, I did tell him he must order a 
 new set, but he forgets it. I do not know what he 
 needs." 
 
 Again she looked imploringly at her husband ; he 
 said not one word to excuse her. She felt his 
 silence, and, much offended by it, she resumed her 
 cold, proud look, and a book. The chilliness which 
 now pervaded her room soon scattered her friends, 
 and when left alone she put the tattered linen out 
 of sight in her trunk, sat down, and burst into 
 tears. " How foolish she had been to marry ! " was 
 now the burden of her thoughts. " How utterly 
 unfitted did she find herself for domestic life ; how 
 unfortunate that her passion for literary pursuits 
 should have been so strong ! But, then, ought she 
 to be blamed for the domestic discomfort which re 
 sulted from it ? Did she not give her husband full 
 warning of what he might expect ? Certainly ; and 
 was it not therefore unjust in him to imply by his 
 manner such a censure of her ? Was it not a poor 
 return for all that affection which she cherished for 
 him ? " Marion had wrought herself up to a high 
 state of excitement. Indeed, her abused nerves had 
 become so sensitive as to be irritated by the most 
 trivial causes. 
 
 In this state Mr. Ashton found her. She did 
 not raise her head as he entered. He approached 
 her table, sat down, and coolly went to reading. Ma-
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 107 
 
 rion's color went and came like stormy clouds in 
 March ; and as the rain stopped the wind rose, 
 in other words, her tears ceased, and her temper was 
 up. Still she kept silent, and the silence became 
 rather awkward. Mr. Ashton was watching every 
 change in her varying countenance. He could not 
 immediately conquer all the pride in his own heart, 
 which was urging him also to keep silence ; but soon 
 his more generous love for Marion got the victory, 
 and he spoke. 
 
 " I am sorry to see you so unhappy, Marion ; you 
 are distressing yourself needlessly." 
 
 " I presume I am able to judge of that," was her 
 short reply, uttered in a tone which she immediately 
 regretted. Mr. Ashton bit his lip. 
 
 " If anything has gone wrong which I can rem 
 edy, I shall be glad to do so," said he. 
 
 " It is too late to hope for a remedy," said she. 
 
 " What do you mean by that remark, Marion ? 
 Are you already hopelessly wretched ? " 
 
 " Yes, at times" (she was in a better mood) ; " I 
 am suffering daily from just those troubles which I 
 most feared. I am wholly unfitted for domestic 
 employments ; and you are unhappy because I do 
 not give them my thoughts and time. You do ex 
 pect from me a degree of attention to them which 
 you gave me to understand that you should not 
 expect. You have deceived me in this matter."
 
 108 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 " Marion," said Mr. Ashton, rising, and speaking 
 hastily, " I have not deceived you in this matter, or 
 any other. I tell you now, as I told you then, that 
 I am ready to make any sacrifices to promote your 
 happiness. But will it promote your happiness to 
 be exempted from all domestic care ? Is there any 
 woman, married or unmarried, who can get through 
 life without it ? And, if she could, would she be any 
 the better woman for it ? " 
 
 He left the room hastily. He had never before 
 spoken reprovingly to his wife; she felt it, and 
 again burst into tears. When she went to the tea- 
 table her eyes were red and swollen, and Aunt 
 Clara had no faith in the " headache " which was 
 offered as an apology for their appearance ; besides, 
 had it been only that, Marion would not have treated 
 her husband with such marked politeness, or retired 
 so early alone. 
 
 That something had gone wrong she was the more 
 convinced from Mr. Ashton's appearance. He 
 frequently sighed, as he silently paced the parlor 
 back and forth. Aunt Clara took up the paper, 
 that she might not appear to notice his abstraction. 
 He was thinking of his wife ; and he shrank from 
 acknowledging, even to himself, that he could not 
 please her, excepting by letting her have her own 
 way. He tried the rather to excuse her irritability, 
 on the ground that she confined herself so closely to
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BMJK. 109 
 
 her studies that her health was poor. He wished 
 that she would study with more moderation, it 
 would be so much better for her. He was very un 
 happy while her faults only were present in his 
 heart, for he loved her. He sought to direct his 
 attention from them. He recalled the days of 
 their early acquaintance. He remembered noble 
 sentiments which she had then enthusiastically ex 
 pressed, and which had seemed almost to awaken 
 new powers in him. He remembered how she had 
 excited his ambition, and stimulated him to effort, 
 and sympathized with him in his plans, and urged 
 forward his great pursuits. She was a remarkable 
 woman. Why should he, then, repine because she 
 was not everything ? Ought he to ask her to lay 
 aside her books to attend to him, if he was out at 
 the elbow and shirtless ? Ah ! he was getting into 
 the dream-land ; he was seeing her as she was in the 
 bright days of wooing, when people are all soul and 
 no body ; and he found it no longer difficult to shut 
 out her faults, particularly as she was away. 
 
 Her presence, alas ! dispelled the bright illusion 
 of her, as hope vanishes before reality. Mr. Ashton 
 found her wrapped majestically in clouds ; she con 
 tinued so on the next day, and the next, and the 
 next. She scarcely broke through them, even 
 when the visit had closed, and they took their 
 departure. 
 
 10
 
 1 10 THK HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 Aunt Clara was more dissatisfied than ever with 
 the course things were taking. She made up her 
 mind not to let matters rest as they were, unless 
 they should be proved quite hopeless. 
 
 " I am coming to make you a visit, one of these 
 days," said she to them. 
 
 They both urged it, and she repeated the promise. 
 Unforeseen events prevented its fulfilment for three 
 or four years, and at that late date we must now 
 follow her on her first visit to Marion's home. 
 
 She reached their house about four o'clock, one 
 chilly afternoon in November. She rang the bell 
 several times; but, as no one answered it, she opened 
 *he door, and had her trunk placed in the entry. 
 Looking round for a mat, she at length espied a 
 .piece of one in a corner, lying in a sea of mud. She 
 entered a sitting-room ; it was cold, cheerless, un- 
 swept and undusted ; books, maps, pamphlets and 
 papers, were scattered here, there and everywhere ; 
 broken toys strewed the floor, and, from several 
 chairs being tipped up and tied together, it was evi 
 dent that a stable was kept there by some little one, 
 who liked to have his horses ready harnessed. Aunt 
 Clara made her way to the kitchen ; a ragged Irish 
 girl was just preparing to answer the door-bell. 
 
 " Mrs. Ashton ? " she said, as soon as she could 
 collect her wits.
 
 were 
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. Ill 
 
 " Mrs. Ashton was in her study, ma'am, if you 
 would plase to walk up there." 
 
 Aunt Clara thought it would have been quite as 
 well had Mrs. Ashton been out of it ; but she went 
 up stairs as directed. She found Marion bent over 
 a table, which was laden with books. Her hair was 
 unbrushed, and she was still in her morning dress ; 
 but she threw down her pen, and gave her aunt 
 cordial greeting. 
 
 " Why did you not let me know that you 
 coming ? " said she. " I certainly would have dressed 
 up. Do sit down and get warm. I am afraid the 
 Ere is all out down stairs ; but be very quick about 
 it, Aunt Clara, for I have something to show you in 
 the next room." 
 
 " I will see it now," said Aunt Clara. 
 
 Marion, with great delight, exhibited the owner 
 of the harnessed horses, and his little baby sister, 
 who was in the arms of a chalky- faced young girl. 
 Marion's children made so odd an appearance, Aunt 
 Clara could scarcely keep from laughing. The boy 
 had outgrown his clothes in every direction, and 
 looked pretty much as a half-bushel bag would with 
 a bushel of meal in it ; while the baby was quite 
 lost in the quaint, old-fashioned, faded gear, which 
 her brother had put off. Yet Marion was proud of 
 them ; it made no difference to her how they looked, 
 if they were comfortable. Aunt Clara knew, at a
 
 112 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUB. 
 
 glance, that whatever Marion might have learned in 
 the last few years, she had not learned to attend to 
 common things. 
 
 Under Mr. Ashton's direction, a fire was kindled 
 below, the sitting-room cleared up, and Aunt Clara 
 was welcomed with the best he had to ofier. She 
 was soon quite domesticated with them, and, as 
 usual, began to make herself useful. There was 
 no danger of her not finding enough to do in 
 Marion's house, where everything was at loose 
 ends. 
 
 But Mr. Ashton became at length uneasy. It 
 seemed to him Aunt Clara was always righting his 
 disorderly rooms, or sewing for his shabby children. 
 He was painfully observant of the fact, that Marion, 
 in her carelessness and ignorance, taxed her female 
 visitors almost unmercifully. She was always so 
 much behind-hand, and there was so much which 
 must be done, she wanted to make everybody sew 
 for her. Her husband frequently left the room to 
 avoid the mortification of seeing these wants pressed 
 in such a manner upon her friends that they could 
 not refuse to meet them. He was anxious lest Aunt 
 Clara's kindness should be abused, and, without ap 
 pearing to censure Marion, he wished to prevent it. 
 One day, when alone with her, he expressed the 
 wish that she would not devote so much of her 
 time to his family. Marion, he hoped, would be
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 113 
 
 less busy by and by, and would attend to those 
 things. 
 
 "Do not give yourself the least trouble about 
 me," said Aunt Clara ; " I have known Marion 
 longer than you have. I shall work just as much 
 for her as I have a mind to, and no more." 
 
 Mr. Ashton saw that she understood it, and would 
 manage properly, and his mind was at rest. 
 
 Aunt Clara spoke more plainly than she might 
 have done, had it not happened that on that very 
 morning, when she was present, Marion had placed 
 some sewing-work in a friend's hands before she had 
 time to take her things off. A slit must be mended 
 before the boy could go into the street. 
 
 Aunt Clara tried to apologize for Marion to the 
 lady, and she was displeased by it. So, after this, 
 she silently took her own course, and gradually 
 managed all the domestic concerns in her own way, 
 hoping that Marion would look on and learn. The 
 house became orderly ; the parlor was always warm 
 and cheerful, with a welcoming look for a caller. 
 The children were well dressed. Mr. Ashton began 
 to take them out with him frequently, when he 
 found they could be made ready at a short notice.. 
 The table, also, became neater, and the food moxe 
 wholesome. Mr. Ashton began to realize, as he 
 had never yet done, how much comfort there can be 
 in a. home. Even the servant-girl became more tidy
 
 114 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 and industrious, when there was some one to look 
 after her. Marion looked on, but did not learn, 
 though in fact she observed these changes less than 
 her husband did ; she had become indifferent to dis 
 comforts which were of her own choosing. 
 
 But, after a time, she began to observe some other 
 things, to which she was not wholly indifferent. She 
 could not but see that Mr. Ashton talked much more 
 with Aunt Clara than she herself did ; and she could 
 not understand what he found so agreeable in her 
 conversation. It was never on those literary topics 
 which interested her. Yet, somehow or other, Mr. 
 Ashton came oftener, and remained longer in his 
 cheerful parlor, engaged in cheerful chat with Aunt 
 Clara, than he had ever done before. Marion began 
 at length to feel a little hurt at this, and her manner 
 gradually became cold and distant towards her hus 
 band. She indulged in this foolish and unamiable 
 mood so long, that it finally terminated in a serious 
 attack of jealousy, not precisely understood even by 
 herself. She became somewhat cold and distant to 
 Aunt Clara. Marion Ashton jealous of her old 
 aunt ! Yes, it mast be confessed ; for, had not her 
 husband been unjust enough to bestow upon her 
 smiles and attention, which she, his wife, had some 
 times demanded in vain ? And was not his too 
 evident comfort in her management a continual 
 reproof to her ? Did it not say in plain terms that,
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 115 
 
 after all, he did value domestic accomplishments 
 more than much learning ? If, therefore, she could 
 not be appreciated, she chose to keep out of the way. 
 She shut herself up still more closely in her study ; 
 but her husband was now so accustomed to manifest 
 ations which he could find no cause for, that he 
 became somewhat regardless of them. 
 
 So far as he was concerned in this matter, the 
 truth was that he did enjoy a great deal in Aunt 
 Clara's society. He found in it, what he seldom 
 found in that of his wife, recreation. He also had 
 his studies, and his great pursuits, and he frequently 
 came weary from his labor to find Marion also wea 
 ried or excited from the same causes. When she 
 was excited, she expected from him an equal degree 
 of interest in her studies. He must snap asunder 
 at once the thread of his own meditations, that he 
 might take up hers. Often this was wearisome to 
 him ; it required a degree of effort which he was 
 indisposed to make, for unfortunately his literary 
 tastes and pursuits lay in a different line from 
 hers. 
 
 This she knew, and when in a genial mood she 
 would sometimes discourse honeyed words on the 
 propriety of her dropping her own studies, and tak 
 ing up his ; pleasant words these to hear, but, like 
 that choice perfume breathed only when the dew 
 lies on the flower, their sweetness perished early.
 
 116 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 Somehow and somewhere, no one could say where, 
 exactly, a rivet had been loosened from a link in 
 that chain which bound Marion's sayings and 
 doings together ; they fell apart as soon as drawn 
 upon. 
 
 Her husband profited more by the great truths 
 and sentiments to which she frequently gave expres 
 sion than she herself did. Often they rekindled the 
 fires of enthusiasm for him, invigorated his ambition, 
 purified his motives, and gave him courage for a new 
 start. In thinking of her, he acknowledged this with 
 gratitude ; but, alas for poor Marion ! she derived 
 no such benefit from her own aspirations. It seemed 
 .as if, just in the ratio in which her intellect was cul 
 tivated, her heart was neglected. Selfishness took 
 complete possession of it, and ruled and reigned 
 there. To subdue this, she needed precisely the 
 discipline which domestic life urged upon her every 
 hour in the day. It called loudly upon her to for 
 get herself, and live for others ; but she would not 
 heed the call. 
 
 Her husband, the more he saw of life, and of the 
 proper sphere of woman, became the more convinced 
 of Marion's errors. Sometimes he would try and 
 make her view it in the light in which he did, but 
 he never could succeed. 
 
 " What ! " she would reply, " spend her time on 
 those trivial affairs which engross most women ? It
 
 THE HDSBAND OF A BLUE. 117 
 
 would kill her ; life would not be worth the having, 
 if she must hold it on such terms. Pray, what was 
 her intellect given her for ? " 
 
 Did he venture to suggest " that the tone of the 
 intellect is elevated by that of the heart, and that 
 no duty is to be despised which cultivates a virtue 
 there," Marion fell into tears or melancholy, or, 
 what was worse, struck upon her sentimental vein. 
 This her husband much dreaded ; for, when she was 
 in this mood, she tormented herself and him with 
 her perfectly visionary ideal of married life and love. 
 He had never reached it, and when charged with 
 undue cultivation of her intellect she would retort 
 upon him his very imperfect cultivation of the affec 
 tions. " Hud he loved her as once he professed to 
 do, he would not be so ready to discover faults in 
 her. The difficulty was not in her, but in some 
 inexplicable change in his love for her." 
 
 This topic was a frequent source of unhappiness 
 between Marion and her husband. At length she 
 did not hesitate to tell him "he had fallen so far 
 below the true standard of conjugal affection, that it 
 was best for them both to make up their minds that 
 they could have but a very moderate share of enjoy 
 ment in each other's society." Marion would arrive 
 at this conclusion very heroically, and yet never 
 seem to make up her mind " to be contented." 
 Many an expression of wounded feeling was uttered,
 
 118 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 to make her husband unhappy. She knew they 
 were undeserved, and he suffered much in silence ; 
 " the heart knoweth its own bitterness." 
 
 It is therefore accounted for why Aunt Clara, on 
 her visit there, found Mr. Ash ton a grave, hard 
 working, still man. It had been brought about, not 
 by affliction or poverty, but by the continual want 
 of sunshine in his home and in his heart. He had 
 but few gleams of it, and these came only when 
 everybody and everything bent to Marion's reigning 
 mood and whim. 
 
 Yet he loved her, with all her faults, and his 
 affection for her exposed him to another source of 
 suffering. He wished to screen her from the world's 
 censure, and he could not always do it. Marion 
 required her husband to stand with shield and buck 
 ler on, and to stand at his post, and to parry even 
 scattering and almost aimless shots. She thought 
 that not a breath of censure should p&ss unreproved 
 in his presence. This duty he was faithful in, but 
 it made a stern man of him ; for Marion did merit 
 censure, and this he knew. So did Aunt Clara, and 
 she (dear, kind soul!) lay awake many nights, think 
 ing what could be done. That Marion, with all her 
 learning and talents, should make her home so cheer 
 less, and contribute so little to the comfort of her 
 nearest and dearest, seemed to Aunt Clura a sin and 
 a shame. But, let her lie awake as she would, she
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 119 
 
 found no way of mending the matter ; so again and 
 again she fixed upon the time for her return to her 
 friends, but yet did not go. Mr. Ashton and the 
 children hud become so dependent upon her, she did 
 not see how they could get along without her. 
 
 This was the position of affairs one blustering day 
 in March. The wind, blowing up under the carpet, 
 made the sitting-room so cold it had to be aban 
 doned. Aunt Clara retired with the children to the 
 nursery ; Marion and Mr. Ashton, as usual, were 
 each in their study. A ring at the door announced 
 unexpected company, and a clergyman and his lady 
 were announced. Mr. Ashton, when in England, 
 had spent some time in the family of this lady, and 
 he had been most hospitably entertained. He 
 wished much to return their kindness. He came up 
 to his wife's study. 
 
 " Marion," said he, hurriedly, " Mr. and Mrs. 
 Graves, of whom you have heard me speak so often, 
 are here. They will spend the night with us." 
 
 " .Dear me ! " said Marion, " what is to be done ? 
 We have not a mouthful of cake in the house." She 
 threw down her pen, and looked much disturbed. 
 
 " Never mind the cake," said her husband ; " do 
 let us give them a cordial welcome. They are anx 
 ious to see you." 
 
 " But we must have some cake," said Marion, 
 reluctantly pushing by her books. It was charac-
 
 120 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 teristic of her, that if ever she did give her mind to 
 domestic concerns, she became very tenacious of 
 little things. " Where is Aunt Clara ? " 
 
 " I will go and see," said Mr. Ashton. 
 
 " No ; I '11 tell you," said she ; " you must just 
 run down to Mr. Parker's, and borrow a plateful of 
 cake, while Bridget starts the fire." 
 
 "Do what?" said Aunt Clara, now entering. 
 Marion reported the direction. 
 
 "He shall do no such thing," said Aunt Clara, 
 almost vexed with her. " How you would look 
 sending your husband out to borrow cake ! I should 
 be ashamed of it, if you were not." 
 
 " There is not the least impropriety in his going 
 to Mrs. Parker," said Marion, coolly, " and I wish 
 him to go." She was evidently irritated by Aunt 
 Clara's interference. 
 
 Mr. Ashton looked troubled. He seemed to be 
 between the horns of a dilemma. Should he leave 
 dis friends and go out to a neighbor's to borrow cake ? 
 The impropriety was too glaring. But Marion 
 vished him to go, and, should he oppose her, she 
 would probably be silent, moody, and appear exceed 
 ingly uninteresting; for her sake, therefore, as 
 usual, he sacrificed his own feelings. 
 
 " Don't be anxious about it, Marion," said he ; "I 
 will attend to the tea-cake. I will go as soon as 
 you can come down."
 
 THE HDSBAND OF A BLUE. 121 
 
 She looked at Aunt Clara, as much as to say, " You 
 will learn that I am the one who is to be pleased, 
 and not you." " It will take me some time to 
 dress," said she to her husband, in a resigned tone. 
 
 Under Aunt Clara's directions the fire in the par 
 lor was soon kindled, and she herself went in to bid 
 the guests welcome, long before Marion was ready. 
 Mr. Ashton slipped out to execute his wife's disa 
 greeable commission. If he accomplished the ob 
 ject, however, he felt at liberty to choose his own 
 way of doing it. He hunted up a boy, and de 
 spatched him off about a mile to a bakery, to buy 
 the best tea-cake which could be obtained. 
 
 On his return he found an encouraging fire crack 
 ling in the kitchen stove, and busy preparations for 
 cooking being made. Quite assured that Aunt 
 Clara was at the helm, and that between her and 
 the baker there would be comfort and abundance at 
 his table, he joined his friends. 
 
 He found Marion in the parlor, well dressed. 
 The clouds had all vanished from her brow, van 
 ished immediately, before the cordial and affection 
 ate greeting with which her husband's friends met 
 her. The consciousness, also, that she had carried 
 her point with regard to the tea-cake, made it easy 
 for her to be amiable. But, having thus asserted 
 her first claim to be pleased, she was now quite 
 willing to throw the care of all further domestic 
 11
 
 122 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 arrangements on Aunt Clara, which she did very 
 quietly, devoting herself wholly to the entertainment 
 of her guests in the parlor. She found them 
 remarkably intelligent and agreeable. She was par 
 ticularly pleased with Mrs. Graves. There was a 
 quiet dignity and self-possession in her manner, 
 strikingly the reverse of Marion's, who was so vari 
 able and excitable. The one shone with a meteoric, 
 the other with a calm and steady light ; and Mari 
 on's discerning eye soon discovered a degree of finish 
 to the English lady's character which she thought 
 very remarkable. Involuntarily she paid it the 
 homage of a respect which was seldom offered by 
 her to a woman, not even a literary one. She no 
 longer wondered why Mrs. Graves had so much 
 excited Mr. Ashton's admiration. 
 
 During the short visit which these friends made, 
 Marion saw plainly enough that some principles had 
 been at work in the finishing of this truly admir 
 able character which thus far had not had a feather's 
 weight in the formation of her own. At the tea- 
 table (where, by the way, no cake was visible, but 
 some of Aunt Clara's make, that from the bakery 
 not being presentable), the conversation turned acci 
 dentally upon housekeeping in America, and from 
 thence branched off upon the necessity of domestic 
 knowledge for a woman everywhere. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Graves, in her quiet and
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 123 
 
 beautiful manner, " I love my books; but I think 
 my husband can answer for me, that I never open 
 my writing-desk until every domestic duty is per 
 formed. I do not neglect him, or his house, for my 
 studies. I think a woman loses more than she 
 gains by such a course." 
 
 This remark, casually dropped, made a great im 
 pression upon Marion. She blushed painfully, as if 
 it had been intended for her. Could it be possible 
 that Mrs. Graves devoted any considerable portion of 
 her time to simple domestic duties ? Mrs. Graves, 
 who was a proficient in almost as many languages as 
 Marion herself ; who wrote with even more effect ; 
 who seemed at home on every literary topic which 
 was introduced; whose scientific information, even, 
 was not defective ; how had she accomplished 
 it? 
 
 Marion felt reproved and humbled. Might it not, 
 after all, prove true, that there was some such mys 
 terious connection between a woman's intellect and 
 her heart that the one could never develop its full 
 vigor unless the heart grew strong with it; and 
 that in the charmed duties of a home must it exer 
 cise its best affection ? A glimpse, through a narrow 
 vista, to a distant but glorious land, worth possess 
 ing, opened before Marion. She might have kept 
 her eye fixed upon it and travelled thither ; but, alas 
 for the poor heart which has been left to the rule of
 
 124 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 selfishness ! it is a slave, and " the good which it 
 would do it does not, for evil is present with it." 
 Marion quickly turned away her thoughts from this 
 reproving view of things, and devoted herself with 
 new zest to the entertainment of their guests. 
 
 When Mrs. Graves was talking, she had involun 
 tarily glanced at her husband ; and she read in his 
 countenance his most hearty approval of her senti 
 ments. Yet he had delicately forborne even to raise 
 his eyes to Marion, lest he also should seem to imply 
 a reproof. Marion was not insensible to this kind 
 ness, and, secretly desirous to convince him that she 
 had not sacrificed so much to her studies in vain, a 
 determination to make him proud of her seized her. 
 She became exceedingly animated, she became 
 very brilliant in conversation. She brought forth 
 from her store-house treasures new and old. Her 
 mind struck out light on every subject. Even her 
 husband was surprised ; he had never witnessed 
 such a display ; he did look upon her with pride 
 He basked in the glory with which she seemed so 
 suddenly to be illuminated, and forgot his sorrow. 
 " Yes, a house-keeper he could hire, but where could 
 be found another woman like Marion Gray ? " 
 
 What a pity, indeed, that Mr. and Mrs. Graves 
 remained but one day ! or, rather, what a pity that 
 Marion could not sustain that heavenward flight 
 which made her husband at once so proud and so
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. .125 
 
 happy ! But they left, and the wing of genius 
 flagged, drooped, and heavily came Marion back 
 to earth. Her nerves had long ago been worn out, 
 by the too constant and exclusive exercise of the 
 brain ; she could not therefore bear a season of 
 great excitement, without a corresponding one of 
 great depression. It was well for her reputation 
 with Mr. Ashton's friends that they did not see her 
 on the week following their visit. 
 
 She was so irritable and nervous, it was almost 
 impossible to live with her. Even her husband 
 found his patience too much tried, and he kept most 
 of the time in his study. Aunt Clara also avoided 
 her. She thought such irritability perfectly inex 
 cusable, particularly in a young mother. She felt 
 inclined to scold her, as she would have done a cross 
 child ; but she had now learned that Marion would 
 receive no reproof from her, and refrained. But 
 this led her to the conclusion that, as no great good 
 would be accomplished by her longer stay, she had 
 better return home on ths following Monday. Be 
 fore Monday came, Marion was ill in bed with a low 
 nervous fever, and Aunt Clara would not leave the 
 family in such a condition. 
 
 This illness proved a very trying one. Marion 
 was just ill enough to be unable to do anything, and 
 not sufficiently ill to bo quiet about it. She fretted 
 a great deal ; mere trifles worried her. She became,
 
 126 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 also, most exacting and unreasonable in her demands 
 upon her husband's attentions. Not a cup of tea 
 would she take, unless Mr. Ashton had sugared it ; 
 not an article of food was thought palatable, unless 
 he had seen to its preparation. At length her nerv 
 ousness increased to such an extent, she declared it 
 was impossible for her to live, unless her husband 
 read almost constantly to her. This he did pa 
 tiently, leaving his own work, frequently by the 
 hour. She would not let Aunt Clara relieve him. 
 It was melancholy to see how selfish and nervous a 
 life exclusively devoted to books had made her. 
 
 The fever at length turned, though it seemed 
 as if it never would, and Marion was pronounced 
 convalescent. Days passed, and, though the disease 
 had apparently left her, yet she did not get up. 
 She was still in her room, being read to, and abat 
 ing not an iota of her demand upon her husband's 
 time and sympathy. The physician at length hinted 
 to her that it would expedite her recovery if she 
 would exert herself more. Marion was not much 
 pleased with this advice, and was still less so when, 
 on the following morning, he took his leave, assuring 
 her " that she might now get about again." Soon 
 after, her husband came in to excuse himself from 
 reading to her. He was preparing an article for the 
 forthcoming number of the " North American," and 
 he had already given up so much of his time to her,
 
 THE HUSBAND OP A BLUE. 127 
 
 that if he should devote any more he would be obliged 
 to work nights to make up for it. It was curious to 
 see how selfishness and pride struggled together with 
 Marion. She wished the article to appear, it was 
 a good one, and would do credit to her husband, 
 but she did not know how to deny herself the pleas 
 ure of being read to. So she continued to call upon 
 him when she became nervods ; then, as soon as 
 reading had somewhat soothed her, she would take 
 the book into her own hand, and say to him. " Come, 
 now, run into your study and write while you 
 can." 
 
 What could be accomplished, with such broken 
 time ? Still he patiently endured it without complaint, 
 trusting that each day of interruption would be the 
 last, and that Marion would be quite restored on the 
 morrow. But days and days passed, and there was 
 she still in the same notch. She was able to be 
 about the house, and even to go out of doors, but 
 still required just the same attention to her personal 
 comfort, and still left the whole charge of her fam 
 ily on Aunt Clara. Aunt Clara became uneasy, at 
 length. She told Mr. Ashton that something must 
 be done to make Marion exert herself, or she would 
 be miserable all winter. Mr. Ashton decided that it 
 was best to talk reasonably with her, and try to per 
 suade her, for her own sake, to rouse herself to 
 effort, if not in her study, at least about her house.
 
 128 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 But Marion would not listen to reason. She only 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " No one would believe there was anything the 
 matter with her ! " she said ; " even the doctor called 
 it all nervousness. The time was coming when 
 they would find out their error, to repent of it too 
 late. She certainly had not expected her husband 
 to enter into the league against her. She thought 
 he knew how much effort it required for her to live 
 at all ; but, if she was such a burden to every one, she 
 would find some way of relieving them of it." Ma 
 rion, after delivering herself of this heroic speech, 
 retired to her chamber, and locked herself in. Mr. 
 Ashton looked pale and agitated ; he was much 
 troubled. His first impulse was to follow her, and 
 seek to soothe her ; he feared such a state of excite 
 ment might again throw her into a fever. Aunt 
 Clara prevented him. " Now, do not go to her, Mr. 
 Ashton," said she; "you will undo all you have 
 done. Let it work a while. Marion is too sensible 
 not to see its truth. If she is ever to get out of this 
 state, it must be done by her own self-control." 
 
 This was true, and Mr. Ashton felt it to be so. 
 He therefore went into his own study. When there, 
 he found it required the strength of an iron will to 
 keep his mind on his work. He was unhappy and 
 perplexed. He scarcely knew what to do next for 
 Marion. It seemed as if, in one way or another,
 
 THK HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 129 
 
 she had been an obstacle to his advancement ever 
 since their marriage. At first he had been obliged 
 to supply many of her deficiencies in the domestic 
 line, which had used his time, obliged to in order 
 to keep his family together ; and of late her shat 
 tered nervous system had made still heavier drafts 
 upon him. But, with an energy which few can ap 
 preciate excepting those who have conquered just 
 such difficulties, Marion's husband toiled on, and 
 fought the battle of life bravely in the ranks where 
 he had been called ; and already, though still but in 
 the prime of life, was receiving his reward. His 
 talents and virtues were acknowledged with grate 
 ful respect by the world, though they sometimes 
 remarked that he was a grave man, and of stern 
 manners. What wonder was it ? 
 
 While he was then toiling at his study-table, 
 Marion was pacing her room in great excitement. 
 Her mind fastened upon the idea that she was a 
 burden to her husband. Suddenly the thought 
 struck her that she would quietly run off for a day 
 or two, and visit a friend of hers. This would 
 relieve her husband from his burden for a short time, 
 and, if he should chance to be anxious about her, it 
 would perhaps be only a just punishment for having 
 allowed himself to get weary of her. Marion soon 
 showed how much strength she could command, for 
 she dressed hurriedly, and, stealing softly out, walked
 
 130 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 rapidly a distance of two miles, to her friend's 
 house. No one knew that she had gone. The dinner 
 hour arrived, but she did not make her appearance. 
 Mr. Ashton was disturbed ; he rose, at length, to go 
 to her room. " Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Ash- 
 ton," said Aunt Clara, very coolly ; " I will send up 
 Marion's dinner, shall not I ? " 
 
 Mr. Ashton saw the wisdom of this arrangement, 
 and he sat down again. It was true she ought not 
 to be longer indulged in mere whim. The dinner 
 was sent up by Bridget, who, however, soon returned 
 with it. " She had knocked and knocked, and 
 no one answered ; so finally she opened the door 
 and went in, and Mrs. Ashton was n't to be found, 
 high nor low." 
 
 Mr. Ashton looked at Aunt Clara, and Aunt 
 Clara at Mr. Ashton. What did this mean ? Both 
 
 started at the same instant. The house was searched 
 
 
 
 but in vain. The idea flashed into Mr. Ashton's 
 mind, and haunted him, " She may be insane." 
 He was seriously anxious. Where could Marion 
 have gone, and why had she gone so stealthily ? 
 Aunt Clara looked very sober. She thought it noth 
 ing more than one of Marion's freaks, but a very 
 blamable one. Mr. Ashton went out ; he walked 
 up and down the street ; he inquired of the neigh 
 bors ; he could get no trace of her. He became 
 still more alarmed. Aunt Clara, seeing his distress,
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 131 
 
 refrained from saying what she wished to, " Let her 
 alone ; she will come home by and by." At last 
 she remembered that Marion, only the day before, 
 had spoken of this friend, and expressed a wish to 
 see her. She mentioned this at once to Mr. Ashton. 
 " But she cannot have gone there," said he ; " it is 
 more than two miles off, and there is no way for her 
 to get there." 
 
 " She has walked," said Aunt Clara ; " she is 
 stronger than you think for." 
 
 Mr. Ashton went immediately out, obtained a 
 buggy, and drove rapidly to the friend's house. There, 
 sure enough, he found her. She met him with a 
 forced glee. "Ah ! did you get frightened about 
 me ? " she asked. " I thought you were all so worn 
 out with me, I would run away a while." Her hus 
 band looked at her, but returned no answering smile. 
 He had but little to say. Marion's conscience did 
 all the talking. She made some hurried inquiries 
 about the children, to which he briefly replied. She 
 got herself ready speedily, and stepped into the bug 
 gy ; but that was a silent ride home. Marion first 
 tried the agreeable; her husband replied kindly, 
 but without interest, and was silent when she ceased. 
 Then she tried to excuse what she had done ; but 
 a poor excuse she made of it, for she took the 
 course which she did designedly to make him suffer, 
 and she knew it. He received her apologies with-
 
 132 TIIE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 out comment. As a last resort, Marion tried tears ; 
 but they fell on stony ground. Her husband 
 brought her to her own door, helped her out, and 
 drove home with the horse. 
 
 Marion was ashamed when she saw Aunt Clara, 
 and did not know what to say for herself. She had, 
 in truth, lost her own self-respect ; and she fell into 
 a moody silence, which lasted through that day and 
 evening. 
 
 After breakfast on the following morning, Aunt 
 Clara announced that, being all packed, she intend 
 ed to take her departure in about an hour for her 
 own home. " And now, before I go, Marion," said 
 she, " I have one thing which I wish to say to you ; 
 and you must not give it the go-by, you must 
 think of it. If you don't set about in earnest con 
 trolling yourself a little better than this, and don't 
 live for something else besides yourself and your 
 books, your husband will be wretched, your children 
 will go to destruction, and you will end your days 
 in a mad-house." 
 
 Marion tried to excuse herself to her good old 
 aunt, who had been a mother to her ; and she tried 
 to make her forget the past, and promise to come to 
 them very soon again. 
 
 Aunt Clara would make no such promise. " I 
 shall come no more," said she, " until you have 
 learned to take care of your own family. It is your
 
 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 133 
 
 business, and not mine ; and you never will do it, if 
 there is anybody can be made to do it for you." 
 
 Aunt Clara left, and gradually the household 
 returned to its old elements of dirt and confusion. 
 The difficulty in bringing about a reform lay in 
 31arion's will. She had energy enough, and good 
 sense enough, but she had no will for any work but 
 head-work. 
 
 Mr. Ashton struggled many years, still toiling wp 
 with his double load. At length, as might have been 
 anticipated, his health gave way ; for, of all men in 
 the world, a student most needs the comforts of a 
 cheerful, orderly home. Physicians advised Mr. 
 Ashton to go abroad again ; indeed, they deemed it 
 absolutely necessary. He went, therefore, and this 
 contributed towards separating him still further from 
 Marion. He could not move in her eccentric orbit. 
 From year to year, with shattered nerves and fret 
 ted temper, she studied on, and would do little else ; 
 and thus earned, by a criminal neglect of the great 
 duties of her life, the reputation of a " deep Blue." 
 This was what she gained ; who can estimate her 
 loss ? Her husband, made strong by nobly endur 
 ing suffering, became, at length, one of the great men 
 of his day. 
 
 Little did Marion think, on the day when she 
 placed her white-gloved hand in his, that, in the final 
 summing up of the results of her life, its most import- 
 12
 
 134 THE HUSBAND OF A BLUE. 
 
 ant item would be the effect which her character 
 as an affliction had had upon the work and influence 
 of her husband. Could she have had a glimpse of 
 this, it is not certain that she would not, even on that 
 her wedding-day, have taken her first lesson in run 
 ning stocking-heels, inasmuch as this should have 
 stood representative of a long line of similar efforts 
 for the comfort of others, to whom she pledged her 
 self, and which would have resulted in making 
 her the less a Blue, but the more a true woman, 
 thoroughly wise and learned in many things. She 
 might have ascended the meridian with her husband ; 
 and who can tell how much their united light, " shin 
 ing more and more unto the perfect day," might 
 have done towards illuminating the dark places of a 
 wicked world ? But she sought out other inventions, 
 which broke up that union which would otherwise 
 have been the source of great power to two so highly 
 educated minds.
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 MRS. DUNLAP was sitting in her parlor, one after 
 noon, alone, sewing, when her servant entered, and 
 handed her a letter. She saw instantly that it was 
 from her son Prescott. She allowed it to remain a 
 few moments on her knee unopened ; for she knew 
 the boy would not have written so soon again, had 
 he not been in trouble, and she was in no haste to 
 prove her forebodings true. It was with a heavy 
 heart that she at length broke the seal, and read it. 
 Her fears were more than realized. Prescott was in 
 great trouble, and he wrote beseeching his mother 
 to persuade his father to consent to his leaving Am- 
 herst College, for Yale. "He did not like Am- 
 herst," he said ; " he had never wished to go there. 
 He went only because his father insisted upon it ; 
 and now he had made the trial, he was more dis 
 satisfied than ever. Nothing had gone right with 
 him from the first ; and if his father did not let him 
 leave, he would not answer for the consequences ! " 
 Mrs. Dunlap sighed heavily; her work dropped 
 unheeded upon the floor, and she sat, leaning her
 
 136 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 saddened face upon her hand, lost in thought. What 
 should she do ? Go to his father ? Certainly she 
 must, but not now ; he was in his study now, and 
 would not like to be disturbed. After tea, should 
 no one call, he would have a half-hour's leisure ; she 
 must speak to him then. But perhaps he might not 
 be in the mood to hear anything which would trou 
 ble him.* Often, after a day of study, he was quite 
 exhausted, and seemed to endure nothing which 
 would ruffie him ; he needed soothing. Should 
 this be the case when Prescott's request was made 
 known, it would receive an irritated refusal. Pres- 
 cott had been at college about six months, and thus 
 far his complaints had been made only to his mother; 
 and she had kept them to herself, for she saw that 
 it would answer no good purpose to tell them to his 
 father. Having once decided to send his son to 
 Amherst, he would insist upon his staying there. 
 Mrs. Duulap never thought of questioning the 
 soundness of his judgment, in the selection which 
 he had made of a college ; but, admitting it to be 
 the best, she did, from the first, question the policy 
 of forcing the boy to go there, against his will. She 
 felt almost convinced that Prescott would not remain 
 there, and thought it would be wise to yield to his 
 wishes, and remove him. But how should she make 
 Mr. Dunlap think so? This was one of those import 
 ant matters, in relation to his children, which he
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 137 
 
 made a business of regulating ; and his wife had 
 learned, by long experience, that when he undertook 
 to accomplish any particular thing, it was almost 
 impossible to change, or even modify, his plans. She 
 dared not hope that she would succeed in the present 
 instance ;>and yet it seemed very important that she 
 should, for she was convinced that, if Prescott was 
 not taken away, he would be sent away ; and such 
 a commencement of college experience in her family 
 of boys was an event very much to be dreaded. 
 
 The afternoon slipped away, as she sat, lost in 
 thought, trying to arrange in her own mind her 
 arguments in her plea for her boy. The children 
 came in, noisy from school. It was a windy day, 
 and, as they ran tramping through the house, they 
 left here and there a door on the latch. A strong 
 gust blew open the outer door, the wind sucked 
 through the hall, and slam-bang, bang, went one 
 and another, here, there and everywhere. It was 
 like a small discharge of artillery. Mrs. Dunlap 
 started ; she knew the noise would jar on the 
 nerves of her student-husband, and she was very 
 anxious that he should be undisturbed. 
 
 " Softly, softly," she said to the boys and girls, fol 
 lowing quickly after them, to fasten doors ; " softly; 
 you will disturb your father. How the wind blows ! 
 Maurice, do lock that front door." 
 
 Maurice did as he was bidden, and then, full of
 
 138 T11E WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 life and spirits, came romping with the children 
 into the parlor, making as much noise as a young 
 hurricane. 
 
 " Not quite so much noise in the house, children ! ;> 
 said she. " Go out of doors, if you wish to romp ; 
 your father has not left his study yet." 
 
 This was an old story, and it made no great im 
 pression ; the children, of course, were ignorant of 
 those circumstances which made it particularly 
 desirable that their father should be kept quiet just 
 now. They softened down, therefore, only at inter 
 vals, when their mother's voice was heard, and for 
 got it a moment after. When the tea-bell rang, 
 she was wearied out by her efforts to keep the 
 peace. 
 
 As Mr. Dunlap entered the tea-room, his wife 
 looked up anxiously, to see what were the signs of 
 the times. As usual, he appeared serious and weary, 
 and her observing eye detected a slight contraction 
 of the eyebrow, which said something had disturbed 
 him. 
 
 " What has been the occasion of so much noise ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " It is a very windy day," replied Mrs. Dunlap, 
 " and I could not prevent the doors from slamming 
 when the children came home from school." 
 
 " I should think they were old enough to know 
 how to shut doors after them ! " was the reply.
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 139 
 
 Mrs. Dunlap did not wish to continue this con 
 versation. She- poured a cup of tea hastily for the 
 student, and passed it. She was agitated ; her color 
 was deepened, and her movements were rapid. She 
 was very watchful, that no petty annoyances should 
 irritate him. She helped the children before they 
 had time to request it, and introduced cheerful 
 topics of conversation. She wished to divert the 
 student's mind, compose his nerves, and raise his 
 spirits. He had been all day in his study, hard at 
 work, and was quite exhausted by his labor; and yet, 
 in truth, in no one hour had he made so much effort 
 as his wife was now making, with a saddened heart, 
 to quiet the children and comfort him. But such 
 was her life, one of effort, which no one knew and 
 appreciated, but herself and God. 
 
 The children were excused from the table as soon 
 as possible, and Mr. Dunlap sipped his last cup of 
 tea in silence. Evidently his thoughts were still at 
 the study-table. He was preparing an address, to 
 be delivered before a literary society, and was unu 
 sually absorbed in it. Now, the only half-hour 
 which could ever be depended upon for his family 
 was the one immediately after tea, and Mrs. Dunlap 
 felt that she must speak then, if ever. 
 
 " I have had a letter from Prescott, this after 
 noon," said she, timidly. 
 
 "What again? He writes often, any. news ?"
 
 140 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 " Yes, he is very anxious I should beg you to let 
 him go to Yale." 
 
 " Nonsense ! how can he ask such a thing, after 
 what I have said to him about it ? Does the boy 
 think I shall consent to his running away from col 
 lege every time he takes a fancy to do so ? Tell him 
 that / say he is to go through at Aniherst, and I 
 expect him to go through honorably. I will write 
 to him as soon as this address is off my hands." 
 
 " But, Mr. Dunlap, I am afraid you do not appre 
 ciate the boy's feelings in the matter. From the 
 very first he was unwilling to go to Amherst. At 
 one time I was afraid he would give up trying to 
 get a profession, simply on this account. For some 
 reason or other, his heart was fixed on going to 
 Yale. I have feared he would not do well, and I 
 am still afraid that he is not doing well. Every 
 letter brings some new trouble, and some new 
 complaint." 
 
 " There is nothing in that worth minding," said 
 Mr. Dunlap ; " he talked very reasonably with me 
 about it; at least, he made no great opposition to 
 it, not as much as I expected." 
 
 31 rs. Dunlap sighed. She knew Prescott better 
 than his father did; but she could not say this. 
 Prescott respected his father, and loved him ; but he 
 was not intimate with him, and he was intimate with 
 his mother. His father had been too busy to seek
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 141 
 
 ^friendship. Mr. Dunlap was devoted to great 
 pursuits, which occupied his time and absorbed his 
 energy ; and when he came among his children, he was 
 generally weary, and he did not care to have them 
 with him, unless they could amuse him. He had no 
 strength to bestow upon them, and for their training 
 no space was left in his busy days. He did not 
 intend to neglect them, but somehow they slipped 
 along from childhood to youth, and before he knew 
 it the spring-time was on the wane, the summer 
 even passing. Now and then some great occasion 
 was important enough to arrest his thoughts and 
 attention, and then he took hold of it in earnest ; 
 but, as he must act without a very thorough acquaint 
 ance with his children, it was as often miss as hit. 
 It proved so with regard to his choice of a college. 
 Had he understood Prescott as well as he did the 
 great educational interests of the state, he would not 
 have opposed his wishes by such absolute commands. 
 Those wishes were unreasonable. True ; but a 
 gentler authority from the father might have been 
 an argument to prove this to the quick feelings of the 
 boy. They were obstinate wishes. True ; but a more 
 genial persuasion from the father might have con 
 vinced the boy even of this, and made him ashamed 
 of it. No boy could have been led more easily than 
 Prescott by a wise parental tact, and of this 
 quality few fathers have had less than Mr. Dunlap.
 
 142 THE WIFE OP .A STCDKST. 
 
 No wonder Mrs. Dunlap sighed ; it was, as she 
 anticipated, of no avail to talk to him. 
 
 " Well," said she, and her voice trembled as she 
 spoke ; " I cannot help fearing that he will get sent 
 
 ay." 
 
 " Sent away ! " said the student ; " trust me, 
 he knows better than all that. You are too anxious 
 about him, my dear ; you distress yourself needless 
 ly. This is your first experience of college life, and 
 you imagine danger where there is none. I know 
 all about it. The boy must stay where he is, and 
 behave himself. He must have no freaks. If he 
 does not come up to the mark, I '11 bind him out to 
 a blacksmith, you may tell him so." 
 
 Mrs. Dunlap did not tell him so ; she spoke en 
 couragingly to him ; ventured to hold out a little 
 hope ; suggested the reasonableness of his remaining 
 where he was for the year, at least ; if he did well, 
 at the expiration of that time they might think of 
 the matter again. Yet she administered this com 
 fort in very much the same state of mind with which 
 the boy received it, doubtfully, and it was not 
 powerful enough to operate as a check. In a few 
 days Prescott wrote again. Now he had a falling 
 out with his tutor, whom he much disliked, and he 
 threatened to take some desperate measure if his 
 father would not consent to his leaving. His 
 mother's heart became more and more heavy. She
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 143 
 
 felt obliged, not only to conceal this, but, in order to 
 meet the exigencies of the case, she felt called upon 
 to make promises for which she had not the 
 sanction of her husband. This course came too 
 near the line of double-dealing for her to pursue 
 without causing great pain to her truth-loving 
 spirit. It was one of her hardest trials, as a 
 student's wife, that she must sometimes deceive her 
 husband, or sacrifice what seemed to her the best in 
 terests of her children. He was so intent upon his 
 work, ever hammering away at great blocks of 
 truth, that he entirely overlooked that nice mosaic 
 of juvenile character which was forming itself from 
 the every-day concerns of home life. The wife, to 
 save the children, had sometimes to wound her 
 sensitive conscience, and to bear the suffering in 
 silence ; for this is one of the trials of a student's 
 wife, of which she cannot speak. 
 
 A wearisome load is a heavy heart. There it 
 hangs, just there, at the centre of all comfort, 
 and never shifts its weight. It saddens the voice, 
 and makes the eyelids heavy, and pales the cheek ; 
 the circulation becomes languid, the appetite wavers, 
 and the health fails. Mrs. Dunlap found it so 
 during those weeks when Prescott was balancing 
 between good and evil. She longed for, and yet 
 trembled to receive, his letters. To add to her anx 
 iety, her husband's health began to decline. He was
 
 144 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 overworking himself, and the results were wakeful- 
 ness, exhaustion, depression and nervousness. 
 
 One evening he came down, and threw himself 
 wearily on the sofa. " I am sorry," said his wifo to 
 him, " that you undertook this address. It is too 
 much, in addition to all your other labors." 
 
 He sighed in reply, and closed his eyes. 
 
 " I am almost afraid," continued she, " that you 
 will not be able to go and deliver it." 
 
 " I certainly shall not," said he, " unless I get 
 some sleep to-night." 
 
 He looked so haggard, as he spoke, that she felt 
 alarmed. She was always anxious when he was in 
 this state ; she feared disease of the brain ; and in 
 her anxiety for him Prescott was forgotten. 
 
 " Do not you think," said she, " it would make 
 you a little drowsy if I should brush your hair ? " 
 
 Mr. Dunlap making no objection, she brought 
 the brush, and sat leaning over the arm of the 
 sofa, in a very uneasy position, brushing his hair. 
 This seemed to quiet him, and she continued it long 
 after she felt utterly exhausted. Indeed, she needed 
 nursing, even then, almost as much as he. But, com 
 paratively speaking, of what consequence was this? 
 The public had no claim upon her ; no literary 
 society would be disappointed by her illness; she 
 did not think of herself, but continued her labor of 
 love, until the student slept ; then, quite worn out.
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 145 
 
 she slipped from her chair, and fell asleep on the 
 carpet at his feet. Several hours passed before she 
 awoke, and when she did so she found by her stiff 
 ened limbs that she had taken cold. The student 
 still slept heavily, and she therefore softly threw a 
 cloak over him, and went out. 
 
 He slept on, soundly, until about two in the 
 morning. She went to bed, but could sleep no 
 more. Every noise startled her ; she was afraid 
 something might happen to him, he might perhaps 
 be taken ill. But she could sleep at any other time ; 
 it was only for the student, whose brain was taxed, 
 that sleep was of vital importance. 
 
 This wakeful night, and the cold which she took, 
 in addition to her anxiety for her husband and Pres- 
 cott, made Mrs. Dunlap feel too ill to wish to ac 
 company her husband when he went to deliver his 
 address. She would have excused herself, but Mr. 
 Dunlap urged the matter. He thought his wife did 
 not look quite well, and hoped a change would bene 
 fit her ; find she was so accustomed to yield to his 
 wishes, that, without objecting, she made the effort. 
 Contrary to her expectations, she enjoyed the jour 
 ney. Mr. Dunlap's address being finished, his mind 
 was at ease ; and, his body being refreshed by sleep,, 
 he was ready to give himself up to the enjoyment 
 of the hour. He became very sociable with his- 
 wife, he talked all the time, and, more than 
 13
 
 146 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 that, he was attentive to her. She was con 
 scious of a deep sense of enjoyment in his society, 
 which of late years she had rarely felt. Heart met 
 heart, as in the days of early love. She sat near 
 him, she looked up into his face with an un 
 checked expression of pride and affection ; she gave 
 way to enthusiastic admiration of his great mind and 
 noble principles ; and the trials of the student's 
 wife were forgotten. The heavy heart became 
 lighter and lighter ; Prescott's troubles now weighed 
 but as a feather. Sometimes she was on the point 
 of speaking of them, so intimate had she become with 
 her student-husband on this short journey ; force of 
 habit, more than anything else, restrained her. 
 
 Sometimes joy works miracles ; in an instant the 
 sad voice changes its tune, the eye brightens, and 
 the blood runs dancing about in the veins again ; 
 the appetite returns, and the ailing one recovers. 
 So it was with Mrs. Dunlap. The change produced 
 in her by the real enjoyment of life for a few hours 
 was wonderful. When she left home, she thought 
 it quite certain that she should not be able to go 
 and hoar her husband ; but when they reached the 
 place of their destination, she felt abundantly able, 
 and began to look forward to it with pleasure. 
 
 During the journey. Mr. Dunlap had noticed the 
 brightening countenance of his wife ; and an awaken 
 ing consciousness of its cause disturbed him a little,
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 147 
 
 and kept him watchful of her comfort, when they 
 were among their friends. Much to her gratifica 
 tion, and somewhat to her surprise, he came to walk 
 with her up to the church, on the afternoon when 
 he was to speak. As they made their way through 
 the crowded aisle, she could not but observe the re 
 spect with which they were treated ; that a path 
 was opened for them ; that several young gentlemen 
 contended for the honor of handing her to a choice 
 seat. She sat down with a beating heart ; her 
 deepened color, her beaming eyes, plainly expressed 
 the pleasure which she felt. 
 
 As she cast her eye around, she saw the house 
 was crowded to overflowing ; and when her husband 
 rose to speak, she felt anxious that he should meet 
 the expectation of that great throng. She scarcely 
 breathed, as he, in a slow, unimpassioned manner, 
 announced his subject. " wait, only wait," she 
 was eager to say to that listening crowd ; " wait, 
 you vrill hear something by and by." Calmly the 
 student began to develop his plan ; but, as he ad 
 vanced, one wave of thought succeeded another with 
 increasing power, dashed higher, and more and 
 more brilliant became its sparkling spray. " Now, 
 now," she wished to say, " listen, you will have it, 
 hark ! " She stole side way glances at the au 
 dience ; she saw them listening, bowed as one man. 
 Now they were breathless, now they almost
 
 148 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 sprang to their feet, now a smile, like an electric 
 shock, ran from lip to lip, now they were stirred 
 to laughter, and now melted to tears. The wife 
 was carried away by this eloquence ; she was almost 
 intoxicated with delight, and she also enjoyed the 
 proud consciousness of herself possessing such 
 great power, for she was at once both hearer and 
 speaker. 
 
 In a silence most profound he closed. His last 
 word, spoken almost in a whisper, was heard dis 
 tinctly in the most remote corner of the room. "When 
 he ceased, the silence for a moment continued un 
 broken, and then one universal burst of applause 
 announced the student's victory. This was a mo 
 ment of triumph, and Mrs. Dunlap, on whom many 
 eyes were fixed, as she stood with glowing cheeks, 
 modestly waiting in the corner of the slip for her 
 husband, realized that the life of a student's wife 
 was not all one of trial. How amply had she been 
 repaid for her night of wearisome nursing ! 
 
 She watched the retiring crowd, observing with 
 deep interest the expression with which one friend 
 would meet another. All said, " Well done well 
 done." Suddenly she started, and her face flushed 
 crimson ; for, as a large party near the door moved 
 off, she saw, leaning against a pillar, Prescott ! 
 
 He looked as if he did not know what he was 
 about. His damp hair lay matted down in thick
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 149 
 
 curls on his broad forehead ; his collar was open, 
 his clothes were covered with dust, and he was hur 
 riedly looking at those who passed. Mrs. Dunlap 
 waved her handkerchief once twice ; he saw it, 
 and, springing over settees and benches, he reached 
 her side. 
 
 " Why, mother !" was all he could say. He 
 was so excited, he was ready either to laugh or to 
 cry. 
 
 " Why, my son ! " said his mother, " what made 
 you come ? " 
 
 " Because I wished to hear father. Where is he ? 
 Was n't it glorious ? 0, there ! " 
 
 The boy was so completely carried away, he lost 
 all sense of fear. He forgot himself; he sprang up 
 the pulpit stairs ; it seemed as if nothing would sat 
 isfy him but to grasp his father's hand, which he did 
 with a force that nearly overset him. 
 
 " Why, Prescott ! " said his father, in a tone of 
 Utter amazement. 
 
 "Yes," said Prescott. "0, father! wasn't it 
 grand ? I would not have lost it for all the world ! 
 I am so glad I came ! " 
 
 A gentleman standing by Mr. Dunlap burst into 
 a hearty laugh at the enthusiastic boy. " You are 
 your father's child, I see," said he ; and Prescott, 
 with his manly and speaking face, certainly did 
 him no discredit. His father felt proud of him ;
 
 150 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 he could not help it ; it was a miserable time to 
 scold him. 
 
 " Prescott," said he, smiling pleasantly, " I 
 ought to scold you." 
 
 His mother saw the smile, and answered it in an 
 instant, though the tears were fast rolling down her 
 cheeks. It was such an infinite relief to her to find 
 that Prescott was forgiven. 
 
 Prescott saw his advantage, and followed it up 
 that evening, when he plead like a beggar with his 
 father to let him come to Yale. His mother also 
 plead for him, but it was of no use. Mr. Dunlap's 
 mind was made up on that point, and Prescott must 
 go back to Amherst and behave himself; so that he 
 took his leave the next morning quite dispirited. He 
 was more in love with Yale than ever, now he had 
 been there. 
 
 " I do not believe I shall stay in Amherst the 
 year out," he said to his mother. 
 
 " For my sake, Prescott," said she, " do as well 
 as you can. I feel as if it would almost kill me to 
 have you sent away from college. It would have a 
 very bad influence over Maurice, and it would also 
 make your father unhappy." 
 
 Prescott would make no promises, and his rather 
 unhappy expression at parting began to settle heav 
 ily on his mother's heart again. The journey home, 
 also, was the journey after the fair. The student
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 151 
 
 suffered from the reaction of excitement ; he could 
 not sleep after speaking, and this unhinged him. 
 Mrs. Dunlap was too much used to these variations of 
 mood tobe surprised ; yet she felt them, the demand 
 which they made upon her sympathy and forbear 
 ance was wearing. When she reached home she did 
 not feel as well as when she reached New Haven. 
 
 Not long after this, Mr. Dunlap was called upon 
 to republish some of his works. This, in addition to 
 his daily labor, was a heavy draft upon him, and 
 absorbed all his time and energy. He had even less 
 than usual to do with his family ; if he had passed 
 those months in Egypt, his wife would have missed 
 only the care of him. 
 
 She occupied herself with her domestic duties, and 
 by writing to Prescott. Not a week passed in which 
 she did not send him a long letter to encourage him 
 in well-doing. But, notwithstanding her constant 
 employment, she was often oppressed by loneliness. 
 Her children were too young to be sufficient society 
 for her, and she seldom went out, for Mr. Dunlap 
 was averse to going. Among her female acquaint 
 ances she had no intimate friends ; for when a lady 
 marries she frequently bids farewell to such friend 
 ships. The married she finds too busy to seek them, 
 and the unmarried are chary of admitting a third 
 party to their confidence. She who finds no com 
 panion in her husband is often all alone. He has
 
 152 TI1E WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 taken her from social groups, and placed her within 
 a charmed circle, where, if he do not bear her com 
 pany, she must be solitary. 
 
 Solitary our student's wife often felt. Many a 
 dusky hour, after her children were asleep, would 
 she sit by the parlorrwindow, thinking anxiously of 
 Prescott. Weary with her day's labor she was too, 
 for mind and body were not unfrequently overtaxed, 
 as must be the case where the care of a large family 
 falls upon one, and that one the weaker half. Such 
 was not God's design in the family institution ; but 
 " man has sought out many inventions," and " of 
 making books there is no end." 
 
 At such times what a cordial to her burdened spirit 
 would a little cheerful conversation, a word of timely 
 advice, a whisper of affectionate and encouraging 
 sympathy, have been ! 
 
 What a relief to her, could she, in an impulse of 
 womanly weakness not to be eluded, sometimes have 
 laid her head upon her husband's shoulder, and wept 
 away her idle fears ! She believed that he loved her, 
 and yet how inexpressibly grateful to the yearnings 
 of her saddened heart would it have been, had this 
 affection sometimes found a voice ! The student-hus 
 band did not realize how vital to the life of joy in 
 her soul was this music of expressed love. He 
 would have spent his last dollar on her comfort ; he 
 would have sent to India for a palanquin and bear-
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 153 
 
 ers, had she needed them ; but, to leave his great work, 
 to quit his study-table before his day's task was quite 
 done, in order to give his wife a little of his society, 
 or to make an effort to rise above his own languor 
 and depression, that sometimes he might cheer a dull 
 hour for her, required a kind of sacrifice which he 
 never thought it possible to make. 
 
 Neither did his wife expect it, nor feel hurt that 
 she did not receive it. She did not think of question 
 ing the necessity of his being wholly given to his 
 work ; yet she suffered from it, notwithstanding. 
 Those many dull and lonely hours, when her mind 
 dwelt perpetually on trouble ; her anxiety for Pres- 
 cott, and for Mr. Dunlap also ; her anxiety to keep 
 her house still, and the children from troubling their 
 father, wore much upon her. Her health was seri 
 ously undermined, and with ill health her spirits 
 failed still more. She wished sometimes to divert 
 herself by reading ; but here she experienced other 
 trials. She found that she had in a great measure 
 lost her taste for that reading which required thought. 
 Since her marriage it had never been encouraged, 
 and she very soon became so conscious of her hus 
 band's intellectual superiority that it damped her 
 ardor for self-culture. She saw plainly enough that 
 he had no great idea of her knowing much. She 
 was but a woman, and if she was intelligent enough 
 to converse on ordinary topics, it seemed to be all
 
 154 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 which he expected. It never occurred to him that 
 he was to a great extent responsible for the progress 
 of that being which had been, at his request, so 
 wholly surrendered to his keeping. Often she felt 
 painfully the distance which separated them ; for she 
 was a woman of quick perception, but she could 
 not, unaided, rise to him. Occasions were constant 
 ly occurring in which she was made to feel this dis 
 tance. For instance, at one time several gentlemen 
 came in to dine, and the conversation took an exclu 
 sively literary turn. She could not join in it ; she 
 was quite ignorant of the subjects on which they 
 conversed. Her husband had neither taught her 
 nor encouraged her teaching herself. She did not 
 wish to betray her ignorance, though it was an igno 
 rance for which, if there was any one to blame, it 
 was not she ; she was therefore obliged to be silent. 
 This mortified and humbled her ; she was glad to 
 withdraw to her own room. She fastened her door, 
 threw herself into a chair, and burst into tears. She 
 was unusually dispirited and disturbed by it. It 
 was not often that she yielded to such feelings, but 
 now she wept. Before her tears had ceased to flow, 
 Mr. Dunlap came to her door for something ; she 
 let him in, and turned hastily away to conceal her 
 face. She did not dare to speak, for she could have 
 given no account of those tears ; she was not free 
 enough with him. He would have thought her fool-
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 155 
 
 ish, and that she could not then bear. Mr. Dunlap 
 found what he came for, and went out. He never 
 knew of those tears, nor of many others which his 
 exclusive devotion to his books caused. 
 
 As Mrs. Dunlap became more depressed, she had 
 recourse to religious reading to relieve her of the 
 burden of sad thoughts. Unfortunately, this reading 
 was not judiciously selected. It was of a cast which 
 tended still more to discourage her, and increase her 
 morbid feelings of self-reproach. She felt as if, com 
 pared with that of her husband, her life's work was 
 of little value. " What," she asked herself, "did 
 she do, but just live, day by day ? What action had 
 she ever performed, the memory of which would live 
 after her ? " In this questioning she was very un 
 just to herself. She did not place a right estimate 
 upon her untiring efforts for the good of her family, 
 without which it seemed to others they would all 
 have been shipwrecked. It would have comforted 
 her, could some one have whispered or conjectured 
 of the possibility, nay, probability, that in that day 
 of final account when all things are righted, it might 
 turn out that the humbler life-work of the two 
 should be found at least equal in value to the 
 greater. But she had no such consoling hope for 
 the future, and she could not feel as if she had done 
 anything worth living for. She mourned over her
 
 J56 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 faults of character, and with this sorrow she strug 
 gled alone. 
 
 In this time of depression, an official letter from 
 Araherst requested Mr. Dunlap to recall his son 
 immediately, or he would inevitably be expelled. 
 This letter was followed in a few hours by Prescott 
 himself. Much to his relief, his father was not at 
 home when he arrived ; this gave him the opportu 
 nity he much wished to talk over matters a little 
 with his mother, and explain them. 
 
 " But, Prescott," said she, " your father will not 
 see it so." 
 
 " I cannot help it, if he does n't," said Prescott ; 
 " I should do just so again. How soon will he be 
 in ? " Prescott wished the interview over. 
 
 " I do not know," said his mother, looking anx 
 iously out of the window. " 0, there he is, coming 
 now ! Had not you better go out and meet him ? " 
 
 Prescott turned several colors; still he thought 
 his mother's suggestion a wise one. His father 
 would be under some restraint meeting him in 
 public. He put on his hat, and went out. Mrs. 
 Dunlap watched him from the window, trembling. 
 They approached. Prescott held up his head bravely, 
 and offered his hand. His father drew back ; he 
 offered no hand, his manner was stern ; the two 
 seemed to walk almost in silence to the house. This 
 reception made Prescott angry, and, as soon as they
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 157 
 
 came in lie left his father, and went directly to his 
 room. 
 
 Mr. Dunlap appeared agitated and nervous, he 
 looked pale. Not a word had he to say to comfort 
 his wife, and not a word had she to say to comfort 
 him. She made haste to order his tea, for she saw 
 by his impatient motions that he was in need of it. 
 She could scarcely stand ; she was glad to sit at the 
 table. The tea-bell rang, and the children, all but 
 Prescott and Maurice, came in. 
 
 " Where is Maurice ? " asked Mr. Dunlap. 
 
 " In brother Prescott's room," said John. "Pres 
 cott has come, father." 
 
 " Did they hear the bell ? " inquired the mother. 
 
 " Yes," said John ; " but they said they were not 
 hungry." 
 
 Mr. Dunlap took his tea ; his wife could eat noth 
 ing. She did not know exactly whether to send for 
 the boys or not ; she was relieved when her husband, 
 having finished his supper, rose. " Send Prescott 
 to me when he does come," said he, and withdrew. 
 
 The boys came down when they heard the study- 
 door close. Prescott was still angry ; he had been 
 telling Maurice how his father had received him, 
 and had stirred Maurice to indignation. 
 
 " You will have to take it now," said he, when 
 he heard his father's message; "I am glad I am not 
 in your shoes." 
 
 14
 
 158 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 " "Well," said Prescott, " I think I can stand it. 
 If he would only listen to me, I could soon convince 
 him that I have done no great wrong. He had 
 better be careful how he does push matters, for I 
 shall not bear a great deal more." 
 
 His mother sighed heavily ; she felt that this was 
 true, but it was in vain to attempt to make her hus 
 band believe it. 
 
 Prescott went to the study, and she to her room 
 to weep and pray for him. It was late when she 
 heard him come out; he then went directly to his 
 chamber. She followed him, and found him stand 
 ing by the window, looking out. She laid her hand 
 ou his shoulder. 
 
 " Prescott, what did your father say ? " 
 
 " Just what I thought he would, mother. Father 
 does not understand me. He does not understand 
 men nor life , only books, books, books. He has 
 certain rules of his own, and if we do not come up 
 to them, we may go whistle, that's all; he will 
 have no more to do with us." 
 
 " No, no, Prescott ; you are doing your father in 
 justice now. He means to do the best he can for 
 his boys. He has their best interests near at heart." 
 
 " I know that, mother ; and yet, for all that, he 
 does just those things which are for our worst inter 
 ests. His sending me to Amherst is an example. 
 I should have done well, if I had gone to Yale."
 
 THE WIFE OP A STUDENT. 159 
 
 " Ah ! Prescott, you want your own way ; you 
 arc headstrong, and that is the trouble with you." 
 
 " A boy ought sometimes to have his way, when 
 his way is a reasonable one : but father has no idea 
 of yielding one iota to us. We must think and act 
 just as he does. He will find we will not do it. I 
 am man enough to have my own opinions, and have 
 a right to express them." 
 
 " What does he say now, Prescott ? " 
 
 " Says that I may stay at home three months, 
 and study with a tutor, and then he will enter me 
 at Union. If I do not accede to this, I may go and 
 shift for myself." 
 
 " I was afraid he would not try to send you to 
 college again anywhere," said his mother. Much 
 relieved on this point, she sat down by her boy, and 
 talked to him with great cheerfulness of his pros 
 pects. She sought to excite his ambition ; and, to 
 dispel his anger towards his father, she roused his 
 pride for him. She repeated some highly compli 
 mentary offers which had recently been made to 
 him, the flattering attentions which he had received, 
 and the honors 'which had been paid him. Pres- 
 cott's enthusiasm was excited; he was proud that 
 he bore his father's name, he determined that ho 
 would never disgrace it, and he quite forgave 
 him that he understood books so well. Union Col 
 lege began to look more inviting, and for the first
 
 160 THE WIPE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 time he relinquished the idea of going to Yale. 
 This enthusiasm lasted several days. Mrs. Dun- 
 lap's spirits began to revive, for Prescott settled 
 down resolutely at his books. Had his father taken 
 the trouble to learn his state of mind, and followed 
 up the advantage he had gained wisely, he would 
 have saved Prescott and himself a world of suffer 
 ing ; but, alas ! he was too busy. He was pressed 
 on all sides, and now, when he came down with his 
 boys, he was either nervous or exhausted ; and in 
 either state he was not able to bear with them. 
 Unfortunately, too, he was suspicious of Prescott ; 
 he did not understand him ; he was convinced that 
 the boy did not mean to study, and was constantly 
 on the watch to prass him. This galled Prescott; 
 he was easily irritated by his father, and frequently 
 spoke to him disrespectfully. Such a state of things 
 wore upon Mrs. Dunlap very much. She frequently 
 sat trembling when the father and son were together ; 
 she was on the alert that she might ward off her 
 husband's reproofs, or explain away Prescott's re 
 plies. She kept on the watch, that one should not 
 interfere with the comfort of the other. She tried 
 to cheer the over-worked student when he was de 
 sponding about his son ; and she endeavored to 
 strengthen the resolution of the son when he wished 
 to do credit to his father. Between them both she 
 had " a hard row to hoe," and there was no chance
 
 THE WIFE OP A STUDENT. 161 
 
 for her to recruit her wasting strength. Still she 
 suffered in silence ; there was no one for her to com 
 plain to but God; He heard her, and often com 
 forted her, but from her student-husband she re 
 ceived no comfort. 
 
 At one time the boys went out fishing, and the 
 younger children were playing in the parlor. Mrs. 
 Dunlap felt too weary to sew, and she thought she 
 would drop her work and go into the study and read 
 a while. There she should be undisturbed, and could 
 rest, while Mr. Dunlap was out for a walk. She 
 went up, drew the inviting arm-chair near the win 
 dow, and looked about on the table and floor and 
 shelves for something to read. Up in one corner, 
 almost out of sight, she espied " Doddridge's Rise 
 and Progress." This was a book quite to her mind ; 
 so she took it down, seated herself, and read. She 
 enjoyed it, she became more tranquil and happy, 
 and she was reading a prayer with devout feel 
 ings when the study-door opened, and her husband 
 entered. He looked surprised at finding her there. 
 Her first impulse was to get up and go out, but on 
 second thought she sat still. Mr. Dunlap walked 
 about the room, somewhat embarrassed ; he did not 
 know exactly how to go to work with her there, 
 and besides she had his chair. She also was em 
 barrassed, yet she felt that it was proper she should 
 come there, and that she ought not to be afraid to 
 14*
 
 162 THE VTIFE OP A STUDENT. 
 
 sit a moment in her husband's study. She waited 
 for a good opportunity to leave ; she did not wish to 
 do so abruptly ; so she kept on reading, and he, after 
 tumbling about his papers, began to pace the room 
 back and forth. Once, as he passed her, he stopped 
 and looked over her shoulder, to see what she was 
 reading. A smile, spiced a little, a very little, 
 with an expression of contempt, curled his lip. 
 From his hoards of literary wealth she had selected 
 " Rise and Progress." She did not exactly see this 
 expression, excepting with the eyes of her mind ; 
 she felt it, though. When she had finished the 
 prayer, she rose, replaced, the book, and with a 
 pleasant remark left the study. Mr. Dunlap had 
 occasion long to remember this incident. 
 
 Prescott and his father now began to disagree 
 more and more. Just in proportion as the father 
 liec-ame more strict, the son became more wilful. 
 Mr. Dunlap laid great stress upon obedience to cer 
 tain little rules, which Prescott felt were not only 
 arbitrary, but foolish. For instance, he insisted 
 upon it that at just such an hour Prescott should 
 gp to his room, and stay there alone till dinner, and 
 study. Prescott thought he was old enough to 
 choose his own hours. For several days in succes 
 sion he at one time vexed his father by going off 
 every morning on some excursion, and making up 
 for it by studying in the evening. His father was
 
 THE WIFE OP A STUDENT. 163 
 
 then suffering from ague in the face, which made 
 him unusually irritable. He was in great pain, hav 
 ing hot poultices applied, when the tutor entered, 
 with a flushed and angry countenance. 
 
 " Mr. Dunlap," said he, " I cannot any longer 
 attend to your son ; he has insulted me, and refused 
 to apologize." 
 
 " What has he done now ? " said his father, hastily. 
 
 The tutor went on to state his grievances ; Pres- 
 cott had been playing off some joke upon him, and 
 he considered it quite an impeachment of his dig 
 nity. 
 
 " He shall make you an apology which will sat 
 isfy you," said his father ; " you may rest easy on 
 that point." Mr. Dunlap spoke in that calm, deter 
 mined tone, which his wife well understood. She 
 trembled so violently that the dish fell from her 
 hand to the floor. She turned pale, her heart 
 was filled with anxious forebodings. Mr. Dunlap 
 did not observe her ; he threw himself on the sofa, 
 and closed his eyes. Now and then he groaned ; 
 once or twice he asked, " Has Prescott come ? " 
 
 " No, he has not come yet." 
 
 The mother tried to excuse the boyish fault; 
 her husband heard her in silence. The outer door 
 at length opened ; there were the boys. 
 
 " Send him to me," said Mr. Dunlap. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlap went quickly into the entry. There
 
 164 THE WIFE OP A STUDENT. 
 
 stood Prescott and Maurice, all in a glow; with 
 eyes bright and shining faces, they held up their 
 long string of fish. 
 
 " What is the matter, mother ? " said Prescott, 
 almost immediately. " You look as pale as death ! " 
 
 " Prescott ! " said she, " what have you been 
 doing ? You must go right in to your father." 
 
 "Doing! "said Prescott, "nothing; and I will 
 go to him, if he has made you look like that." His 
 anger passed all bounds. Down went his fish, and 
 with flashing eyes he walked directly into the par 
 lor. 
 
 " What have you said now, sir ? " said the boy, 
 neither knowing nor caring what language his burn 
 ing indignation found, " what have you been say 
 ing to make my mother so unhappy ? " 
 
 The door closed, and Mrs. Dunlap could hear 
 no more. She motioned to Maurice to go into the 
 next room, and managed to drag herself up stairs. 
 She sat down in the upper entry. Now she could 
 hear Prescott's angry voice, and now her hus 
 band's stern reply. At length the parlor-door again 
 opened. 
 
 " Understand me, my son ! " said Mr. Dunlap ; 
 " you are to make that apology, or you are hence 
 forward to take care of yourself." 
 
 " I will never make it while I breathe ! " said 
 Prescott, shutting the door violently. His mother
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. J OO 
 
 tried to rise and come down to him ; in the effort, 
 she fainted and fell. Fortunately a servant heard 
 her, and came to her ; but it was more than an hour 
 before she was sufficiently restored to return to her 
 suffering husband. lie did not know that she had 
 fainted, but lay still with his eyes closed, quite 
 exhausted by pain and excitement. lie looked so 
 haggard and unhappy, that she tried to comfort him. 
 She, poor woman ! who so much needed comfort 
 herself. 
 
 The tea-hour arrived, but no Prescott. Six 
 seven eight nine o'clock ; no Prescott. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Dunlap were alarmed. Maurice went out 
 again to find him, and brought back word that he 
 had been seen at the depot, with a valise in his hand, 
 at the half-past six train. His mother hurried to 
 his room. Yes, his valise and a change of clothes 
 were gone. She went back to her own private sec 
 retary drawer, her pocket-book was missing. It 
 was now all plain ; Prescott had taken his father at 
 his word, and had gone out into the wide, wide 
 world, alone, to take care of himself. His mother 
 knew that he would never return. 
 
 That was a dreadful night to those parents ; their 
 feelings it would be in vain to attempt to describe. 
 Mr. Dunlap walked his study until morning. When 
 the mother rose from her sleepless bed, and dragged 
 herself down to meet her children at breakfast, they
 
 166 TUB WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 saw, with amazement, that in that one night of sor 
 row her black hair had turned to gray ! 
 
 She never recovered from this shock, though 
 Prescott soon wrote her, and relieved her from some 
 of her most distressing fears ; yet she felt that he 
 was ruined for life. She mourned without hope. 
 She ceased even to speak a word of comfort to her 
 student-husband. She failed daily, and soon took 
 her bed. Disease then seized upon her, and found 
 her an easy prey. She became very ill. Mr. Dun- 
 lap was not alarmed ; he had become accustomed to 
 her fits of sickness ; he thought she would soon get 
 up again ; he was, therefore, astonished when the 
 doctor, following him into his study one evening, 
 began to say, in his professional tone, 
 
 " Mr. Dunlap, I think it my duty to inform 
 you " 
 
 " Is she in any danger ?" asked Mr. Dunlap, so 
 hastily that the physician started, and hesitated. 
 Mr. Dunlap understood it. 
 
 " Call in counsel, immediately," said he. " Why 
 did you not tell of this before ? Let Maurice take 
 this train, and bring up two physicians from the 
 city." 
 
 Arrangements were hurriedly made, and Mr. 
 Dunlap then went to his wife's room. The nurse 
 stole out when he entered, and left him alone with
 
 THE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 167 
 
 her. She lay as if already dead. Why had he not 
 known this before ? 
 
 Now, as in the days of their early love, did she 
 completely fill his heart and mind. He realized, as 
 he had not for a long time done, how precious she 
 was, how dependent he was upon her. He paced 
 softly back and forth by her bed. Recollections 
 aroused came thronging in upon him. He recalled 
 all her gentle pleading for Prescott, why had he 
 not heeded it more ? In his distress, it seemed to 
 him as if he had done nothing to make her happy 
 with him, and now she might die. Had he not 
 been so much absorbed by his literary pursuits that 
 he had neglected her and his children ? The thought 
 was torture to him ; but it would haunt him. What 
 had he done to lighten her cares, to cheer and com 
 fort and strengthen her ? Now she might be taken 
 away. Was she prepared for death ? What was 
 her religious hope ? What had been her Christian 
 experience ? Alas ! alas ! here he was utterly in 
 the dark. How he wished he had encouraged more 
 freedom of religious conversation. He stopped and 
 looked at her. He would have given worlds to have 
 known her state of mind, but he was ignorant of it ; 
 he felt that he had not cherished religious intimacy 
 between them. The latest manifestation of her feel 
 ings which he could recall was that visit to the 
 study. He remembered the devout and placid ex-
 
 168 TIIE WIFE OF A STUDENT. 
 
 pression of countenance which she had when reading 
 that prayer. He clung to this remembrance for 
 comfort ; indeed, he felt no disposition to smile at 
 her selection of " Rise and Progress " then. How 
 he wished he had made more of that golden oppor 
 tunity ! If God would but spare her life, he resolved 
 to profit by his present view of things, and change 
 his course. 
 
 The city physicians arrived. They travelled on 
 the wings of the wind, but death was there before 
 them. There was no strength in her to wrestle 
 with disease. Without recognizing her husband 
 even by a glance, without a sign of her hope in 
 Jesus, without a whisper telling that " His rod " 
 and " His staff" did comfort her, she passed away. 
 
 When those last sad duties (which brought back 
 the penitent boy) were over, Mr. Dunlap sat down 
 by his desolate hearth, among his motherless chil 
 dren ; he felt that all interest and object in life had 
 fled ; there seemed nothing left worth living for. 
 The student now was wholly lost in the husband ; 
 but this change came too late to benefit the Stu 
 dent's Wife.
 
 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 AND HEE 
 
 BROWN PITCHER. 
 
 IN the red school-house in the town of R , 
 
 many little hearts beat high, and eyes sparkled, and 
 faces beamed, when the school was one day dis 
 missed early. They were to have a holiday, for it 
 was training-day, the greatest day in all the year, 
 
 By twelve o'clock at noon, the cannon was planted 
 in the middle of the Common, and the boys swarmed 
 around it. Soon the "Militia " gathered, with knap 
 sacks on their backs, and guns over their shoulders, 
 and dressed in their Sunday's best, of every variety. 
 Then came the Light Infantry, in uniform ; white 
 pants and blue coats trimmed with gold lace, and 
 red and white plumes nodding in their caps ; they 
 came, too, with fife and drum, and lighted up the 
 scene wonderfully. At length were heard bugle 
 and horn, and the clattering of hoofs. Little boys 
 ran for the stone walls, for the cavalry were coming. 
 The prancing horses dashed into the crowd on the 
 15
 
 170 OLD WITCH MOLl, 
 
 Common, and Militia and Light Infantry retreated 
 before them. Curveting and rearing, the horses 
 were at last brought up into a line before the cannon. 
 This was Capt. Tim's entree, and this his moment 
 of glory. With martial tread and glittering epau 
 let, he mounted the cannon, and, taking out his 
 long paper, called out in a stentorian voice : " Abel 
 Abbott!" " Here !" " John Abbott !" "Here!" 
 r " John Bigelow ! John Bigelow .' " All still. 
 " James Bigelow ! " " Here ! " and so on to the 
 end of the alphabet. To the children there was 
 something mysterious in this call and reply in odd 
 tones ; and particularly so in the silence which 
 succeeded to some names. Captain Tim was looked 
 upon as a man of great authority and renown. 
 
 While this was going on, people were coming in 
 from all parts of the town ; wagon-loads of women 
 and children in holiday attire. Unmanageable colts, 
 too, were brought by strong riders for a breaking in, 
 at whose pranks the women would scream and the 
 children cry. Then last, though far from least, 
 were old black Cato and his wife Rose. For many 
 and many x a year did they put up their booth on the 
 Common, on training-day, as punctual as Captain 
 Tim, and almost as important. They sold 'lectiou- 
 cakes with sweet molasses crust, and first-rate spruce 
 beer. Rose, with her clean white apron and shin 
 ing face, her smile and courtesy, and " thank ye
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 171 
 
 kindly," dealt the cake and received the coppers. 
 Little folks peered with eager curiosity into that 
 hand, to see if there were no signs of the black being 
 washed off. 
 
 Cato, also in a white apron, bowed and smirked, 
 and cracked his jokes, and laughed heartily at them, 
 as he passed the beer-glass. Training-day was a 
 great occasion for these honest old folks ; it bought 
 their wood for the next winter. 
 
 When the order, " Forward march ! " was heard, 
 with drum beating, banner flying, and fife playing, 
 the soldiers followed the gold epaulet of Captain 
 Tim to the Three-mile Tavern. At sundown they 
 returned to the Common. The Common then had 
 a word to say ; and when it had thundered its good 
 night, the soldiers were dismissed. 
 
 Those were good old times ; we don't have them 
 
 now in R . Our training-days are all done 
 
 away with. Old Rose and Cato died long ago. No 
 one makes such cake and beer now-a-days. Our old 
 cannon is speechless. How Capt. Tim would mourn 
 over it ! 
 
 On this particular day which we have had in 
 mind Captain Tim went home tired. No wonder, 
 for he had a long walk over the hill and down into 
 the valley where his farm-house nestled. No laugh 
 ing children came running out to welcome him at 
 his own door, no smiling wife relieved him of his
 
 172 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 armor, for he had neither. Capt. Tim, well along 
 as he was in life, was still an old bachelor. 
 
 Old Peg, his housekeeper, shook the dust from 
 his " trainer's gear," as she called it, and went to 
 work to get his supper. Bowsen stretched himself 
 out under the table, and these two were all the liv 
 ing beings Capt. Tim had about him. Somehow, on 
 this particular night, his company did not quite suit 
 him ; after the bustle of the day, his home seemed 
 dull. He had distinct thoughts in his mind that 
 " after all he should not much care if he had some 
 body younger and prettier than old Peg to sit at 
 table and talk to him. Peg was getting deaf, too, 
 and it made her cross not to hear." 
 
 "I guess ye '11 go to bed to-night early," said 
 she ; " you 've been tramping all day, I take it, 
 captain. Seems to me this training costs more 
 than it comes to." 
 
 " Yes, I am tired enough," was the reply ; " and 
 I am going to bed and to sleep till ten o'clock, and 
 at ten o'clock you must wake me up, d' ye 
 hear ? " 
 
 " Bless yp, yes ! You need n't halloo so, I a'nt 
 deaf; and what upon airth do you want to be waked 
 up at nine o'clock for ? " 
 
 " Yes, you are deaf, ten o'clock, I said. I am 
 going to Salem." 
 
 " Going to Salem ! " said Peg ; and the knife
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 173 
 
 dropped from her hand. " Going to Salem at this 
 time o' night, arter training all day ? Are ye 
 crazy. Captain Tim ? " 
 
 "I 've got a load which must be on the wharf by 
 to-morrow morning at six o'clock." 
 
 " Well, mercy on us, you '11 never live to get 
 back ; you '11 get asleep and tumble off the cart, to 
 be run over ; and, besides, the night is dark and the 
 roads muddy. For pity's sake, why can't you get 
 some one else to go ? " 
 
 " It 's my own job, and I must do it ; so call me 
 up at ten." 
 
 Capt. Tim got his nap. Peg sat in the chimney- 
 corner, dozing and scolding at Bowsen, until the old 
 clock struck ten. 
 
 " It 's ten now, if you will be such a fool," said 
 she, opening his bed-room door. 
 
 Capt. Tim allowed himself no yawning time. His 
 way was, if a thing must be done, to* do it. He rose, 
 put on his farmer's frock, huge cow-hide boots and 
 overcoat, in the pocket of which was stowed away a 
 tinder and tobacco box. Thus equipped, he lighted 
 his lantern and went out to the barn. His team was 
 already loaded ; he put the horses to it, and then 
 being ready to start, he went into the house once 
 more for a bite of cold victuals. He asked Peg, but 
 she was deafer than ever.
 
 174 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 " No," said she, " they a'nt flung down, either ; I 
 hung them up myself." 
 
 " You are a fool ! " he grumbled, and helped him 
 self to bread and cheese. " Lock up, Peg, now, and 
 go to bed. I shall be back by to-morrow noon. 
 Come, Bowsen." 
 
 The night was chilly and uncomfortable. There 
 was no moon, but the sky was clear, and the stars 
 shone; at least, they gave light enough to serve 
 Capt. Tim's horses. Bowsen jumped up upon the 
 load, and went to sleep. His master would have 
 been glad to have done likewise, but that was out 
 of the question. He kept himself awake thinking 
 and whistling. He was tired of Peg, and he was 
 turning it over in his mind, " Whether or no it 
 would cost more than it would come to for him to 
 get married." 
 
 His horses being fresh, trotted briskly on, notwith 
 standing their load. When he had gone a good piece 
 on his way, a sudden turn in the road brought him 
 in sight of a hovel which stood a little off towards 
 the right. All alone it stood ; no tree nor shrub in 
 sight. An intrenchment of logs guarded one side, 
 and an old brick chimney the other. This chimney 
 was blackened and crumbling. Rumor said it was 
 blackened by diabolical cookery ; that there witches 
 made their broth ; and that after the death of any 
 body in the neighborhood curious little bones were 

 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 175 
 
 found thrown about this ominous chimney. In this 
 hovel, much feared and much hated, lived Old Witch 
 Moll. 
 
 Captain Titn scowled as he caught sight of her 
 hovel. "The old hag!" thought he to himself; 
 "she deserves to be hung for the mischief she 
 makes. If I belonged to her district, I 'd have her 
 taken up." 
 
 Scarcely had the thought passed through his mind, 
 when his horses stopped, as if spell-bound. Bowsen 
 sprung up, howling. Capt. Tim struck the horses a 
 heavy blow ; they reared and plunged, but did not 
 advance one inch. He struck again ; he lost his 
 temper, and swore at them, and struck again and 
 again. He could see by the star-light the whales 
 he made in their flesh, but all to no purpose. The 
 wheels did not move a hair's breadth. He dis 
 mounted, took his lantern and examined his team ; 
 nothing was out of order, and the road was smooth 
 and hard. Again he put on the lash ; the fright 
 ened and goaded animals, foaming and rearing, still 
 made no headway. Bowsen, howling, ran to and 
 fro. Capt. Tim now set down his lantern, and put 
 his shoulder to the wheel. He might as well have 
 moved the everlasting hills. He looked over to the 
 hovel, he was just in a line with it. There could 
 be no doubt Moll had bewitched his team, and she 
 must be propitiated, or he might stay where he was
 
 176 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 until doomsday. If a thing must be done, as I said 
 before, Captain Tim knew of no way but to do it ; 
 so, whistling to Bowsen, to keep his courage up, he 
 started for the hovel. It was now dead of night. 
 Nine chances to one, Moll would be cross, and would 
 not stir liand or foot to help him. He felt in his 
 pocket to see what he had to buy her over with. 
 Intent upon this, he stumbled over something, and 
 nearly fell. Turning his lantern to see what was in 
 his way, he found himself stumbling over that pile 
 of mysterious bones ! Just at that moment Captain 
 Tim did not feel much like laughing at "old wives' 
 fables." 
 
 When he reached Moll's door, he pounded on it 
 with the handle of his whip. 
 
 " What 's wanted, this time of night ? " said a 
 gruff voice. 
 
 "A a poor teamster wants help," said Cap 
 tain Tim, not very much in the tone in which a few 
 hours before he had called out, " Forward march ! " 
 
 " Do you belong to this dee-strict ? " said Moll, 
 with a coarse laugh. 
 
 In spite of himself, Captain Tim shook all over. 
 " The devil certainly helps her," thought he. 
 
 " The devil helps me," said the same voice, " does 
 he ? Well, ask him, and perhaps he will help you ; 
 so be off with yourself, and don't be waking honest 
 folks up at this time o' night."
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 177 
 
 Captain Tim did not stir. Bowsen had crouched, 
 silenced, at his feet. Now another voice, soft and 
 pleasant, the sweetest voice the captain thought he 
 had .ever heard, said, " Let 's just open the door, and 
 see what the matter is. He may be an honest man 
 in distress. Don't turn him away; how do you 
 know but he has silver ? " 
 
 Captain Tim could understand this, and the life- 
 blood came back to his heart. 
 
 " Silver, yes, plenty of it, so you '11 only start my 
 team along, that 's all I want ; then I '11 be off." 
 
 " I '11 open the door," said the same pleasant 
 voice, " and Aunt Moll will help you, if you can 
 pay her well for it." 
 
 The hasp was lifted, and the door opened. A 
 young girl, with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and a 
 smile like sunshine, stood before Captain Tim. Old 
 bachelor as he was, he could have fallen on his knees 
 before her. 
 
 " My team," he stammered out, " is stuck." 
 
 " In with you, Luce ! " was growled out, and old 
 Moll, the witch, dressed in a red cloak, stepped be 
 fore her. " What 's your business ? " 
 
 " To get along to Salem," said Tim ; " and here 's 
 four silver quarters for you, if you will help me." 
 
 " You a'nt in a hurry to have me hung to-night, 
 then, are ye ? " said the hag, with a croaking laugh. 
 " Luce, hand me my club, and then be off to bed."
 
 178 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 Luce did as she was bidden ; but first she looked 
 iu Captain Tim's face, and he in hers. " Good-night 
 to ye," said the captain, " and thank ye kindly, too. 
 Can I do anything for you in Salem ? " 
 
 " In with you, Luce, I say ; and you, Mr., come 
 along, if you want any help from me ! " roared out 
 Moll. With rapid strides she made her way down 
 to the team, and Captain Tim after her. There it 
 stood stock still, just where he left it. Old Moll 
 muttered off" a few words, and striking the wheels a 
 smart blow with the club, she chirruped to the 
 horses. They started on the full gallop, and Bow- 
 sen after them. 
 
 " Run like the devil, or you won't catch them ! " 
 said she, with a loud laugh. Captain Tim dropped 
 the silver into her withered hand and ran ; he needed 
 no second bidding. A good race he had of it, before 
 he overtook them. They went, indeed, as if the evil 
 one were after them. Captain Tim and Bowseu 
 panted about alike when they did catch up. Bow- 
 sen, like a sensible dog, curled down and napped it 
 after his adventure; but not so his master. Mr. 
 Timothy Brown's heart had not been in such a flut 
 ter since the day when he first put on his captain's 
 uniform. It was not beating with fear either ; for 
 he was not a coward, and now he was away from 
 that pile of bones he could think quite coolly of 
 Moll and her club. It was Luce with her sweet
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 179 
 
 face and her sweeter smile, who had mastered him. 
 What on earth she lived with that old hag for, he 
 could not make out. 
 
 " What a life she must have of it," thought he, 
 " poor cretur ! I dare say she has n't a relation in 
 this wide world. If it had n't been for her, I might 
 have been sticking to the middle of the road till this 
 time. I 'm sorry for her, I declare. My farm 
 house is enough better than Moll's hovel, and she is 
 enough prettier than Peg for a housekeeper. I '11 
 marry her, and I dare say she '11 be glad on 't." 
 
 By the time he had arrived at this conclusion, the 
 spires of Salem were just discernible in the gray 
 light of morning. He was on the wharf with his 
 load at the appointed hour, received his pay, and 
 then went to refresh man and beast at the Farmer's 
 Home. Captain Tim sat over the fire in the bar 
 room, with his pipe in his mouth, and cogitated. He 
 had decided to marry Luce, and, as has been re 
 marked, if a thing must be done, he knew of no way* 
 but to do it. 
 
 Now he was already in Salem, it might not be 
 so easy to get down again, if he could manage it 
 so as to get his certificate of publishment now, he 
 could stop and tell Luce of it on his way home. 
 This certainly was the best way of doing the busi 
 ness; but here was a difficulty. His own name 
 he knew, but what was her own ? " Luce Luce,
 
 180 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 that must mean Lucy. ' Miss Lucy' would be right, 
 then, so far. Then she said Aunt Moll; and it 
 would n't be any wonder if she was a niece, and had 
 the same name." Captain Tim was a Yankee, and 
 set to work to find out. 
 
 "How old has Moll got to be ?" said he to the 
 bar-tender. 
 
 "Nobody can tell you that ere. I'm thinking 
 my father used to know her, she can't be far from 
 a hundred, sich folks lives forever." 
 
 "Did your father know her? What did her 
 name use to be ? " 
 
 " Buswell, Mary Buswell, I 've heard him tell; 
 and a pretty gal and a smart gal she was, too." 
 
 " They call her Old Moil now, don't they ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Does she live alone there ? " 
 
 "Not she; she has a pretty gal living with her, 
 some relation, folks say. She keeps her shut up, 
 and learns her to deal with Old Niek, and she 
 knows now more than honest folks wish she did." 
 
 Captain Tim, having made up his mind, was not 
 at all discouraged by this recommendation. He 
 finished his pipe. Salem people were now astir, 
 shops and offices were open. He went out into 
 Main-street, and entered a large tobacco store. He 
 bought a bladder of snuff, and some very extra to 
 bacco, for a present to Moll. He then went to the
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 181 
 
 town clerk's office, and entered his name for publish 
 ment of "intention of marriage" with Miss Lucy 
 Buswell. He then persuaded the clerk to give him 
 the certificate of publishment, which, to save the 
 forms of law, was dated two weeks or more in ad 
 vance, the clerk consenting to a liberal, and, it 
 must be confessed, an original interpretation to the 
 law, out of regard for Captain Tim's ingenuity and 
 honest face. 
 
 The sun by this time was getting pretty well up, 
 and Captain Tim's horses were rested ; so, with his 
 license safe in his pocket, he turned his face home 
 ward. " It can't do no harm," said he to himself;. 
 " if it don't do no good. I can burn it up, if I 
 change my mind; it han't cost me much." 
 
 The sun made a glorious morning of it, bathing 
 wagon and driver, dog and horses, in a cheerful 
 light, drying up the roads, and bringing out many 
 singers on the still leafless branches by the way-side. 
 Since the same hour on the day before, how much 
 had happened to the commander-in-chief of the mili 
 tary forces of II ! Event had succeeded event, 
 
 thought followed thought, and plan trod hard upon 
 plan. His heart beat with unwonted excitement, 
 faster and still faster, as Aunt Moll's hovel came in 
 sight. 
 
 A cheerful smoke now curled gracefully up from 
 the huge throat of the old chimney, and the bleached 
 16
 
 182 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 pile of bones which lay around it looked far less 
 formidable with the sun shining on them. To soften 
 the sombre look of the pile of logs, a young girl 
 stood by them, dressed in short gown and petticoat, 
 with a blue handkerchief bound over her head. It 
 was Luce, Captain Tim knew her in an instant. 
 Now, he had been trying all the morning to arrange 
 his thoughts a little, to make out what he should 
 say first, but he had not been able to satisfy him 
 self. He had never been courting in his younger 
 days. 
 
 Somehow it did not seem to him as if it would be 
 exactly the right beginning to show the license first, 
 and he was all in confusion as to what he ought to 
 do. He looked down on his dirty frock and boots, 
 how much Captain Tim would have given, just 
 then, for his gold epaulets ! 
 
 " Good-inorning, Miss Lucy ; I hope you 're well 
 this morning." 
 
 Lucy lifted up the same laughing face which had 
 bewitched our hero at dead of night. 
 
 " So you got along, did you ? " said she, snapping 
 a pair of black eyes. 
 
 " Yes, and I suppose I ought to thank you for it." 
 
 Now came a dead pause. Captain Tim fumbled 
 in his frock pockets, he grasped his license ; in 
 hia extremity, he was just about handing it out to 
 her, when his fingers encountered the tobacco.
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 183 
 
 " 0, I forgot," said he ; "I brought Aunt Moll a 
 present ; it 's in the wagon. I '11 get it in a min 
 ute." Down he ran after it, and, with snuff and 
 tobacco, propitiatory offerings to the goddess within, 
 he approached the hovel. By this time Lucy had 
 vanished, but the door stood wide open. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Captain Tim to the old 
 crone, who was smoking in the chimney-corner ; " I 
 thought, as I was going by, I 'd just drop in and 
 leave you a little present, for helping me along last 
 night." 
 
 " You lie ! " said Moll ; " it 's Luce ye 're arter, 
 and you know it is." 
 
 " Well, so it is, granny. You do know everything, 
 don't ye ? I 've got the license safe in my pocket. 
 I want to marry her, and take her home with me. 
 I 've got a nice farm, I 'in well to do in the world, 
 and I s'pose I Ve sowed my wild oats. I can give 
 her a good home, and take good care on her. Try 
 your snuff and 'baccy, will ye ? " 
 
 Moll re-filled her pipe, and, looking straight into 
 the ashes, rocked to and fro a long time in silence. 
 Captain Tim grew very impatient. 
 
 "I know all about ye," said she, at last; "you 
 may as well have her as anybody, far 's I know. 
 She will marry some day, more fool she, she 's 
 got it in her. Luce, Luce ! " 
 
 Lucy came at the call. "Captain Tim, here,
 
 184 
 
 wante you to Barry bin. Yaa may do as joa *re a 
 nad to abort h. Wbatsay,eh? Speak out 
 doat act Eke aBMfkta! 
 
 Lacy, wilk her syail Bag <yes, looked ia Ciaphaw 
 
 - _ ''.-..-"-_:: :.-.:. ?__; n:-: :__;, 1.1: 
 
 heart aw* heart. 
 
 "What do ye say V roared Moll ; hedont want 
 to keep as teui waiting aH day." 
 
 -Yes, I will marry Km," said Locj. 
 
 " WeB, themv be off vitk ye now, Mr. Captain. 
 Dart waste faae a cnortiag Yoa H bare enoogh 
 f awgarier yoaVe uiiied. Off whb ye, and be 
 back bere two veeks &n ta^day. Ye a T nt sueb a 
 fiiol as to sopfMoe your ficexfie wiH do ye any good 
 yet. See to it, now, je dont make any talk about 
 it, or it will go bard with ye. The gal will bare 
 noddag but the elotbes oo her boek ; I teDyetbat 
 beftteaaad. Ifiai je, too, ye T re to bring no paam 
 
 " We can go down town to get muried," said the 
 
 " Sah yoorsrff boat that; it 's aD one to me," 
 1 Mull, "aiaee ahe wffl go. Ye 're a pair of 
 fob, both of ye!" 
 
 <* I *re had her name pat down OB thk paper as 
 Mki Lucy BosweQ. Is that right, granny ? n 
 
 " Good as any name," and Mofl, with a 
 jjpiwf tfcnrlfc.
 
 150 
 
 "AnregTar, then?" 
 
 "BegTar," said MoH, with a huge pu 
 
 " 1 11 he here, then, two weeks from to-day," amp 
 CaptamTim. 
 
 <- See that you dont come afcre then, that 's afl ; 
 so off with you, now ! " 
 
 Captain Tim could think of nothing farther to 
 remark. He mored towards the door. Lucy fcl- 
 knred him. He looked once more in her eyes ; they 
 were swimming in tears. He stopped on the outer 
 step ; he wanted to say smnrthing. " Don't cry," 
 said he, in a. whisper ; * I H be good to ye." Her 
 head drooped a little, and Captain Tim somehow 
 he nercr could tefl exactly how himself fmnd hk 
 Gps on her cheek. Twenty-fire years had it been 
 smce his lip had touched so soft a cheek; them he 
 land his last friewefl to his mother. 
 
 " Lnee !" growled out old Mofl. Captain Tmi 
 started as if shot ; he onto his team, he whistled 
 to Bowsen, he put on the lash, and was sot 
 he own familiar bilk. 
 
 For the next fixtmght Peg was in a great' 
 dary. What had bewitched her master neither she 
 nor any one else could dmne. She was sure she 
 had cleaned the house once that spring from garret 
 to cellar, and yet nothing would do but Dodge most 
 come and clean after her. Then came painters and 
 white-washers, and, last of all, die was quite dnmb- 
 16*
 
 186 OLD WITC1I MOLL 
 
 founded by the sight of a bran new paper for the 
 parlor walls, a paper full of pretty pictures of 
 men and women sitting under trees with angels 
 flying over their heads. Thinking it proved that 
 her master had either " gone stark staring mad," 
 or had some secret plan in view, which he would 
 reveal to no one, she besieged him again with ques 
 tions. 
 
 " I bought it because 1 wanted to," was all she 
 could get out of him. She fretted and fumed, and 
 sulked and cried, at having the house turned upside 
 down, but all to no purpose. Captain Tim went 
 straight on, having everything done in his own way 
 and own time. At last he seemed satisfied. He 
 walked from one room to another, looked into his 
 cupboards, smiled and whistled. 
 
 " Peg," said he, " I want you to brush up my 
 uniform." 
 
 " The Lard a' massa, captain ! to-morrow a'nt 
 trainin'-day." 
 
 " No matter ; I want it ready to-night ; and, hark 
 ye, Peg, here 's your wages, and a dollar over, to 
 buy you a new gown. To-morrow I 'm going away, 
 and to-morrow night, at six o'clock, I shall be back 
 here, with company. I want ye to ccok your best 
 tea, and set the table in the parlor, and put on the 
 best cups." 
 
 Spite of himself, Captain Tim looked rather fool-
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 187 
 
 ish, and Peg instantly mistrusted the truth. She 
 did not dare, however, to say a word. She fixed 
 up the uniform, and went to bed. When she awoke, 
 her master had gone, and she had lost the pleasure 
 of seeing him start off in a handsome covered-wagon. 
 
 On the morning of the appointed day, Lucy, 
 dressed in her " span-clean " clothes, sat on the log 
 by Moll's door. All which she owned in the world 
 was tied up in a red cotton handkerchief, and the 
 bundle was by her side. She was putting a root or 
 two of a favorite herb into it, when she heard steps, 
 and, looking up, saw her gallant captain standing 
 before her, blue coat and yellow buttons, gold 
 epaulets and white pants, shining boots and waving 
 plume. A very fine-looking captain he was, in 
 truth. Lucy's eyes danced with pleasure, and she 
 gave him such a welcome as soon brought his lips to 
 her cheeks again. 
 
 " You 're all ready ? " said Captain Tim. 
 
 " All ready," said Lucy, " but digging up a root 
 or two." 
 
 " Let me do it," said Captain Tim. She laughed, 
 and handed him her spade. 
 
 " I would n't put these ere in your bundle," said 
 he ; " I '11 put them in the wagon-box. How is Aunt 
 Moll ? " 
 
 " She is well, there she is." 
 
 " So ye 're here, bright and early, in your rigi-
 
 188 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 mentals, are ye, Mr. Captain ? You '11 have all the 
 boys in town arter ye, to pay for it, if ye don't look 
 out. You 've broke your fast, I s'pose ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the captain, " and I am all ready 
 now, as soon as Lucy is." 
 
 " Luce has been ready this week," said Moll, in a 
 gruff tone. " You 've got a hard day's work afore 
 ye, and the sooner you 're off the better. I don't 
 want any leave-takings. Off with ye, both ! I wish 
 ye well. Here, this is all I have to give ye. Now, 
 mark my words. Luck be to ye while this abides 
 under your roof, and woe be to ye should ill befall 
 it ! " She handed them a brown crockery pitcher, of 
 a most unearthly look. It was shaped like a barrel, 
 with a human head, and a distorted, fiend-like face. 
 A gaping mouth it had, the under lip protruding, 
 and huge ears, which were fastened back to make a 
 handle, and a skull, which lifted up, for a cover. 
 Captain Tim, nothing daunted, since he was in regi 
 mentals, lifted the skull, and found in the bowels 
 of the pitcher a few odd, well-crossed pieces of 
 silver. 
 
 " Spend the siller and ye will, Luce, on wedding 
 finery ; but keep the pitcher, I tell ye, for your 
 children and your children's children." 
 
 These were Aunt Moll's farewell words. She 
 went back into her hovel, and shut her door and 
 hasped it. She would be disturbed no more.
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 189 
 
 Captain Tim packed the pitcher carefully away 
 in the straw in the box, stowed in the roots and 
 the bundle also, handed in the bride elect, and 
 trotted off towards Salem. He and Lucy now made 
 good use of their tongues, as you may imagine, and 
 in an hour or two they knew each other's history. 
 Lucy could not tell him exactly what relation she 
 was to Moll ; she did not know ; she had always 
 called her aunt, and she reckoned she was a niece, 
 at any rate, she had not always lived with her. 
 She did not know very much about her ; she had a 
 dim remembrance of having heard, when a very 
 little girl, that Moll was married unhappily ; that 
 her husband deserted her ; that she was left with 
 one child, who died quite young ; that then Moll 
 went to that hut to live, and buried the child there ; 
 and she, Lucy, had always thought it was buried 
 under that heap of bones. Moll took great pains 
 that the heap should never grow less. 
 
 " She knows a deal," said Lucy ; " I used to be 
 afraid of her. I made up my mind, a year or two 
 ago, I would not live there always, and I told her 
 so. Since then she has been careful what she did 
 afore me." 
 
 " How came she to let you come off so easy with 
 me ? " asked Captain Tim. 
 
 " I can't tell," said Lucy. " That night you got 
 stuck, I knew something was going on. Aunt Moll
 
 190 OLD WITCH MOLL 
 
 had n't shut her eyes. She was so fidgety it kept 
 me awake. I heard you whip your horses, and try 
 to start your team." 
 
 14 Did n't though, did ye ? " said the captain. 
 
 44 Yes, and I heard you whistle to Bowsen and 
 come walking up the lane, and I heard you stumble 
 over the bones. Aunt Moll laughed then. I was 
 mad at her, and I determined to help you, if I 
 could." 
 
 44 1 remember jest how ye looked when ye opened 
 the door," said Captain Tim, 44 and I guess I always 
 shall. I liked ye then." 
 
 44 And so did I you," said Lucy ; 4( and I would 
 have gone with ye that night, if ye had asked me." 
 
 14 You would n't though, would ye ? " said Captain 
 Tim, and he laughed heartily. 
 
 Now they were in Salem. Their license served 
 them, and they were married. A few bridal knick- 
 knacks were bought, and the happy pair turned their 
 faces homeward. As they repassed old Moll's hovel, 
 they peered out up the lane, and drove slowly by. 
 No signs of life appeared. 
 
 44 Shall we stop ? " said Captain Tim. 
 
 44 'T would be of no use," was the reply ; 44 the 
 door is fast, and she would n't let us in, I know." 
 So they drove on. Soon Captain Tim's farm-house 
 came in view. It faced the west, and the front 
 windows shone like gold in the light of the setting
 
 AND HER BROWN PITCHER. 191 
 
 sun. The yards were swept clean as a penny, and 
 at the door stood Peg, in her Sunday's best. 
 
 What a home this was for the poor, homeless 
 girl ! The tears rolled down her cheeks, they 
 fell like rain ; she dropped her head on her hus 
 band's epaulet, and cried like a child for joy. 
 
 Captain Tim laughed and cried too, as he handed 
 her out. " Here, Peggy," said he, " is young Mrs. 
 Tim Brown." 
 
 This is my great Aunt Tim's history, as I heard 
 it when a boy, many and many a year after it hap 
 pened. In addition to it, I must say that Aunt 
 Tim made my uncle a most excellent wife. She was 
 handsome and good, loved and respected, outlived 
 him by about three years, and died at the ripe old 
 age of eighty-five. Her children, and her chil 
 dren's children, cherish her memory. 
 
 Those bright pictures on that new paper have 
 long since faded out ; the farm-house itself has 
 gone to decay ; but that UNEARTHLY PITCHER is in 
 the family yet. In the old house, it stood in the 
 parlor, in a corner cupboard. We children used to 
 creep into the half-darkened room, and gaze at it 
 with awe and terror. I can distinctly remember 
 seeing it brought into the dairy or brewery, or set 
 over sick cattle, to bring good luck ; and I have 
 been told it never failed. 
 
 So much for Old Witch Moll's pitcher. Old Moll
 
 192 OLD WITCH MOLL. 
 
 herself never came to see my uncle and aunt, but 
 they used to go and see her once a year. She died 
 as she had lived, alone in her hovel, and, by her 
 own particular request, my Uncle Tim had her 
 buried near that heap of bones. The bones bleached 
 and mouldered away, undisturbed; for the very 
 dogs seemed to avoid the mysterious spot.
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 " I HOPE we shall finish here, this week," said 
 Mr. Morton, to his workman, Ben Jones. 
 
 " Finish easy enough, if 't were n't for the 
 Fourth," replied Ben ; " I always calculate to take 
 the Fourth." 
 
 " What do you intend doing this year ? I under 
 stand they are to have no celebration in town." 
 
 " No, they a'nt to have no celebration, and the 
 more fools they ; it 's like pulling out their eye- 
 teeth, to have to spend a dollar ! It don't worry me 
 none, though, for wife and I have agreed to go to 
 Boston, and see the fireworks." 
 
 " What will you do with your family ? " 
 
 ' 0, take 'em along ; there a'nt but two of 'em, 
 you know, and the boy is pretty considerable big 
 now, and runs about quite smart. I only hope it 
 won't be as hot as blazes. Did you ever see them 
 fireworks, Mr. Morton ? " 
 
 " Yes, many times." 
 
 " I want to know ! Well, are they as curious as 
 folks tell for ? " 
 
 " Yes, they are well worth seeing." 
 
 " That 's the idee I had about it ; and wife and I 
 17
 
 194 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 thought we would go, for once in our lives, and see 
 'em. I suppose it will cost us a power of money ; 
 but we can work a little harder for it, when we 
 come back." 
 
 The " Glorious Fourth " dawned beautifully. The 
 red sun came up over the distant hills like a bride 
 groom from his chamber, and started on his journey 
 through a cloudless sky. Daisy and buttercup, 
 drunk with the dews of the night, lifted their heavy 
 heads to greet him ; and a flood of song was poured 
 from the leafy coverts of the trees, to welcome him. 
 Young eyes were opening, and young hearts, as well 
 as old ones, were rejoicing in this auspicious dawn. 
 
 " We shall have a beautiful day on 't," said Ben 
 Jones. 
 
 " So we shall," said his wife ; " and the sooner we 
 are off the better, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes," said Ben, " the cars, they tell me, never 
 wait for nobody, and we must be pretty early to get 
 a seat." 
 
 Ben immediately dressed himself in his Sunday's 
 best. This suit was of thick blue cloth, the coat 
 being rather short-waisted, and trimmed with yellow 
 buttons. In this Ben's wife took a particular pride, 
 on account of both its color and its quality ; and she 
 had a secret idea 'that her husband looked like a 
 real gentleman in it. What was her astonishment, 
 when she saw him, on this day of all days, toss the
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 195 
 
 Sunday coat over a chair, take down a nankeen 
 jacket, and put it on ! 
 
 " What in the world are you doing that for ? " 
 she inquired. 
 
 " 'Cause I don't want to roast," said Ben ; " ic 
 will be as hot as 'Lection, afore night.'-' 
 
 " I won't go with you in that jacket," said Mrs. 
 Ben. " How you would look, in Boston ! Folks 
 would think you were a sailor." 
 
 " 'T won't hurt me none, what folks think, as I 
 knows on," said Ben. 
 
 " Well, it will me," remarked his wife. 
 
 "Dear me, then, if you are going to feel bad 
 about it, I won't wear it." 
 
 Ben was famously good-natured ; he put on the 
 thick blue coat. The children were next taken up, 
 and dressed by the mother ; Tim, the boy, harnessed 
 the horse into the wagon, while Ben prepared the 
 breakfast. It was served on the round table, in the 
 little back-kitchen. A good breakfast it was, con 
 sisting of coffee and cream, eggs and butter, cold 
 pork and potatoes, doughnuts and apple-pie ; and 
 that was a happy party which sat down to partake 
 of it. The rising sun looked upon none happier, 
 through all that glad, bright morning. 
 
 Our friends ate their meal rather hurriedly, for 
 they thought all the time they heard the cars whiz-
 
 196 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 zing by,. and they concluded it was best to be " get 
 ting along." 
 
 Tim was packing in the babies, and Ben Jones 
 turning the lock in the door, when suddenly a new 
 thought struck hiua. 
 
 " Now, I '11 be beat," said he, " if I ha'nt a good 
 notion to take grandsir's old turnip along." 
 
 " What good will it do you ? " asked his wife ; 
 " you can't make it go." 
 
 " Yes, I guess I can," said Ben ; " I can coax it 
 so it 'II hitch along a little, by shakin' it up once in 
 a while." 
 
 Ben went in for the old silver watch, wound it 
 up, set it by guess, and deposited it in his fob. As 
 he came out, his wife thought the rusty ribbon, with 
 the steel key attached, quite an addition to his 
 Sunday suit. Her eyes were so full of him and his 
 good looks, that they had gone above half a mile 
 from home before she observed that Ben, when he 
 took the watch, left the bag. 
 
 " As true as I am alive, Ben," said she, " you 've 
 left the bag ; and there is no manner of use in trying 
 to go without it. All the children's things are in 
 it" 
 
 " So I have," said Ben ; " that 's a good 'un. 
 Whoa ! Tim, run back, no, we shall get late, 
 you drive on, and I '11 run back, and catch up to 
 you."
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 197 
 
 Ben was wise enough to take off his blue coat 
 before he started on this race. Tim drove leisurely 
 on. Old Dob, whose check-rein was down, snatched, 
 now and then, a mouthful of clover and daisies from 
 the road-side, much to the children's delight. It 
 was a great exploit for them to start Dob along, 
 after these liberties. The little girl brandished the 
 huge whip, and Ben junior rattled the reins, which 
 his tiny hands could not wholly grasp. Tim and 
 Mrs. Jones laughed heartily at these performances ; 
 the butterflies, also, seemed to enjoy it, for they flew 
 around and around on their yellow wings, never 
 going far away ; and the birds, too, followed them 
 from tree to tree, singing loud and merrily. A 
 most remarkable feat of the little Ben brought out 
 a great chorus of laughter, in the midst of which 
 Ben senior caught up. He puffed like a race-horse, 
 and the " beady sweat " stood on his forehead ; but 
 he had found the bag, and had overtaken the party, 
 and he felt quite content. Seeing that all were 
 laughing, he laughed too, without knowing what 
 the joke was ; so they had a merry wagon-load of it. 
 Perhaps during the whole of that eventful day this 
 party saw no moments of purer enjoyment. 
 
 " What time is it ? " inquired Mrs. Jones. 
 
 " Arter seven," said Ben, pulling out the old 
 watch and shaking it. " Jingo ! we shall be late. 
 Tim, drive like mad, while I cool off." 
 17*
 
 198 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 Old Dob did his best, considering it was the 
 " Glorious Fourth," and when he reached the depot 
 by the railroad time it was precisely fifteen minutes 
 after seven. According to grandsir's chronometer, 
 he had come three miles in about five minutes ; he 
 was therefore entitled to both rest and clover. 
 
 Early as it was, for the cars were never along 
 before eight, and would on this day probably be 
 much later, the depot was already crowded, and 
 there was no room within doors for Dob's load even 
 to stand. Mrs. Jones said "she would sit right 
 down on the bank." The children, however, did 
 not like this arrangement ; and it was about as diffi 
 cult to keep them still as it would have been a 
 young calf, and their little feet were always straying 
 towards those dangerous rails, of which their mother 
 was as much afraid, she said, " as of a loaded gun, 
 and more too, for aught she knew." Ben the little, 
 after having been brought up suddenly, by a grasp 
 on his sack-belt behind, began to show a proper 
 resentment of this impeachment of his liberty on 
 the Fourth. He cried hard as he could, and there 
 was no pacifying him, but by a " compromise," by 
 which he should be allowed to roll in the sand. 
 This, his mother declared, "could never be done, 
 with his span-clean clothes on." The only way, 
 then, left to Keep the peace was, that his father 
 should carry him about, which he did, pacing back
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 199 
 
 and forth, back and forth, by the track, for more 
 than an hour. As the sun rode on in his unclouded 
 path, his chariot-wheels seemed to be of fire. Ben 
 began to find his blue coat decidedly uncomfortable. 
 " If it had not been for his wife, he really should 
 have wished he had worn his jacket ; but, as it was, 
 there was no help for it ; it would be cooler riding, 
 if the cars ever did get along." As he walked, he 
 tried to talk with his neighbors around him, and 
 heard such glowing descriptions of the fireworks, 
 that his enthusiasm was re-kindled, and the edge of 
 present toil blunted by the hopes of future pleasure. 
 
 In the mean time, his wife sat on the sand-bank, in 
 the hot sun. Her gloves were fast losing their 
 original color ; her bonnet-strings were loosened, to 
 save them from the same fate ; she spread her little 
 sun-shade, but it afforded but a meagre protection 
 for herself and her little girl. Of all the party, 
 Dob, who stood in the shade of a neighboring house, 
 eating sorel and spearmint, thus far had had the 
 easiest time of it, notwithstanding his extraordinary 
 exertion. 
 
 At length the grateful sound of the far-off whistle 
 was heard by the waiting crowd. There was a 
 general rush to the track, all eager to get in first. 
 Ben, in his hurry, took up both children, and Jthe 
 bag into the bargain, so that his wife had nothing 
 to do but to keep them all from going under the car-
 
 200 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 wheels. There was pushing and scrambling, and 
 ordering hither and thither, and much confusion, 
 before the new party could find room in the already 
 crowded cars. There was but one seat for Ben's 
 family of four. This his wife took. 
 
 " You hold the girl and the bag," said Ben, 
 " and I '11 stand close by you, and hold on to the boy 
 and the tickets." 
 
 Now, after a good mile race, and an hour's prom 
 enade in the sun, to stand and carry a child all the 
 way to Boston, was something of a draft, even on 
 Ben's strength. He bore it, however, good-hu- 
 moredly, and to those who tried to pass him, in the 
 vain hope of a seat further on, he distributed com 
 fort in the following small doses : 
 
 " Plenty of room on there, if you ha'nt got no 
 corns. Hold on to your hat, neighbor, and I guess 
 you '11 make it out. Yes, ma'am, room a plenty; 
 they can pile up there. 'Ta'nt but once a year," 
 said he to a grumbler ; " give 'em all a chance ; we 
 can afford to be neighborly." " Never mind," said 
 he to a feeble old man, " lean on me a bit ; if you 
 can stand it a little while, we shall soon be down 
 there ; they go like shot when they get at it." 
 
 The cars, however, went by no means as fast as 
 Ben had calculated. They stopped at all the way- 
 stations, where they found great crowds awaiting 
 them. At every fresh supply, Ben burst into
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 201 
 
 such an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and unbur 
 dened himself of so many odd, out-of-the-way 
 ejaculations, that he kept all around him laughing. 
 A lady who occupied the seat by his wife seemed 
 very much amused. 
 
 " You must be tired," said she, pleasantly, to him. 
 " Shall not I hold your boy a while ? " 
 
 " I am much obleeged," said Ben, " but the little 
 fellow is kind o' shy of strangers, and I reckon he 
 would n't come. Bub, go sit with the lady ? " Bub 
 signified his displeasure. " No ? well ! it 's no mat 
 ter. I thought he would n't. Children are so 'fraid 
 o' nothin' ! It 's no matter ; we shall soon be there, 
 now." 
 
 " no," replied the lady ; " we are not quite half 
 way, and at this rate it will take us more than an 
 hour longer." 
 
 " Golly ! we shall have a time on 't, shan't we ? " 
 said Ben, laughing again loudly. 
 
 " Perhaps," said the lady, " the little girl will sit 
 with me, and the mother can take the boy." She 
 was bent on doing Ben a kindness. The girl came 
 to her readily, and Ben, relieved of his burden, 
 stretched out his arm as far as he could find room 
 for it. 
 
 " Wife," said he, " that boy is pretty solid ; I 
 mean to have him weighed when we get home." 
 
 At the next station several cars were added, and
 
 202 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 all were now accommodated. Ben took a seat at an 
 open window, in front of his wife. Having no 
 longer any discomforts upon which to crack his 
 jokes, he began to let off his spirits a little on his 
 boy. He pulled off the straw hat from the little 
 curly head, played " peep bo " behind it, and finally 
 held it out the window, pretending to throw it. On 
 a sudden, a gust of wind took it, and away it went, 
 in sober earnest. 
 
 " Jingoes ! hallo-o there ! I never did see the 
 beat on 't ! It 's gone, clean as a whistle ! " 
 
 " Stop it ! " screamed his wife, putting her head 
 out of the window ; " stop it, can't you ? " 
 
 " It is of no use to try now," said the lady ; " we 
 are half a mile from it." 
 
 " Who would have thought on 't ? " said Ben, 
 laughing with his neighbors. " Well, little fellow 
 must go bare-headed." 
 
 " It was bran new," said his wife ; " so much for 
 fooling ! " and she began to cry. 
 
 " La ! " said Ben, " what is the use of crying for 
 spilt milk ? There is plenty more where that came 
 from. We '11 buy him another, as soon as we get to 
 Boston. 'Ta'nt much matter ; 't was always kind o' 
 too small for him. Here, Bub, I '11 tie on my hand 
 kerchief." 
 
 Ben took out a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, 
 and tied it over the little white curls.
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 203 
 
 " See, wife," said he, " he looks real pretty in 
 it ; it is a sight better than his hat." 
 
 " Yes, it is quite becoming to him," remarked the 
 lady ; " you ought to have his picture taken ! " 
 
 This well-timed compliment soothed the mother, 
 and her tears ceased to flow. 
 
 The locomotive gets over the ground rapidly, 
 even on its slowest walk, so that in due time, which 
 was in reality good time, our Fourth-of-July parties 
 reached the Boston depot, and were soon scattered 
 and lost amid the crowds of the city. Ben expe 
 rienced some difficulty in getting past the hackmen. 
 There seemed to be something in his good-natured 
 countenance which attracted them ; they besieged 
 him on every side. " Take a hack ? take a carriage ? 
 Carry you right there, sir." 
 
 At first Ben laughed, and explained quite po 
 litely the reasons why he preferred walking. 
 
 " No, thank ye ; 'ta'nt but a step, and we rather 
 walk ; we are only going up a piece to our cousin's." 
 But when he saw a gentleman before him deign no 
 other reply than some hearty raps with his umbrella- 
 handle on the pates of the officious hackmen, he took 
 his cue from it, and, cutting short his words, con 
 tented himself, for the most part, with expressive 
 shakes. One persevering applicant followed him 
 quite out upon the sidewalk. " Walk this way, if 
 you please, sir ; here is my hack."
 
 204 THE GLOHIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 " I tell you I a'nt going to ride ! " said Ben. 
 
 "Take you right there, jump in, any bag- 
 gage ? 
 
 " Live baggage, that 's all." 
 
 " Where do you go, sir ? " 
 
 " To my cousin's, in T street." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; know just where it is, carry you 
 right there. It 's to the South End a long way." 
 
 " Much obleeged to ye, then, for your kindness," 
 Slid Ben. " We'll get in, if you are so perticular- 
 like about it. You won't charge us nothin', of 
 course ? " 
 
 " Only one dollar." 
 
 " One dollar ! Jimininetti ! I guess I shan't pay 
 that till I find out where dollars grow," said Ben. 
 
 " You did n't expect to ride for nothing, you fool, 
 did you ? " said the hack man. 
 
 " 'Twas your own job," said Ben. " I told you, in 
 the first on 't, I wan't going to ride, and you stuck 
 to me like a leech." 
 
 The hackman muttered something to himself, as 
 he put up his steps ; Ben and his family walked 
 away, without knowing exactly whither to direct 
 their uncertain steps. As they turned the corner 
 of the depot, they met the lady who had spoken to 
 them in the cars. Her veil was now lifted, and 
 Ben thought he never saw a handsomer lady.
 
 TUB GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 205 
 
 "Where are you going? to get your boy a 
 hat ? " said she, with a sweet smile. 
 
 " I calculate to," said Ben ; " but I thought we 
 would go to cousin's first, and kind o' settle down, 
 and then come out. They live in T street." 
 
 " T street ? " said the lady ; " that is almost 
 
 out to Iloxbury. Your best way is to walk right up 
 into Washington-street to some of the hat-stores first, 
 
 and then take an omnibus out to T street. It 
 
 will cost you only ten cents to get there." 
 
 " I swany ! " said Ben, " and that chap was going 
 to get a dollar out of me ! Blast him ! " 
 
 The lady smiled, arid taking the little handker- 
 chiefed boy by the hand, for he was no longer 
 afraid, she said, pleasantly, " I am going that way ; 
 I '11 go along with you." 
 
 Ben's wife was much pleased, and she grew quite 
 communicative. Telling the lady the exact state 
 of her wardrobe, she asked advice as to what kind 
 of a summer frock for hot Sundays she had better 
 buy. 
 
 The lady seemed interested in her plans, advised 
 her as to what she had better get, and also where 
 she had better go for it. The distance to the hat-store 
 seemed very short, they were so busily talking. 
 
 The lady entered here with them. The shopman 
 bowed politely to her. She requested him " to show 
 some cheap hats, which would suit that little head." 
 18
 
 206 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 But no easy task was it for the shop-man to judge 
 of the size of that head ; for the little fellow, now 
 completely won over, hid himself behind the lady. 
 
 " Why, Benny," said his mother, " come here." 
 Benny only peeped out, showing one blue eye be 
 tween the red handkerchief and the lady's dress. 
 
 " He is smitten with the lady," said Ben ; " don't 
 bother him ! " 
 
 The lady took out her watch. " I find I must 
 go, " said she ; " I am now behind my time. This 
 man, I presume, will stop the Roxbury omnibus 
 for you. I have some tickets with me ; here are 
 two, if you will accept them." 
 
 " I don't want to take your tickets for nothing," 
 said Ben ; " had n't you better keep 'em ? " 
 
 " I have plenty more," said the lady. 
 
 " I '11 pay you what they are worth, then," said 
 Ben, pulling out his old leather purse. 
 
 " No, indeed," said the lady, laughing. " Good- 
 morning ! " and she left the store. 
 
 Ben forgot all about the hat, as he looked after 
 her. One would have thought a star had disap 
 peared from the bro-,v of evening. Ben thought so. 
 " By the powers," said he, " she is the realest lady 
 I ever see, and no mistake." 
 
 His wife wiped her eyes. She felt as if she had 
 lodt a friend, and was now alone in the great city. 
 
 " What kind of a hat do you wish ? " said the
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 207 
 
 man behind the counter. He had no time to spend 
 on sentiment. 
 
 " Something cheap, just to cover the boy's head," 
 said the father. After considerable chaffering, the 
 man talked them into buying a coarse Leghorn," for 
 which he charged them one dollar. 
 
 Not much more than half satisfied, they left his 
 store when the next omnibus made its appearance, 
 each wishing they might meet the lady again ; for it 
 seemed as if light had disappeared from their path 
 with her. Mrs. Jones looked for her on the thronged 
 sidewalk, and so did Ben for a while ; but soon he ral 
 lied, and began his original remarks on the people 
 and the city. More than one individual in the om 
 nibus smiled at their homely drollery. One gen 
 tleman entered into conversation with him. Ben 
 frankly told him what he had come for, and where 
 he was going. 
 
 " If you are going to T street," said the gen 
 tleman, " you must get out pretty soon." 
 
 " I reckon I must," said Ben ; " but how do you 
 stop these fellers ? I an't much used to riding in these 
 concerns. I don't know as I was ever in one afore." 
 
 " I '11 stop him for you," said the gentleman. He 
 did so, and Ben and his family were safely deposited 
 
 at the head of T street. It was no difficult matter 
 
 to find the desired house. Ben rang the door-bell. 
 " Is Simon Jones to home ? " he asked. The Irish
 
 208 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 girl stared stupidly, and said, " No such man lived 
 there." " But he does," said Ben, " and I am his 
 cousin, and I Ve come to see him." The servant 
 girl declared " he did n't," and talked so fast Ben 
 could n't understand a word she said. He was about 
 forcing his way in, in spite of her, when another 
 woman came to the door, and told him " Simon 
 Jones had moved to A street." 
 
 " How far may that be ? " 
 
 " Not far from half a mile, or three-quarters," 
 was the reply. 
 
 " The Dickens ! " said Ben ; " that 's onlucky. I 
 reckoned on finding 'em here ; the little folks is most 
 beat out, and I don't know how we shall get 'em there." 
 
 The woman said nothing. She did n't want to be 
 pestered with the troubles of country folks on the 
 Fourth of July. She would not unasked even do so 
 much as to offer the cup of cold water to the weary 
 ones. She shut the door slowly, and returned to 
 her room. 
 
 " I don't care, anyhow. I '11 sit down here and 
 rest, as long as it used to be Sim's house," said Ben. 
 " It 's kind of shady, and we can cool off. I 'd give 
 a good deal for our old bucket, right up from the 
 bottom of the well." 
 
 " So would I," said his wife ; " it seems as if I 
 should melt." 
 
 " I reckon I should have been warm enough with
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 209 
 
 my jacket on," said Ben. " I think it 's a chance if 
 I ever get this ere coat off; it sticks tight as a lob 
 ster." 
 
 " Mother, I 'm choked ! " said the little girl, begin 
 ning to cry. Benny expressed his appreciation of 
 the heat, by pulling off his new Leghorn, and tum 
 bling it down the steps. His white curls seemed to 
 have been just taken from a basin of water. 
 
 " I think we had better be getting along," said 
 Mrs. Ben ; " it 's growing hotter all the while, and 
 folks stare at us as if we were a party of thieves." 
 
 Ben agreed to this, and they started for A 
 
 street. 
 
 The old watch, after a shake or two, told the hour 
 of eleven. The sun, riding on, abated not a whit of 
 his burning speed, but poured his fiery beams on the 
 red walls near which our party walked, seeming to 
 burn the air they breathed, and heating the bricks 
 below almost to the scorching of those tender feet 
 which pressed them. The little ones cried, and could 
 walk no further. There was no help for it; Ben must 
 carry the boy and the bag, and Mrs. Ben the girl. 
 
 " Jingoes ! " said Ben, as the sweat poured down 
 his cheeks in streams, " if this don't beat anything 
 I ever seed ! I'd rather by half bo in ' the Peak,' 
 a hayin, and that is the deucedest hottest place I 
 was ever in, till now ! " 
 
 Mrs. Ben suffered in crimson ; she was not one 
 18*
 
 210 THE GLOB10US FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 of the dissolving kind. Fortunately they were both 
 
 sturdy walkers, and they soon reached A street 
 
 with their loads, though they reckoned it at much 
 nearer a good mile than one-half. Once in the 
 street, they easily found the house, and again rung 
 the door-bell. 
 
 "Does Mr. Simon Jones live here?" inquired 
 Ben. 
 
 " Yes, he does ; but he a'nt to home." 
 
 " A'nt his wife to home, neither ? " 
 
 " No, they have both gone away, and won't be 
 back till night," 
 
 " I never see nothing beat it," said Ben, " how 
 misfortunate ! Now, I am his cousin, Ben Jones, 
 and we have come clean down to see him and the 
 fireworks. We must come in and rest us, and cool 
 off, or there won't be nothing left of us to carry 
 back." 
 
 " Walk in," said the girl, laughing. She opened 
 the door of a cool, dark, pleasant little parlor. 
 
 " Won't you take nothing ? " said she. 
 
 " The children would be glad of some water," said 
 Mrs. Ben. 
 
 The good-natured servant-girl brought in a pitcher 
 of ice-water. 
 
 " You must be careful," said she, " and not drink 
 much when you are hot. Folks die so, pretty often, 
 ' down here.' "
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 211 
 
 This was a seasonable caution, and the ice-water, 
 fortunately, was drunk with moderation. 
 
 "I wish," said the girl, " I could get you up a 
 dinner; it's a thousand pities the folks an't to home. 
 Do you think you could eat a bit of cracker and 
 cheese ? It 's every sign of a thing we 've got in 
 the house." 
 
 " Yes, La me ! yes, indeed," -said Ben; " there's 
 nothing better." 
 
 After this lunch, Ben tipped back in his chair and 
 dozed ; the weary children forgot their play, and 
 fell fast asleep on the carpet. The mother, seeing 
 all comfortable, followed their example, and took her 
 nap. 
 
 All awoke refreshed but Ben, who began to feel 
 the want of substantial food, after his day's exertion. 
 
 <; I guess," said he, " we 'd better be getting along, 
 and go into some eating-house and have a dinner. 
 I feel as hollow as a drum." 
 
 This plan was decided upon. The watch, well 
 shaken, showed that time was somewhere in the 
 neighborhood of figure 3 ; and if so, it was none too 
 early to make a move. The kind servant-girl lent a 
 helping hand, showing every little attention which 
 she could think of. She ran up to Washington- 
 street bare-headed, beckoned the omnibus, helped the 
 children in, and told Ben " he must come again and 
 bring them all, when the folks were at home."
 
 212 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 Ben said, " ' T was their turn to come to his house, 
 and she must come too ;" and, mutually pleased, they 
 parted. 
 
 " Where shall we get out ? " said Mrs. Jones. 
 
 " The land ! I don't know ; I ant particular ; 
 you can let us out anywhere along down there," 
 said Ben to the ticket-man. 
 
 The man smiled, balanced himself on one foot, 
 and asked, " Where you going to ? " 
 
 " To get some dinner, if I can find any," said Ben. 
 " Maybe you know of some eating-houses, along on 
 the road ? " 
 
 " Maybe I do," said the man, nodding. 
 
 " Put us out to any of 'em," said Ben. 
 
 " Only as near the Common as we can get," said 
 Mrs. Ben ; " the children cannot walk much further." 
 
 The man stopped at a large confectioner's. Straw 
 berries, ice-cream, cakes, candies, sugars of all de 
 scriptions, lined the windows. They entered, and in 
 amazement walked through into the saloon. Here a 
 fountain, playing musically into a marble basin, which 
 was filled with gold-fishes, instantly attracted their 
 attention. The children fairly screamed with de 
 light, and Ben was scarcely less noisy. 
 
 " Now," said he, emphatically, " if that don't beat 
 all creation ! I never did see the like on 't, in my 
 life. What pretty creturs ! and here is this water 
 a bustin right up through the floor ! "
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOUKTH IN BOSTON. 213 
 
 " There must be a well in the cellar," remarked 
 his wife, quietly. 
 
 " Yes, I s'pose so," responded Ben. 
 
 " What will you have ? " asked a pretty girl, with 
 long curls. 
 
 " Well, I don't know, what you got ?" 
 
 " Vanilla, lemon, strawberry, pine-apple, any 
 thing you choose." 
 
 " I don't know nothin' about them stuffs. Han't 
 you got no pork and beans ? I want some dinner. 
 I am e'en-a-most starved." 
 
 " We don't keep them," said the girl. 
 
 " 0, you don't ? " Ben did not know exactly 
 what to call for next. He observed, now, that the 
 saloon was filled with elegantly dressed people, and 
 he was rather glad, to tell the truth, that he had his 
 Sunday coat on. 
 
 The girl with the long curls awaited his order. 
 
 " Well ? " said Ben, feeling that he must say 
 something. 
 
 " Ah, here is the little boy again," said a sweet 
 voice behind him. He recognized it instantly, and 
 turned. There was the lady. 
 
 " How do you do ? " said Ben, coming up, and 
 offering her his great red hand. It would have held 
 a half-dozen more like the little white-gloved one 
 which was now put within it. " How do you do ? " 
 Ben laughed so did his wife so did his chil-
 
 214 TUB GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 dren ; all were pleased. Their hearts had been 
 fairly won by the tones of kind sympathy. 
 
 " I did not think of meeting you here," said the 
 lady. 
 
 " Nor I neither," said Ben. " I come in here 
 to see if we could n't get some dinner. We han't 
 had none to-day. We found our folks gone." 
 
 "Ah, I am sorry. You have a dining-saloon, 
 have you not ? " inquired the lady, of long-curls. 
 
 Long-curls said, " Yes, in the back shop," and 
 retired. 
 
 The lady led the way into another apartment. 
 Here were many tables, each neatly laid for two. 
 The lady gave Ben and his wife a seat, and then 
 placed a third chair for the little'' girl. A white- 
 aproned waiter stood by. 
 
 " Here 's a bill of fare," said the lady to Ben ; 
 " read it over, and see what you would like." 
 
 Ben read it slowly aloud, pronouncing it after 
 his own fashion. When he came to a French 
 dish, he gave it such an outlandish name, the 
 waiter roared. Ben looked up, and joined him 
 heartily. 
 
 " That 's some fandango I don't know nothin' 
 about," said Ben ; " give me some pork and taters." 
 His wife chose chicken. The lady advised them to 
 keep the bill of fare by them, and they would know 
 then all the prices of the different dishes beforehand.
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 215 
 
 After seeing them comfortably provided for, she left 
 them. 
 
 Ben wanted some water. He saw nothing to 
 pour it in, for the two goblets were filled with the 
 napkins, which blossomed out like white peonies. 
 
 " Halloo, Mister," said he, " would n't you please 
 to give us some mugs to take a drink in ? " 
 
 The waiter laughingly removed the blossoming 
 napkins, and filled the goblets. 
 
 " It 's most too bad to spile them pretty things," 
 said Ben. Ben and his wife forgot the lady's ad 
 vice, to keep the bill of fare by them, and look at 
 the prices beforehand. Eating seemed to whet their 
 appetites. One thing after another they " reckoned 
 would taste good." They could n't get them every 
 day. Pigeon-pie, lobster, pastry, a cup of tea for 
 the wife, and, last of all, they thought it would be a 
 good plan to have a pitcher of milk for the children. 
 The waiter was very attentive. No order was neg 
 lected. At length the important dinner was fin 
 ished ; even the children were satisfied. Ben drew 
 out his old purse, and called for his bill. 
 
 " Two dollars, sir." 
 
 " Two dollars ! " said Ben. 
 
 " Two dollars ! " echoed his wife. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Why, that 's enough to keep us <jll to home a 
 week," said Ben, " with Tim and Dob into the 
 bargain."
 
 216 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 " The prices are all marked," said the waiter, 
 laughing in spite of himself. 
 
 " Fact, so they be," said Ben, taking up the bill 
 of fare. " The lady told us so, and I forgot every 
 breath about it. Let 's see how you reckon." 
 
 Greatly to the amusement of many present, he 
 enumerated the various items, with a running com 
 ment on the attendant price. 
 
 " ' A cup of tea, six and a quarter cents.' Golly ! 
 I should think you 'd get rich on that. ' A cup of 
 milk, six-and-a-quarter cents; ' one cup of milk ! 
 Jimminetti ! What did you ask for that ar little 
 piteher-full ? " 
 
 " There were four cups, sir ; it will be a quarter 
 of a dollar." 
 
 Ben and his wife sat for a minute silent, the per 
 fect picture of astonishment. Ben recovered his 
 speech slowly. 
 
 " That are leetle pitcher-full if I a'nt 
 beat ! Why, if you '11 bring along your tubs, I '11 
 give you a tub-full on 't at that price, and make 
 money, too. That are leetle pitcher- full, wife!" 
 Ben by this time had run the comical girdle around 
 the milky subject ; he appreciated its fun ; he threw 
 himself back in the chair with a hearty ha, ha, which 
 made the saloon ring. He then paid his two 
 dollars without further remark than " that it was 
 well the Fourth did n't come every day."
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 217 
 
 " There is no use in paying for things we don't 
 eat," said his wife. " We may as well take them 
 crackers along for the children ; they '11 want them 
 before night." The waiter made no objection, and 
 the crackers were deposited in the bag. 
 
 Strengthened in body, but weaker in pocket, our 
 friend? left the confectioner's, and sallied forth once 
 more into the thronged streets. To Mrs. Ben it ap 
 peared every moment as if they must be run over. 
 Ben carried the boy, and she was so afraid of losing 
 the girl that she carried her more than half way. 
 Thanks to that stranger lady, the all-important pur 
 chase of the summer dress was made very reason 
 ably, but it was the only purchase which was made 
 to advantage. Our country friends were cheated in 
 everything eke, paying large prices for poor articles, 
 believing, in the simplicity of their hearts, every 
 word which the shopmen told them. What did 
 Ben know about shopping in Boston 1 What did 
 he know about prices ? He was used to paying for 
 his purchases in butter and eggs. 
 
 The sun at length grew weary of his hot journey, 
 and his spirits began to flag. Slowly he sought his 
 western home. All in crimson and gold came out 
 the lords of the bed-chamber, to welcome him to 
 his rest. He retired in glory, and lovely evening, 
 with her gentle dews, succeeded him, to minister to 
 the parched earth. She was hailed with joy by 
 19
 
 218 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTOX. 
 
 thousands. And among those who earliest sought 
 the scene of the approaching display were Ben and 
 his family. 
 
 In the course of their shopping, they had wandered 
 to a remote part of the city, and were obliged to travel 
 a long distance again to reach the Common. The 
 tired children hung their heavy heads, and it seemed 
 to both father and mother as if nothing in the world 
 but fireuxrrks could keep them on their feet longer. 
 As it was, they went with weary steps and slow. 
 When they reached Park-street, Ben pulled out his 
 watch. It had kept up within half an hour. Ben 
 " reckoned that was smart for the old 'un ;" so, shak 
 ing it again, by way of encouragement, he replaced 
 it, carefully adjusting the chain, in order to have it 
 show to the best advantage. This he had afterwards 
 occasion to remember. 
 
 Early as it was, the Common was already crowd 
 ed. Our party could not get near enough to the 
 pond to investigate the wherefore of the mysterious 
 fountain ; so they contented themselves with watch 
 ing its sparkling jet, above that sea of heads. 
 
 " Can't we sit down ? " said Mrs. Ben - L can't 
 stand any longer, for all the fireworks in Boston." 
 
 " Yes, we must find a seat, somehow ; there are 
 aome empty ones 't other end of the Common ; let 's 
 take 'em while we can. The fire things will look
 
 THE GLORIOCS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 219 
 
 better furder of, and we shan't be so likely to get 
 hit" 
 
 This salutary fear expedited Mrs. Ben's move 
 ments somewhat, and of all the remote seats she 
 chose the remotest. 
 
 Thus accommodated, with their attention divided 
 between the strange and busy scene before them and 
 the tired children with them, time passed rapidly. 
 The babies cried, were stuffed with cake and can 
 dy, anything to keep them still ; cried again, fell 
 asleep woke cried again, and begged to go home. 
 What pleasure could it give to their weary little eyes 
 to see fireworks ? A sweet nap in their own little 
 beds was far better than any display the whole 
 world could get up. 
 
 " I shall be glad when it is over with," said Mrs. 
 Ben ; " the children are getting cross as pipers." 
 
 " They '11 begin now pretty soon," said Ben ; 
 " here, give me the boy, and I '11 walk about with 
 him." 
 
 " I don't see how you can stand it," said his wife ; 
 " my feet are as big as two, now, a walking on these 
 hard stones." 
 
 As Ben passed back and forth, lulling the heir 
 in his arms, a man near by, who was whistling, 
 looked up and remarked, 
 
 " I reckon we shall have it, afore long." 
 
 " Have what ? " said Ben.
 
 220 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTOX. 
 
 " That ar shower, out yonder." 
 
 " Whe-w-w," said Ben, standing stock still, and 
 surveying, for the first time, the black and muster 
 ing clouds. 
 
 " Them looks plaguy like it ; but it may all 
 blow round 't other way ; there is no tellin', 
 and I kind o' reckon it will, as long as it is the 
 Fourth." 
 
 " It won't scatter till we have a taste of it," said 
 the man. 
 
 As if to verify his words, the wind rose suddenly, 
 bowed the heads of the proud elms, and rushed on. 
 Another and another gust. The low thunder 
 growled in the distance the clock struck eight. 
 Amid great shouting, which drowned the wind and 
 the thunder, a rocket went up, and another. Faster 
 and faster came the storm. The great elms bent 
 before it; the lightning flashed; the thunder gath 
 ered, peal upon peal ; it burst in one tremendous 
 crash over the heads of the wondering crowd. In 
 stantly, as if this were the signal for the opening of 
 heaven's flood-gates, the rain poured down in tor 
 rents. One moment of breathless consternation was 
 succeeded by one of indescribable confusion. The 
 immense crowd scattered as if by magic ; they ran 
 over each other ; men shouted ; women screamed ; 
 children cried. Another flash another crash.
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 221 
 
 Can that struggling throng escape alive? What 
 will become of those little children ? 
 
 " That beats all nater ! " said Ben, after the sec 
 ond peal ; " none of these gimcracks can go ahead o' 
 that ! " 
 
 Up to this moment he had been looking on with 
 intense interest, as he was remote from the crowd ; 
 but now the living tide was sweeping by him, and 
 he found he must fight manfully, if he would keep 
 his flock together. He took a child on each shoul 
 der, his wife clung to his arm, and, thus breasting 
 the living waves, he kept his own, and brought them 
 safely to the shelter of a corner. Here he stopped 
 a moment to recover breath and think. 
 
 Mrs. Ben was crying ; the children were crying. 
 " We never shall get home alive," said she ; " I am 
 wet to my skin." 
 
 " La, yes, we shall, too," said Ben; "it won't 
 rain so long, and, besides, it 's nothing but summer 
 rain, 't wont hurt nobody." 
 
 " Why, I 'm all of a shiver," said his wife. 
 
 " Well, you cooled off too quick," said Ben; " sit 
 down under this tree, and I '11 put my coat over you 
 and the children." 
 
 " I think I can stand here safely a moment," 
 said a gentle voice quite near. 
 
 Ben started ; he thought he recognized the voice, 
 and the next flash of lightning told him he was 
 19*
 
 222 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 right. It was the voice of the stranger lady. A 
 gentleman was with her. 
 
 " I want to know," said Ben, " if that 's you ? " 
 
 " 0, here are my friends, of whom I told you," 
 said the lady. " Now I shall be quite safe by them, 
 while you call a carriage." 
 
 " Safe ! I guess you will ! You need n't be a 
 mite afraid to leave her," said Ben to the gentleman. 
 " There shan't nothin' touch her while I am within 
 gunshot, I '11 promise you that." 
 
 " He will take good care of me," said the lady. 
 " Do bring an empty carriage, for these good people 
 must not try to walk to the depot in this plight. 
 They must ride with us." 
 
 " I reckon we must ride, at some rate," said Ben, 
 " for my wife is clean beat out." 
 
 The gentleman left hastily. Ben moved the little 
 girl gently, and made a seat for the lady. 
 
 " I do wish I had something or other to put over 
 you," said he. " I 'd brought a 'brilla, if I had 
 thought of its rainin' so ; but I don't think it rains 
 quite as fast as it did. Bless me ! ha'nt you got 
 nothing on but that lace shawl ? You will get wet 
 enough." Now, Ben's coat was already appropri 
 ated ; so was his handkerchief, and his cravat. He 
 took a survey of himself, wondering if there were 
 not something about him still which he could dis 
 pense with. But no, he could think of nothing until
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOU11TH IN BOSTON. 223 
 
 he remembered his vest. Off it came, and was 
 wrapped around the soft lace collar of the lady. 
 
 " There," said Ben, " that '11 keep you from a sore 
 throat, I reckon. It '11 keep you dry a little, any 
 how. You needn't be afraid on't. 'Twas span 
 clean this morning." 
 
 It was somewhat questionable whether the lady 
 would not have preferred the summer rain to the 
 Sunday vest which Ben had worn through such a 
 hot day, and under his blue coat, too ; but, if she did, 
 she had too much regard for his feelings to say so, 
 though it must be acknowledged that, in the dark 
 ness, she managed to tuck her own pocket-handker 
 chief under it. 
 
 With the necessity of quieting the children and 
 attending to the storm, the waiting party were so 
 wholly absorbed as to forget entirely the fireworks ; 
 they were not once spoken of, though it was some 
 time before the gentleman returned with a carriage. 
 Glad enough were they of its friendly shelter. 
 They bade adieu to Boston Common and its great 
 preparations without regret. 
 
 The lady was to be left first, and, as they rode on, 
 Ben gave her a graphic description of their dinner 
 at the confectioner's, and how he had " got taken in 
 with that pitcher of milk, and the lobster-sauce, 
 and the cup of tea, and all that." It seemed as if
 
 224 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 nothing could tire out Ben's spirits. The gentle 
 man and lady laughed, almost to exhaustion. 
 
 " We get out here," Baid the lady, when the car 
 riage stopped. 
 
 " Do you ? " said Ben ; " I 'm dreadful sorry. I 
 wish you 'd come to see us. We '11 give you plenty 
 of milk and green grass." 
 
 " Yes, do come ! " said Mrs. Ben ; " why can't 
 you ? " 
 
 " I certainly shall call, if I ever go through your 
 town," said the lady. " Good-night. 0, here is 
 your vest," said she, laughing ; " I came very near 
 running off with it. I am very much obliged to you." 
 
 " You 're welcome to fifty on "em," said Ben. 
 
 " Good-night, again." As the gentleman stepped 
 up to Ben, and bade him good-night, he said, " Your 
 fare is all paid, remember." 
 
 " You need n't do that," said Ben ; but the door 
 was closed, the gentleman almost out of sight, and 
 the dripping hackman was mounting his box. Rap 
 idly, now, through the muddy streets drove he, and 
 the dep6t was soon reached. 
 
 He helped Ben and his party out, and then, with 
 the bag in his hand, said, " Fifty cents to pay, sir." 
 
 " No sich thing," said Ben ; " I see the gentle 
 man pay you, with my own eyes." 
 
 " He only paid me for two ; there are four of yon, 
 sir."
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. ' 225 
 
 "Them are only babies, and they rid in our 
 laps." 
 
 " Can't help it ; that 's our rule." 
 
 "I won't gin it to ye," said Ben; "you're a 
 regular shaver." 
 
 " You may get your bag as you can, then," said 
 the driver, coolly mounting. 
 
 " My new frock, and all ! " screamed Mrs. Ben ; 
 "do pay him, and let him go, we are getting 
 drenched here." 
 
 " I guess you 're first cousin to the feller I saw 
 here this morning, a'nt you?" said Ben, handing 
 him the half-dollar. 
 
 No reply was vouchsafed, and Ben parted com 
 pany with city hackmen without tears. 
 
 It was rather a silent party which the late train took 
 up on the night of the Glorious Fourth. All were 
 wet, weary, and disappointed. Ben made an effort 
 to let off a squib or two, but they fell to the ground. 
 The children slept, and the mother all but dreamed. 
 Her thoughts flitted hither and thither, and her head 
 followed with uncertain motion. Time and space 
 seemed annihilated. Most in the cars were of 
 precisely her mind. Suddenly a shrill whistle 
 started them to their feet. It was repeated, the 
 conductor slammed open the door, he gave the 
 signal, the depot was reached. The storm had 
 all passed like the dream, the wind was. heard no
 
 226 THE GLORIOUS FODKTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 more, and the silvery moon was now riding like a 
 triumphant queen through the light-artillery of 
 flying clouds. And there, just under the shed, as 
 if he had not stirred since morning, was Dob, still 
 eating sorel and spearmint. Tim was on the 
 wagon-seat, fast asleep, and a sound shaking com 
 pleted what the whistle had only begun. 
 
 Ben thought he would look at the " old un," and 
 see if it took Dob as long to go home as it did to 
 come. He felt in this pocket, he felt in the 
 other, he went back to the first one, and felt 
 them all over again ; no watch was there, it was 
 gone, clean gone, forever, and it was grandsir's, 
 too! 
 
 " You are rather late, this morning," said Mr. 
 Morton, to Ben Jones. " What is the matter ? did 
 you go on your carouse yesterday ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I did," said Ben, digging away indus 
 triously. 
 
 "Have you lamed your arms, that you move 
 them so stiffly ? " 
 
 " Got the rheumatiz." Ben dug away ; he was 
 in the very unusual mood of silence. Mr. Morton 
 left him until a few hours' labor had limbered him 
 a little. On his return, he found him more sociable. 
 
 " Did you go to Boston, yesterday ? " asked he, 
 again.
 
 THE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 227 
 
 " Go ? I guess I did," said Ben, lookin| up. 
 
 " Well, did you have a good time of it ? " 
 
 " A good time ? If 't wan't the tarnalest toughest 
 job I ever did in my life, then I '11 give up beat ! " 
 
 " Why, what was the matter ? Did your wife 
 go?" 
 
 " Yes, wife and I and the babies ; and 't was 
 hotter there than seven blazes. If we could ha' 
 stood still long enough, we should ha' baked any 
 where. The children, they cried, and we had to 
 keep a fesdin' 'em, and they are all of 'em, all 
 three, sick a-bed to-day, with the dysentery." 
 
 " Why, you did have a hard time, sure enough," 
 said Mr. Morton. 
 
 "A hard time?" said Ben, fairly dropping his 
 hoe, and looking up, "I guess you 'd think so ! 
 Why, Bub lost his hat, to set out with, and that 
 cost me a whole dollar ; then we got left to the 
 wrong house, for Simon had moved, and had to walk 
 on them ere biling-hot bricks a mile or so, and 
 found Sim wan't to home, nother ; then we come 
 back, and got a dinner, and they axed me two dol 
 lars for a beetle pitcher of milk, and one thing and 
 another ; and then we shopped and carried the 
 young uns till we ached like a blister ; and we jest 
 got sot down on the Common, kind o' comfortable, a 
 little, when all that happened." 
 
 Ben broke off, and began to dig furiously.
 
 228 TILE GLORIOUS FOURTH IN BOSTON. 
 
 " I suppose you did not see the fireworks, then, 
 after all?" 
 
 " See 'em ! " said Ben ; " I guess we did n't. There 
 was nothing but a little siz siz sizzle, and down 
 came the blackest thunder-storm, I guess, you ever 
 seed, right on top of 'em, and put 'em all out. And 
 it never rained so, I '11 be bound, since Noah's cousins 
 got a duckin'. We were as wet as a batch of 
 drowned kittens, in less than no time, every one of 
 
 110 " " 
 
 us. 
 
 " You did have a rough time of it, I think," said 
 Mr. Morton, smiling. 
 
 " That a'nt the half on 't, either," said Ben, 
 growing communicative with sympathy. " The rain 
 spiled all the Sunday rigging, and a bran new frock, 
 in the bag, wife had just bought; and, what's more 
 nor all that, some of them Boston geu'lmon hauled 
 out old grandsir's watch, clean as a whistle, and off 
 with it, and that 's the last I shall see hide nor hair 
 on't. 'Twan't worth much to go; but wife, she 
 had sot her heart on melting it down into a spoon ; 
 but I 'd gin it to 'em, gladly, if they 'd only show me 
 how they got it." 
 
 Mr. Morton laughed so heartily that Ben had to 
 join him. 
 
 " It will prove rather an expensive trip, Ben," 
 said he. 
 
 " Expensive ! " said Ben, " all I can earn in one
 
 THE GLOKIOUS FOURTH IN EOSTON. 229 
 
 month won't make it up, to say nothing of doctors' 
 bills. Everything seemed to go agin us, somehow ; 
 everything except a real lady we met. She was 
 kind as could be. We should have fared worse 
 still, without her, I reckon. I wonder if you don't 
 know her ? She looks most 'zackly like Anna Ship- 
 man, only she is some taller." 
 
 " I do not think I do," replied Mr. Morton. 
 
 " She was a pretty cretur, I can tell you," said 
 Ben. 
 
 " I suppose you will not care much, then, to go 
 to Boston again to keep the Fourth ? " 
 
 " I s'pose I shan't," said Ben, digging away, 
 "till I'm some older. I've cut my eye-teeth ! " 
 
 " It is not always the costly pleasures which we 
 enjoy the most," remarked Mr. Morton. 
 
 " That 's a fact," said Ben. " I 've been down to 
 the Crossing arter a skein of yarn, some pleasant 
 evening, and the work all done, wife and babies and 
 all, and had a great deal better time on V 
 
 Ben dug away, apparently so determined to make 
 up for time to him worse than lost, that Saturday 
 night found the job done, for which he received a 
 large week's wages. This was generously given, in 
 consideration of his wzz's-adventures on the Glorious 
 Fourth. 
 
 20
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 A YELLOW chaise, drawn by a stout black horse, 
 was seen advancing towards the setting sun ; within 
 it were Dr. Harris and his young bride. The doctor 
 was looking over his horse's ears in silence, and 
 with a sad and abstracted look. A sudden turn in 
 the road brought to view a village, which nestled 
 under the protecting wing of one of the western 
 purple clouds. 
 
 Mrs. Harris, whom for dear old acquaintance 
 sake we will call Mary, looked up at her husband, 
 surprised. " That 's not it ? " 
 
 " That is it, Mary." 
 
 " It is quite a city ; from your description, I ex 
 pected to find only log huts, with a white house 
 scattered here and there. Why, Charles ! what 
 more could a young physician ask for ? " 
 
 " Nothing, if he could have it all to himself; but 
 when he must pull with twenty other doctors, it 
 does not seem quite so attractive." 
 
 "But you told me," said Mary, with a laugh, 
 "that but one of them had been liberally educated. 
 I do not think you have any occasion to fear them." 
 
 " That is so."
 
 FIRST TKIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 231 
 
 " You have been so well educated, Charles, and 
 have a year's experience of practice besides. I think 
 your chances of success are good, if you will not get 
 discouraged by your first trials." 
 
 " You have very little idea, Mary, what an un 
 dertaking it is for a young physician to start as a 
 stranger in a strange place." 
 
 " You are getting better of your youth every 
 day ; look here ! gray hairs already. You will be 
 respected ! " And the young wife playfully wound 
 her fingers around a pet curl. 
 
 " I know one thing," said the doctor, in a more 
 cheerful tone. 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " We will not, at any rate, trouble about the 
 future, until the honeymoon is over." 
 
 "Nor then either," replied she ; "if we keep up 
 brave hearts, and live within our means, we shall 
 certainly succeed in time. But where are you 
 driving me to ? " 
 
 " This is Mrs. Bailey's, our boarding-house; and 
 there she is at the window, looking for us. Now 
 for a Western welcome ! " 
 
 This Mary certainly received, as she entered 
 their new and unpretending home. The doctor had 
 selected the cheapest boarding-house which was 
 comfortable, or would be considered respectable ; for 
 he had nothing to depend upon but his own exer-
 
 232 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 tions. Yet he felt embarrassed by the necessity of 
 making a good appearance in the selection of his 
 office, which, being in a public square, did exceed in 
 rent what he felt able to pay. There was, however, 
 no help for it; and he contented himself with the 
 reflection that his expenses, though serious for him, 
 were yet as small as they could, with propriety, be 
 made. 
 
 His wife kept a journal of his first efforts to 
 establish himself at the West, and from this we 
 make our story. 
 
 " At first," she writes, " matters went on swim 
 mingly. A little furniture was purchased for the 
 office, and I bought a set of cheap curtains, which I 
 chose to make up in a most elegant and fashionable 
 style, and the making interested me much. When 
 they were hung, we felt that they well paid for the 
 labor bestowed upon them, for they gave our room 
 an air of taste and refinement which it had not 
 before. The library was then arranged ; a small 
 one, it is true, but a valuable one it was, and in a 
 conspicuous part of it was placed the doctor's more 
 valuable box of instruments, the parting present 
 from his father. Alas, as yet they had seen no 
 service ; but I comforted myself for this with the 
 reflection that the cases were very elegant, and 
 added much to the looks of our library-shelves. 
 Thus occupied, a few happy days glided swiftly by,
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 233 
 
 and then our pleasant work was all finished. We 
 had found a place for everything, and everything 
 was in its place ; and there was not even the shadow 
 of an excuse for again disturbing them. The doctor 
 could lay his hand on anything in the dark ; even 
 the green cloth on the little centre-table had been 
 smoothed to the last extremity of smoothness, and 
 the negligent ease with which the smaller profes 
 sional works lay mixed up with odd numbers of 
 Johnson's Chirurgical Review, could not be im 
 proved. A handsome pocket-case, in bright red 
 morocco, and a bright tooth-extracter, were mingled 
 in with the books, to give a practical expression to 
 the table. To complete the whole, a sign had been 
 swung out from the office-window, and the name of 
 ' Dr. Harris ' shone in golden letters from a blue 
 ground. A handsome sign that was, too, and it 
 cost us the dollars more than we could afford 
 to pay ; but, then, Dr. Harris was just commencing, 
 and it was of vital importance that his name should 
 take the passers-by. This being done, and the 
 chairs rearranged for the twentieth time, perhaps, 
 we were obliged to sit down, and wait for profes 
 sional calls. 
 
 " For a few days we managed very well ; I took 
 
 my sewing to the office, and Charles read aloud to 
 
 me ; and, as it was too soon to expect business, we 
 
 had no occasion to be disappointed that it did not 
 
 20*
 
 234 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOONJ PHYSICIAN. 
 
 come. Thus passed many, to me, very pleasant 
 days. I took ' no note of time,' and was, therefore, 
 astonished, when the doctor said, one morning, 
 'Mary, did you know that my sign has been out 
 three weeks, and I have not been called upon even 
 to extract a tooth ? ' 
 
 " ' Three weeks ! it cannot be possible ? ' said I, 
 dropping my work. 
 
 " ' Yes, it is three weeks, and I have done no 
 thing, either, in the way of study. This is your 
 fault, you steal-time ! it is as much as I can do to 
 entertain you.' And he gave me what might be 
 called a strong expression of displeasure ; whether 
 it was or not, is another thing. 
 
 " ' Perhaps you will not have a call in three 
 months,' said I, by way of comforting him ; ' in 
 deed, I have, from the first, scarcely expected that 
 you would. The people have hardly learned your 
 name ; still, it is true, your time is too precious to 
 be thrown away on me, after this fashion. You 
 must commence, at once, that famous course of study 
 you planned for yourself; and, during study hours, 
 I will stay in our room, at Mrs. Bailey's.' 
 
 " I did this, though it cost an effort ; it was 
 lonely for me, yet I felt repaid when I perceived 
 that the doctor was happier for returning to his pro 
 fessional studies ; but, alas ! time passed, and brought
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 235 
 
 no business, and the doctor's spirits fell again to 
 zero. 
 
 " ' Mary,' said he to me, one day, ' let us pull 
 up stakes, and go to the West. If you say so, I '11 
 start to-morrow ; I know I can find something to do 
 out there, and I see, plainly enough, that here I 
 have no chance at all.' 
 
 " ' I will go, if you wish it,' replied I, ' but it is 
 not a plan which recommends itself to my judg 
 ment. You will leave behind you the reputation 
 of a man who is easily discouraged, and this would 
 be a professional injury to you ; I do not think we 
 have occasion to feel very anxious about the future ; 
 we are sure of a support for six months. Let us 
 remain that time, and then, if you have not had a 
 single call, we will begin to talk about Westward 
 ho!' 
 
 "The doctor threw down a sharp instrument, 
 with which he was punching holes in his fore-finger, 
 took up a book, but answered never a word. The 
 cloud was settling, indeed had settled, over him. 
 With a sigh, I drew my chair near the window, 
 and began to look out upon the busy multitude, as 
 they passed and re-passed ; and (may I be forgiven !) 
 I could not repress the wish that some accident, or 
 some sudden fit of illness, would be the occasion 
 of a timely call upon Dr. Harris. But no accident, 
 or fit of apoplexy, answered to my selfish demand.
 
 236 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 The busy multitude poured along their beaten track, 
 and to all appearance health kept them company. 
 
 " At length my attention was attracted by an old 
 wagon, to which was harnessed a skeleton of a horse. 
 He, at least, poor beast ! might have been benefited 
 by Dr. Harris' professional services. This wagon 
 was filled with children, and upon the front seat 
 was a pale-looking woman, apparently the mother of 
 them, with a crying baby in her arms. These were 
 hopeful signs, which became exceedingly encourag 
 ing when the driver reined in, and the old skeleton 
 and load of children and the pale woman all stopped 
 before our office-door. She looked up to our gold 
 and blue sign, now swinging musically in the south 
 wind, and my heart leaped to my mouth. I thought 
 we had such a load of patients ! but only the driver 
 dismounted, and he went into a tobacco-shop, and the 
 pale woman sat still, tossing the sickly child until 
 he returned ; and then they all drove away, and 
 thus ended our first alarm ! 
 
 " I can assure you I troubled myself to watch no 
 more wagons that day, but on the next it so chanced 
 that we were both standing at the same window, 
 silently looking down the street, and sighing now 
 and then over ' hope long deferred.' As we stood 
 there, we saw a young girl on the opposite side-walk, 
 looking very earnestly at us. When she caught 
 eight of the new sign, she immediately crossed cw.r.
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PIIYSICIAN. 237 
 
 " The doctor negligently threw open his window, 
 and stood drumming on the sill. The girl looked 
 into his face, and seemed to say, ' Yes, you are the 
 one ? and she also quickened her speed. We lis 
 tened breathlessly to hear her foot-fall on the stairs, 
 but all was still. She had turned in another direc 
 tion, and I saw the flutter of her faded calico as she 
 disappeared around the corner. 
 
 "1 caught Dr. Harris' eye, and we both laughed 
 merrily at our disappointment. 
 
 " ' Why ! did n't you think she was coming here?' 
 
 " ' Most certainly ; and I believe she did intend 
 to.' 
 
 " ' So do I ; so there goes my first case.' 
 
 " We speculated longer on the probable cause of 
 this girl's changing her mind than any one would 
 believe possible who had not been placed in similar 
 circumstances ; but we never satisfied ourselves with 
 regard to it, further than to settle it in our own 
 minds that she had almost made us a call. Thus 
 were we laughing and comforting ourselves, when 
 the tea-bell called us home. We could hear it from 
 Mrs. Bailey's distinctly, especially when the office- 
 window was open. 
 
 " Time passed, but we had not even another alarm. 
 I began to hear of the far West again, and we had 
 silent walks back and forth from our boarding-house. 
 
 " One day the doctor seemed so exceedingly down-
 
 238 FIRST TRIALS Of A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 hearted that to cheer him I ventured to propose we 
 should take a ride out to an Indian settlement which 
 I had long wished to visit. He gladly fell in with 
 the proposal ; it gave him something to do. Long 
 did I remember that afternoon. The autumn sun 
 shone brightly and hopefully, and the scenery was 
 beautiful about us, and the huge forest-trees were 
 like burnished crimson and gold. I enjoyed every 
 thing as we rode along, and even the doctor looked 
 nearly as happy as if he were charging his fifteen 
 dollars a day. It was quite dusk when we returned, 
 and, more for ceremony than anything else, we made 
 our first stop at the office. I held the horse, while 
 Charles ran up. In a few minutes he returned, 
 looking quite disturbed. 
 
 " ' What do you think has happened, Mary ? ' said 
 he. 
 
 " ' What ? ' inquired I, alarmed ; ' have you had a 
 call?' 
 
 " ' Yes ; and lost the job of extracting three teeth ! 
 So much for going out riding, instead of staying in 
 my office ! ' 
 
 " I could not say a word. Three teeth ! And how 
 many other odd jobs might that have brought in its 
 train ! Drawing three teeth ! an operation which 
 Dr. Harris performed better than any physician in 
 the country ! Was it not a sore disappointment ? 
 It would have made such a good commencement for
 
 FIRST TRIALS OP A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 239 
 
 him ! I could only reply, with a forced calmness, 
 ' It is the last job you shall ever lose because you 
 are out riding with me.' I could not eat my sup 
 per. Mrs. Bailey kindly inquired if I was ill. 
 Charles laughed, and told her 1 was ill of three old 
 teeth. 
 
 " No young wife wholly escapes being homesick 
 when she first leaves her home. The fit will come, 
 earlier or later. Most frequently it is at dusk that 
 she recalls the distant ones, and remembers that she 
 has voluntarily separated herself from them; and 
 sometimes she mourns for the moment. 
 
 " At such an hour as this, I was sitting alone at 
 the office-window. Thoughts of my mother had 
 opened the flood-gates, and I was weeping. Just 
 then Charles came quickly up stairs, singing, in a 
 deep, rich, melodious voice, ' Begone, dull care.' 
 By the lingering light, I saw his fine face was ex 
 ceedingly animated, and he looked altogether so very 
 attractive, as he approached me, that I realized that, 
 if I had left much, I had found much. 
 
 " ' Mary,' said he, ' I 've had a call! I've had a 
 call > ' 
 
 " ' You are joking, Charles.' 
 
 " ' Ton honor I am not. You remember Slayton, 
 the gentleman you thought so polite ? He has a 
 violent cold, and just asked me to send him some 
 thing for it.'
 
 240 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 " A light was instantly struck. If a stranger had 
 happened in then, he might have thought a fortune 
 had suddenly fallen to us. Never was a dose of 
 medicine prepared with greater care, or enveloped 
 in neater style. Saving the perfumery, it would 
 compare well with a love-note, according to the best 
 of my recollection. Dr. Harris danced away to his 
 own music to deliver it. I lighted a lamp, and tak 
 ing down a huge blank-book, placed it on the centre- 
 table, and put a pen nicely mended on its cover, that 
 everything might be convenient for Dr. Harris to 
 make his first charge, which he did, whistling the 
 while. This entry was a blessing to us. It fur 
 nished a little peg, on which we hung as many hopes 
 as it would bear, and rather more, for the prescrip 
 tion worked like a charm, and Mr. Slayton did not 
 come again for professional advice. 
 
 " For some time nothing more was said about the 
 West. Study hours gradually became regular, and 
 seemed to be the business of the day, the only 
 business, judging from the first page in that blank- 
 book, where Mr. Slayton's name still stood ' alone, in 
 its glory.' 
 
 " One day I was sitting at the office-window, en 
 gaged in my old employment, musing. I was over 
 turning carriages, and making old gentlemen step on 
 orange-peel and break limbs, that Dr. Harris might 
 have employment. A very spirited horse actually
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 241 
 
 came prancing down the street, A lady was driv 
 ing him, and she looked much frightened. However, 
 the horse did well enough until he encountered a set 
 of quarrelling dogs, when he became frightened, and 
 reared. The ladies screamed ; a man sprang to their 
 assistance ; but the horse bounded around the corner, 
 and was out of sight in an instant. ' 0, Charles ! ' 
 said I ; but he was already half across the square. 
 I remained at the window, watching the crowd, with 
 contending emotions. I did hope no one was hurt, 
 and yet if any one should be, I did hope Dr. Harris 
 would be there in season ; he was so famous as a sur 
 geon, and had such a fine box of instruments ! 
 there was not another like it in the state. ' Perhaps,' 
 thought I, ' I had better take it down, and have it 
 all ready, in case of need.' I climbed up into a 
 chair, and was just turning the key of the book -case, 
 when I heard the doctor coming up, laughing. 
 With a blush, I sprang down from the chair. 
 
 " ' What is the matter ? ' said I, half inclined to 
 be vexed. 
 
 " ' Would you believe it, Mary ? there were 
 eight doctors around the carriage before I could 
 reach it ; and four were drawing one of the ladies 
 off!' 
 
 " ' Well,' said I heartily, ' I do hope she was not 
 hurt ! " 
 
 "I returned to my work, and Charles to his 
 
 21
 
 242 FIRST TRIAL3 OP A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 books, but it was some time before I could sympa 
 thize fully with his occasional bursts of laughter. 
 
 " Some time after this, he asked me, gravely, if I 
 should not like to go home and make a visit. 
 
 " ' And take you away from your business ? ' 
 
 " ' Business ! I have not even used my lancet since 
 we have been out here.' 
 
 " ' But I thought you had come to the decision that 
 your business, for six months, was, to remain in this 
 office and study, if you had no professional calls, 
 had not you ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, but ' 
 
 " Hark ! some one comes ; they have knocked at 
 our door.' 
 
 " ' Come in,' called out the doctor, in a grave tone. 
 
 " A pleasant-looking young girl obeyed the invita 
 tion, and I felt my face flush with pleasure. I 
 could have thanked her for her timely call. I rose 
 to give her a seat. She looked about, with a bewil 
 dered air. '0, I thought is this a mantua- 
 maker's room ? ' she asked, timidly. 
 
 " ' No; it is a doctor's office.' 
 
 " ' Indeed ! I have made a mistake,' and she van 
 ished. I enjoyed a laugh then as well as the doctor, 
 and in very good spirits we resumed our employ 
 ments. He was reading aloud, and he continued : 
 
 " la she dead," gasped the colonel, without moving
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 243 
 
 from where he stood or relaxing his hold of Ogilvie's 
 arm. 
 
 " No," replied the general, turning as pale as his 
 companion. 
 
 "Then what, tell me?" whispered Colonel St. 
 Helen, his eyes almost starting out of their sockets, 
 while the drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. 
 At a word spoken by Gen. Ogilvie in a low tone 
 
 " ' There, Charles, some one knocks,' said I, start 
 ing. ' 0, dear. Co-me in.' Now a woman en 
 tered. I had learned by experience not to be in an un 
 becoming haste to offer our visitor a chair ; so I rose 
 slowly, for my mind was full of the poor colonel. 
 The woman, to my surprise, sat down. I was silent. 
 
 " ' Do you wish to see the doctor ? ' said Charles, 
 at length, recovering from a sort of stupor. 
 
 " ' Yes,' said she, and was silent again. The doc 
 tor gave me a significant look, which I interpreted 
 ' You had better retire into our ante-room,' which 
 place, reader, between ourselves, was no more nor 
 less than our wood-closet. Realizing our good for 
 tune, I was hastily obeying, when my progress was 
 arrested by a sharp, shrill voice saying, ' I called to 
 see if you did n't want no washing done. 1 
 
 " After this, for a long time, the young physician 
 was left to pursue his studies, undisturbed. He was 
 growing older, and wiser, and poorer, daily. 
 
 " Once he seriously proposed the plan of throw-
 
 244 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 ing up his profession and going into business. I 
 laughed him out of it. Then he proposed entering 
 the army. 
 
 " ' Yes, to be ordered to New Orleans, and die 
 there of yellow fever.' 
 
 " ' Why not turn editor, then ? ' 
 
 " ' And starve in a garret ?' 
 
 " ' What will you have me do, Mary ? Live we 
 must.' 
 
 t " ' Why, our six months are not much more than 
 half out,' said I. ' We are sure of a support for 
 that length of time. Is it not best to abide by our 
 original plan until they have expired ? Then, if there 
 is no prospect of business here, we will look fur 
 ther.' 
 
 " ' What a fool I was, Mary,' said he, in reply, 
 4 to take you from all the comforts of your home, 
 and bring you out here to starve ! ' 
 
 " ' And how foppish you are becoming out here in 
 the woods ! ' said I. ' Only look in the glass! What 
 a cant you give your curls to one side ! Is that the 
 latest style ? You are quite an exquisite. 0, look ! 
 there is another woman, spelling out your golden 
 name ; and hark ! I do believe, yes, she is coming 
 up!' 
 
 " I was glad when she opened the door. It was 
 agreeable to see any one, particularly at that cloudy 
 moment.
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 245 
 
 " ' Is this a doctor's office ? ' she inquired. 
 
 " ' Yes,' said I, hastily. There is the doctor. 
 Do you wish to see him ? ' 
 
 " ' That I do,' said she. 
 
 " Again the doctor gave me an intelligent look ; 
 but this time I lingered long enough to be sure it 
 was not washing she was after, and then, with a 
 happy heart, I stepped lightly into our ante-chamber, 
 and closed the door. I made room for myself quietly 
 on a log of wood, and sat down. A little light, 
 which came through a solitary pane of glass, af 
 forded me some company, and I busied myself build 
 ing airy castles on the corner-stone of this, the 
 doctor's first call. Broad and high and beautiful 
 they were, and we were dwelling iu them, respected 
 and happy. ' And all this,' said I to myself, ' for 
 persevering through the first difficulties. How glad 
 I am we did so ! I wonder how this woman heard 
 of him!' 
 
 " It seemed to me as if she never would go. Pleas 
 ant as my thoughts were, I began to weary of them, 
 as dim impressions of their very visionary nature 
 forced themselves upon me. I was glad when I heard 
 her leave, and I was released from my confinement. 
 I entered the office, and I am sure my countenance 
 expressed both pride and pleasure. 
 
 " I found Dr. Harris leaning on his table, arranging 
 his books, but in a brown study.
 
 2i6 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 " ' Well,' said I, my enthusiasm cooling down sud 
 denly, ' what is it ? ' 
 
 " ' Why, she thought I was an old sweating doctor 
 who used to keep here, and made me listen to a long 
 catalogue of her aches and ails ; and when I asked 
 her if I should prescribe for her, she replied, " Why, 
 to l>e plain and honest, she was 'fraid of these ere 
 young doctors, with their 'pot'ecary stuffs. She 
 had a mind they killed about as many as they cured; 
 but, as I did n't look as desateful as some of them, 
 if she could make up her mind to take my stuff, she 
 would come back and let me know." ' 
 
 " We never saw her again, though many an hour 
 I watched for her, as for an absent friend. 
 
 " One very delightful day, very late in the fall, 
 Dr. Harris insisted upon it that I should have a 
 ride, as I had been suffering from head-ache for 
 several hours. I remembered the three teeth, and 
 made every suitable objection ; but they were of no 
 avail. He went for a horse, and I sat down to fin 
 ish off a letter home. Pretty soon I heard a clumsy 
 step over the stairs, and then some one fretted away 
 at the door-latch. It yielded, and an old man, 
 ragged and dirty, made his appearance. He was 
 nearly blind, and felt his way along with a stick to 
 the table at which I was sitting. I thought of re 
 treating, when he touched his hat with much native
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 247 
 
 grace, and, with a thick voice and foreign accent, 
 inquired if Dr. Harris was in. 
 
 " ' Ah, here is a patient at last! ' thought I. ' Now 
 how shall I contrive to detain him until the doctor 
 returns ? I must show him something to interest 
 him.' 
 
 " ' He will be in in one minute, sir,' said I. ' Sit 
 down. This is a delightful day. You look weary ; 
 have you walked far ? Pray sit down.' 
 
 " ' Bless your swate heart, you 're the doctor's wife, 
 aren't you?' 
 
 " ' Yes.' 
 
 " ' Well, I bid ye welcome to this country ! ' 
 
 "'Thank you, thank you. Pray be seated. 
 Have you long been ill ? ' 
 
 " ' Blessings on ye, my lady, I an't sick ! You don't 
 wish I was, do you ? ' 
 
 " What could I say ? Certainly I did not wish ill 
 to the old man, but I should have been so glad to 
 have presented a patient to the doctor on his return ! 
 I made some pleasant reply, and resumed my pen. 
 
 " ' I knew Dr. Harris, once, I did,' said my vis 
 itor, seating himself. ' He cured my old woman of 
 rheumatiz when he was out here before, and it 's my 
 opinion that there is n't a doctor in the country 
 knows as much as he does, and so I tells every 
 body.' 
 
 " I looked up from my writing, and listened with
 
 248 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 much complacency ; and from my heart I forgave 
 the old man for not being a patient. 
 
 " ' I hearn,' continued he, ' that he brought his 
 young wife to these parts, and I have been onasy 
 ever since ; and so to-day I walked four miles, with 
 the help of my old stick here, that I might bring 
 her a present. It is n't much, but it is all I had in 
 the world to bring.' 
 
 " From a somewhat greased basket he then took 
 out a paper bag, which he presented to me. I found 
 it filled with the finest plums which I had ever seen. 
 I thanked him for them so heartily that his old face 
 brightened up. 
 
 " ' I am sorry I shan't see the doctor,' said he. 
 ' Won't you tell him never to forget Jerry ? for 
 Jerry never will forget him. My best wishes for 
 you, my lady, are, that you may be as happy as he 
 is good. Don't rise, don't rise ; I must be going. 
 When you are a-riding, don't pass our door. Good- 
 morning;' and Jerry left me. It would have taken 
 a very fine professional call to have given me as 
 much pleasure as his had done ; that I can truly 
 say. 
 
 " In this pleasure the doctor fully shared, and we 
 had a most delightful ride that afternoon ; for we 
 had something very interesting to talk about, but 
 what it was is a secret. 
 
 " ' Why, how bright you both look ! ' said Mrs.
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 249 
 
 Bailey, as we entered her tea-room. 'What has 
 happened ? ' 
 
 " Our six months of trial were drawing to a 
 close, and still Dr. Harris had received no calls 
 worth mentioning. I had for some time ceased to 
 expect them, and we were seriously thinking over 
 the next step to be taken. 
 
 " ' After all,' said the doctor, in reply to some re 
 mark of mine about our position, ' these six months 
 have not been lost to me. I have read a great deal 
 of medicine, and I have learned many things which 
 will be an advantage to me in starting again.' 
 
 " ' That is true,' said I ; ' there is a bright side to 
 everything ; and if we will look for it, we can find 
 it. You have proved one thing, that you are 
 neither fickle nor easily disheartened, Charles ; and 
 in some way or other this reputation will certainly 
 prove an advantage to you. How many doctors 
 have put out signs, and taken down, and moved 
 away from this square, even since we have been 
 here ? ' 
 
 " ' Four,' said the doctor, laughing ; ' but I really 
 wish I could have one good case before I follow 
 suit. Ah ! here is Mr. Gould. I am happy to see 
 you, sir. Sit down.' 
 
 " 4 The doctor was just wishing a patient,' said I, 
 extending my hand to our friend, as he entered ;
 
 250 FIKST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 ' but I am happy to see you looking so well. How 
 are you all at home ? ' 
 
 " ' Harris, my boy is ill,' said he, with a troubled 
 look. 
 
 " ' What 's the matter ? ' 
 
 '"I do not know ; but I do not like his looks. 
 He had what I should call a high fever, all night.' 
 
 " ' It is rather sickly among children, just now,' 
 said the doctor, whittling away at a pine chip ; ' but 
 children will be feverish, often, from slight causes. 
 Perhaps your boy has taken a little cold. He has 
 been vaccinated, has n't he ? ' 
 
 " ' No ; his mother never would consent to it.' 
 
 " ' That 's a pity. You ought to have it done.' 
 
 " I tried to converse with our guest, but he was 
 evidently absent-minded and uneasy, and made but 
 a short call. 
 
 " ' I wish you would step over with me, Harris,' 
 said he, 'and look at the boy. I don't like this 
 small-pox business.' 
 
 " ' 0, I 've no fear of small-pox,' said Charles, 
 laughing, and putting his long-disused medicine-case 
 in his pocket ; ' but I will go and see what is the 
 matter with the child, if you wish it. Mary,' said 
 he, as he closed the office-door, giving me a very ex 
 pressive look, ' if any one calls, say I shall be in 
 soon.' 
 
 " The doctor found Willy Gould already very ill.
 
 TIKST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 251 
 
 Disease had fairly taken hold of him, and he became 
 rapidly worse. It was no longer possible to stem 
 the tide ; all the physieian could hope for was to 
 lend a helping hand to the frail vessel, in passing 
 the billows. As his danger became more and 
 more apparent, his parents lost their self-control. 
 Many a time, even in the passing of one short hour, 
 the mother came, with quivering lip, grasping the 
 doctor's arm, whispering, ' 0, save him ! save him ! 
 Take all we have on earth, but save our boy ! ' 
 
 " One morning I went over with Charles. This 
 was his first case, and of course I was intensely 
 interested in its success. We heard the meanings 
 of the child as soon as we opened the outer door. 
 Stepping into the little nursery, we found him in 
 his crib, looking as if he were very near death. His 
 parents were hanging over him in agony. I felt 
 much for them, but I felt also for one dearer to me 
 than they. The doctor was almost as pale as the 
 child. He had scarcely left the sick-room, day or 
 night, since he was summoned to it. He was in 
 tensely interested in saving the little patient, both 
 for his friends' sake and his own. 
 
 "There were many things, I soon perceived, 
 which tried his feelings unnecessarily. The old 
 nurse not unfrequently looked up contemptuously to 
 his young face, and told him, in a tone peculiarly 
 her own, ' that she had seen death before.'
 
 252 FIKST TRIALS OP A YODNQ PHYSICIAN. 
 
 " ' Harris,' sometimes said the father, in his dis 
 tress, ' are you sure this powder is the best thing ? 
 You know you are young yet.' 
 
 " ' That is a very powerful dose,' said the mother, 
 at length. ' Now, if Dr. Harris has no objection, I 
 should prefer to consult with Dr. Smith, before giv 
 ing it. He is an older man, you know, and has had 
 much experience with children.' 
 
 " Dr. Harris was perfectly cordial in acceding to 
 this plan, and Dr. Smith was immediately sent for. 
 His head was gray enough, but I fancied though 
 may be it was all a fancy that he looked with a jeal 
 ous eye upon my young doctor, and that he was not 
 inclined to approve of his course, if he could help it. 
 Indeed, he did object to administering the powder. 
 The boy lay apparently dying. There was no time 
 to be lost. It was a very exciting moment. 
 
 " ' Shall I give it, or not ? ' said the agitated 
 mother, hanging over her idol, as if she feared his 
 last breath would escape before they answered her. 
 
 " ' I think it must be given,' said Charles, firmly. 
 ' I must administer it, if I retain the case ; but if 
 you wish, Mrs. Gould, I will at once place the case 
 in Dr. Smith's hands.' 
 
 " Mrs. Gould held a hurried consultation with her 
 husband, and then he proposed that Dr. Holmes, an 
 old and valued family physician, should be sent for, 
 and the case submitted to him. This was agreed
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 253 
 
 upon, and Dr. Holmes was soon brought to what, by 
 this time, seemed surely the chamber of death. 
 When he entered the parents had turned, weeping, 
 to the window, that they might not see the last 
 struggle. 
 
 " ' The child is not dying yet,' said Dr. Holmes, 
 in his rough, kind voice. ' Mother, what you cry 
 ing for ? I don't know but he may die, but I hope 
 not. Wipe up ! we shall want you to nurse him pretty 
 soon, I dare say ; and if you fret it will hurt him.' 
 
 " Dr. Harris looked exceedingly pleased. ' I told 
 you, all the time, he was not dying,' said he to its 
 father. 
 
 " ' Well, I know it, Harris ; but I could n't believe 
 you,' said Mr. Gould, laughing and crying together. 
 
 " The old nurse was silent. She had committed 
 herself to the opinion that the child must soon die, 
 and she meant to wait and see what came of it. 
 
 "A statement of the case was made to Dr. 
 Holmes, and the powder submitted to his judgment. 
 
 " ' Now, Dr. Harris,' said he, in his same rough 
 way, ' Dr. Smith's medicine is very good ; but if I 
 had charge of the boy, the dose I should give him 
 is the one you hold in your hand.' 
 
 " So it was given. Willie swallowed with diffi 
 culty. Charles never left him; he stood with 
 his finger on the nickering pulse. It is rising, 
 rising. The child had merely swooned. He soon 
 22
 
 254 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 came out of the fainting-fit. ' Don't crowd about 
 him,' said Charles ; ' give him air. There, he has 
 opened his eyes. Now call his mother; let her 
 see him.' 
 
 " From this moment the parents hoped. Dr. 
 Smith and Dr. Holmes went away, and the case 
 was left quietly in Dr. Harris' hands. He re 
 mained day and night in that nursery, until all dan 
 ger was over ; then, with a proud and happy look, 
 placed the little white sufferer in its mother's amis. 
 ' All he needs now,' said he, ' is good nursing ; and 
 that you must give him.' 
 
 " ' I '11 tell you what,' said Mr. Gould to me, one 
 day, when I called there, ' Mrs. Harris, your hus 
 band is a first-rate physician ; and if he does not get 
 the best practice in this place, after this, it won't be 
 my fault.' Mr. Gould was a leading man a 
 man of great influence in the town, and he made 
 his word good. 
 
 " From this time Dr. Harris' practice steadily in 
 creased, until, at length, he had his hands full of 
 business. True, many of his calls brought in no 
 pay ; but he did not despise them on this account. 
 He attended to all he could get, for he ralued the 
 practice. A few paid, and a little money came in. 
 This was all given into my keeping. At length I 
 began to mourn that I had to pay so much of it to 
 Mrs. Bailey for boarding. ' It would go so far in a
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 255 
 
 little house of our own,' thought I ; and the thought, 
 once admitted, would not be expelled. My mother 
 had a neat fit-out for me whenever I should need it, 
 and I knew I could send for this at any time ; and 
 the more I thought of the plan, the more delightful 
 and feasible it seemed. I mentioned it to Charles, 
 and he fell in with it at once. Gentlemen are 
 always ready to go to house-keeping. They like to 
 provide for their families in their own homes. So 
 much in earnest was the doctor about it that he 
 made me go out with him, every leisure moment he 
 had, house-hunting. This we found a difficult task. 
 To suit our means, and yet obtain a central position, 
 seemed impossible. I began to despair, when, one 
 afternoon, we stumbled upon a little box of a house, 
 hidden behind some fine old maple-trees. It looked 
 very well externally ; it was painted white, and 
 had green blinds at its few windows, and a varnished 
 front-door. There was a little yard before it, and 
 garden in the rear, and, what pleased me much, a 
 nice barn. I was so delighted with it, and we found 
 the rent so very low, that the doctor hired it, and 
 I sent to my mother for our furniture. We found, 
 however, to our disturbance, that the inside of the 
 house was sadly out of repair. Our landlord re 
 fused to put one dollar into repairs. He said he 
 could not afford to, if he rented it so low. Neither 
 could I consent to put my new furniture into it, in
 
 256 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 the state in which it was ; so I proposed to the doc 
 tor that we should paper and paint it ourselves. I 
 found him quite ready to undertake it, and we drove 
 out of town, one day, and bought our paint in the 
 raw material, because it came cheaper. We ground 
 it down, and mixed it ourselves, and we painted and 
 papered our little box from garret to cellar ; and we 
 sung over our work ; and when all was done it was 
 wonderful to see how nice it looked. My furniture 
 was pretty, and in good taste ; and everything was 
 so neat and snug that I think we looked better than 
 many of our richer neighbors. Here we settled 
 down, in the fall; Dr. Harris and his wife, 
 Eleanor the baby, and Ann, the fat Dutch girl who 
 took care of her. I thought I had all I wanted. 
 Ann and I. were to do the work together. This I 
 thought I should find an easy matter ; but I soon 
 learned that there is just such a round of ceremony 
 to be gone through, at house-keeping, if there are 
 but two of you ; and, further than that, a baby will 
 have its full share of attention, and consumes much 
 of one's time. I found myself, therefore, more 
 closely confined at home than was good either for 
 my health or spirits ; so I put on my thinking-cap, 
 one day, to see what could be done about it. It 
 struck me that if we could take a couple of pleasant 
 table-boarders, it would pay the wages of a good strong 
 servant, who could do all the work, and bring us in
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 257 
 
 a little over every week besides, if I managed it 
 well. I proposed it to the doctor ; at first he hesi 
 tated. He was enjoying the new dignity of a 
 householder, and it was not agreeable to him to 
 think of keeping boarders ; but after a time his 
 judgment fell in with mine about it, and two pleas 
 ant young gentlemen, and a stout serving-girl, were 
 added to our establishment. 
 
 "I did find this arrangement gave me more 
 liberty, and also added to our income a pretty little 
 sum weekly. Under the privacy of one's own roof, 
 one can cut and contrive and economize, and make 
 things do which never would answer at boarding. 
 I soon found that my savings were just as good as 
 the doctor's earnings ; and that, without them, it 
 would have been quite impossible for him to have 
 brought the two ends together so finely, and to have 
 had a little penny over for a wet day, and this, too, 
 in the first year of housekeeping. How glad I was 
 that we went to housekeeping ! 
 
 " Calls, calls, calls ! Dr. Harris was in great 
 demand; and, at length, was out from morning 
 until night, and used to come in looking so weary, 
 that it troubled me. We had added one more gen 
 tleman to the number of our table boarders, and, 
 indeed, I found the arrangement a very profitable 
 one, but still I was not satisfied. One November 
 noon, I wandered out into our little garden, and 
 22*
 
 258 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN'. 
 
 opened the door of our barn. I stood, as I had fre 
 quently done before, looking in, and thinking, until 
 I saw a pony standing before me in the stall, and 
 neighing in a most friendly manner, and the loft 
 well filled with hay, and a sulky standing there, 
 with a neat harness. I then closed the door upon 
 these imaginary treasures, and, sitting down on a 
 stone in the sunshine, I again put on my thinking- 
 cap. What could be done to help the doctor ? He 
 was wearing himself out. Now I remembered 
 that, when purchasing my wedding finery, I had 
 saved a little portion of my dowry, and tucked it 
 away in the corner of an old red pocket-book. 
 There is no knowing, thought I, what may happen, 
 and I can do without more ribbon. It occurred to 
 me that this sum would just about purchase a 
 second-hand sulky, which I had seen in the village, 
 chalked ' for sale,' ever since Dr. Simmons' abrupt 
 departure. I knew, also, that the doctor had a 
 small sum put away ; and this, I concluded, would 
 purchase a cheap pony and harness. The plan 
 pleased me so much, I became very impatient for 
 the doctor's return, that I might tell him of it ; but 
 the short November afternoon was spent, and he did 
 not come, and at length I went down into the 
 kitchen, to talk it over with Nannie. She was as 
 much pleased with the prospect as I was. ' And 
 now I will tell you what it is, Mrs. Harris,' said
 
 FIRST TKIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 259 
 
 She ; if you do get a pony, let us begin with him 
 to make him eat everything, and then we can give 
 him half his living from the house.' This sugges 
 tion of Nannie's I afterwards found very valuable. 
 
 " Our gentlemen boarders had been gone from tea 
 some time, and Eleanor was sound asleep, before 
 the doctor came home that night. As soon as I 
 heard him open the front door, I ran to meet him. 
 ' Charles,' said I, I have such a grand plan to 
 tell you ! Come down to your supper as quick as 
 you can, and hear it.' 
 
 " ' What a lady you are for plans ! ' said he, laugh 
 ing ; ' do you ever let a day go by without making 
 them ? ' 
 
 " ' This is the best you ever heard,' persisted I, 
 and I soon made it known to him. He approved it 
 highly, and wondered he had not thought of it be 
 fore ; and the very next day he set about making 
 his purchases. Before the week was out, I again 
 opened our little stable-door, and there stood the sulky 
 and the harness, and there, too, was the loft filled 
 with hay ; and, more than all that, Letty, the new 
 pony, stood pawing in the stall with her white feet, 
 and these were not imaginary treasures. How rich 
 we felt ! There was but one drawback to my pleas 
 ure ; and that was, that the sulky was not a buggy. 
 There was no way for me to ride with Dr. Harris, 
 unless I rode as Eleanor did, on his knee, and this
 
 260 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 could only be done after dark. To compensate for 
 this, he borrowed Mrs. Bailey's old side-saddle, and 
 spent much time re-fitting it for me and Nannie. 
 I learned to saddle the pony, and many a splendid 
 ride did Letty give me through those grand old 
 forests. We became great friends; and, when it 
 chanced that the doctor did not get home in season 
 to feed her, Nannie and I used to give her her 
 supper, and she would rub her head on our shoul 
 ders, and do everything but speak to us. Many 
 horses have we owned since Letty's day ; I became 
 famous for those I used under the saddle, and our 
 carriage-horses were pronounced the finest in the 
 state ; but, after all, never have we had any which 
 I loved as I did little Letty, with her white feet. 
 We purchased her in our poverty, and she did her 
 part well towards aiding us in our success. Peace 
 to her memory ! She served her generation faith 
 fully, and that is more than many of us do. 
 
 " It strikes me, in reading over this, that some 
 thing new has come in fashion for young wives at 
 the present day ; that now they think a man must 
 not marry unless he is all ready to support his wife, 
 and support her, too, in a suitable style ; and, if he 
 cannot furnish a house according to her ideas, they 
 must board. I wonder what we should have done, 
 had I insisted upon boarding at the Sun Tavern, 
 &c. ? Charles could not take me to a fine house
 
 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 261 
 
 when first we went West. We might have gone 
 there, and had Captain Dodge's best parlor and 
 chamber; and, likely enough, had he still been 
 keeping the Sun Tavern, we might have been there 
 to this day, instead of being in this fine house of our 
 own. No look at it from what point you will, 
 boarding is not the right way for young people to 
 begin living who have their own fortune to make ; 
 they cannot, in this, economize rightly. They must 
 be in a home of their own, be it ever so small, and 
 regulate its policy just according to their means, 
 and be content to do so. 
 
 " My friend, if you are thinking of marrying a 
 poor physician, let me give you one word of advice : 
 Make common cause with the doctor, to start with. 
 Do not think it to be his first business to support 
 you, and, above all, to support you in a certain style, 
 and provide you with a New York hat twice a 
 season. If the doctor hires you a small house, and 
 it needs painting sadly, and your landlord will not' 
 do a thing to it, do not shrink from painting your 
 own fingers, if by so doing you can make it re 
 spectable. 
 
 "Do not be ashamed to have a pleasant table 
 boarder, if you find, by experience, that this will aid 
 your husband in paying his butcher's bills. [Put in 
 your oar, and share the sweat of the brow with which
 
 262 FIRST TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN 
 
 you must both start up the stream. You will richly 
 enjoy the rest, when you reach the harbor. 
 
 " I am grateful that these genteel notions about 
 the proper position of the wife were not discovered 
 when Dr. Harris first swung out his pretty blue and 
 gold sign in the Western sunshine ; for, had I fallen 
 a victim to them, then I think Eleanor never would 
 have had what will fall to her to-morrow, on her 
 eighteenth birthday. 
 
 " But I do not know that I ought to tell of this. 
 Eleanor is pretty, and an heiress, and some young 
 Dr. Harris will be for looking her up ; and, if he 
 once sees her, he will be more captivated with her 
 sunny smiles and golden curls even than with her 
 golden dovpr. Then, if Eleanor should like him, 
 the gold might be a disadvantage ; for, after all, it 
 is the making of the young physician to force his 
 own way, patiently and perseveringly, through the 
 first trials of his profession."
 
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