ALDE 11 BROOK: 
 
 A COILECTION OF 
 
 FANNY FORESTER'S 
 
 VILLAGE SKETCHES, POEMS, ETC. 
 
 / 
 
 MISS EMILY CHUBBUCK. 
 
 N TWO VOLUM 
 
 VOL. 
 
 ELEVEA^TH EDITION. 
 REVISED, WITH ADDITIONS. 
 
 / 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 
 
 M DCCC LVI. 
 

 Entered according lo Act of Confess, in the year 1846, bf 
 
 WILLIAM D. TICKNOR AND COMPANY. 
 
 la the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 VaW XNai.AHD TTFS . 
 
TO 
 
 HIM WHO IS HENCEFORTH TO BB 
 
 MY GUIDE THROUGH LIFE, ITS SUNLIGHT AND ITS GLOOM, 
 
 THESE FEW LITTLE FLOWERS, 
 
 GATHERED BY THE WAYSIDE BEFORE WE HAD MET, 
 
 ARE HALF-TREMBLINGLT, BUT MOST AFFECTIONATELY, 
 
 DEDICATED. 
 
 MAY THEIR PERFUME BE GRATEFUL J 
 
 THEIR FRAGILITY BE PARDONED ; 
 
 AND 
 
 HEAVEN GRANT THAT NO UNSUSPECTED POISON MAT BB 
 
 FOUND LURKING AMONG THEIR LEAVES ! 
 
 FAWKY FORESTER. 
 
LETTER FROM THE WRITER TO THE PUBLISHERS, 
 
 AS A 
 
 PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 
 
 To Messrs. Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. : — 
 
 Dear Sirs: — The copy of Alderbrook which you were so kind as to for- 
 ward, reached us some weeks since ; and really it came to me, in the midst 
 of my new associations, like a spectre from the world of the antediluvians. 
 It seemed scarcely possible, as I turned over leaf after leaf, that I could ever 
 have been conversant with such scenes — scenes in which not only the human 
 face, btt everything, down to the little bird and flower, were so utterly unlike 
 those, which are here daily becoming more and more familiar. It is aston- 
 ishing how many years may be lived in one. 
 
 I send you a list of corrections for a new edition. The poem entitled " The 
 Weaver," I re-wrote soon after leaving Boston ; — please admit the emen- 
 dations. 
 
 Of the various articles which the book contains, I am the least satisfied 
 with " Ida Ravelin ;" because it verges too closely on a class of writings just 
 now somewhat mischievously fashionable in America. Beside, it is the only 
 article written without "aim or object;" and, I think, the only one which 
 has no foundation in reality. One of the last things whichi wrote before 
 leaving America, was the " Angel's Pilgrimage ;" and, as it properly belongs 
 to this collection, I should like to see it substituted for " Ida Ravelin."* 
 
 Accompanying this, you will receive several articles wiich should have 
 been in the poetical list of the first edition. One of the pieces formerly ap- 
 peared in the Knickerbocker Magazine ; two or three in other periodicals, 
 and some have never been published at all. 
 
 While I have been telling you these things, and especially while copying 
 the old poems, memory has been practising some very pleasing illusions ; so 
 that I seemed to be revisiting my old haunts. But now I am at home again 
 — talking across the ocean to a world which begins already to gather shad- 
 ows about it ; and I must once more repeal the adieu to Alderbrook — a 
 final farewell. E. C. J. 
 
 Maulmain, Dec, 1847. 
 
 • *We have taken the liberty to retain the story here referred to, as the objection 
 brought against it by the author is more than balanced by the graceful beauty of style 
 and admirable spirit in which it is written. The piece intended by Mrs. Judson as a 
 tubstitute, is now printed as additional matter to volume second. 
 
 W. D. T. &. CO. 
 
OF THE FIRST VOLUME 
 
 Grace Linden, 7 
 
 CLINGIN& TO Earth, 73 
 
 Aspiring to Heaven, 74 
 
 Underbill Cottage, 75 
 
 Little Molly White, 82 
 
 My Old Playmate, 104 
 
 OtJR May, 116 
 
 The Weaver, 128 
 
 Save the Erring, 131 
 
 My Uncle Stilling, 151 
 
 NicKiE Ben, 170 
 
 Where are the Dead? 185 
 
 The Young Dream, 187 
 
 The Bank Note, 208 
 
 To my Sister in Heaven, 234 
 
 Ally Fisher, 237 
 
 Edith Ray, 248 
 
 Kitty Coleman, 252 
 
 Robert Flemming, or " What that Boy did come to at last," 253 
 
 To my Mother, 275 
 
 April, 277 
 
 A Wish, 278 
 
 To an Intant, 278 
 
 The Old Man— a Fact, 279 
 
 Grandfather, 281 
 
 The Dying Exile, 284 
 
 1# 
 
ALDERBROOK. 
 
 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 FOUR AGES IN THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN WOMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. EIGHT. 
 
 " This will be quite pleasant, after all, mother — quite pleas- 
 ant. This nice little room is just the place for me. We will 
 train a vine over the window, and my books shall be upon the 
 table close by — " 
 
 " We shall need the table noAV, my daughter. Your fa- 
 ther thinks we can take two boarders, though for my part 1 
 see no place lo put them," and the mother cast an anxious, 
 troubled glance about the apartment. 
 
 " Two boarders ! It -will come hard upon you, mother." 
 
 " Oh no, dear, no ! Not so hard, Abby, as upon the poor 
 children. I cannot bear the idea of their being shut up the 
 livelong day — stifled for the want of pure air — work, work, 
 working every moment, till their little limbs are ready to drop 
 oflf with pain. It is horrible to me, Abby ! " 
 
 The poor woman, as she spoke, shuddered at the sad pic- 
 ture which needed not the coloring of a mother's imagination. 
 For a moment the pale lips of the girl trembled, and a tear 
 quivered in her eye ; but, with a strong effort she suppressed 
 the emotion, and replied cheerfully. It was certainly, (so said 
 the sympathizing Abby,) a hard thing for the poor children to 
 
8 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 be shut away from the sunshine ; but she was sure the labor 
 would be light ; Mr. Russel promised that ; and if it was 
 found in any way injurious to health, or even spirits, a change 
 of some kind must of course be made. " It is only a trial, 
 dear mother," she added, smiling. 
 
 "My life has been all trials," was the desponding reply, 
 and the mother might have added, that she knew one awaited 
 her harder to bear than all the 'others. 
 
 The life of Mis. Linden had, indeed, been one of severe 
 trials ; of sufferings and sorrows untold, and scarce imagined 
 by her delicately nurtured country-women ; for, thanks to the 
 chivalrous spirit of America, her Avomen are her jewels. But 
 in the midst of all her trials, Mrs. Linden had never till now 
 despaired. Now want, absolute want, stared her in the face. 
 She had, as she believed, immolated her children ; and a dark 
 unhoping midnight had settled upon her prospects and theirs. 
 
 The changes of fortune, common in America, would scarcely 
 be credited by a dweller in the old world. There, men must 
 necessarily be, in a great degree, what they are born and what 
 their fathers were ; but here, each individual takes his destiny 
 in his own hands, and no human power, no law of conven- 
 tionalism, often still more oppressive, interferes with what he 
 wills. It rests v.dth himself and the great Governor whether 
 he sit down with the honorable of the land, or droop in an 
 almshouse, or crouch, and grovel, and coil himself in a kennel. 
 
 Mr. Linden had spent his youth in the city of Boston, 
 where, on the death of his father, he became sole proprietor 
 of an extensive mercantile establishment. When in the full 
 tide of prosperity he married the daughter of an ex-governor 
 of his native state. Soon, however, the fabric of his fortune 
 began to crumble. It was like the melting of a snow toy in 
 the spring, gradually and imperceptibly wasting away until 
 all was gone. This change of fortune could be attributed 
 neither to extravagance nor vice. It was simply miscalcula- 
 tion, mismanagement ; a lack of energy and perseverance, 
 joined with a low estimate of the worth of money, save at the 
 moment when it was needed. Men said, Mr. Linden had no 
 
GRACE LINDEN. y 
 
 hisiness talent. He struggled a while, but quite ineffectually, 
 and then he gave up all and removed to anoljier state. In the 
 interior of New York, another effort was made, but it was 
 only to live ; and so year after year, year after year rolled on, 
 and found them struggling still. 
 
 The father of Mrs. Linden commenced life as a New Eng- 
 land farmer. Without well considering the disastrous conse- 
 quences to his pecuniary affairs, (for the people of democratic 
 America are quite too wise to support the honors they deign 
 to confer,) he accepted several offices of trust, and for one 
 term presided as the governor of his native state. This was 
 the death-blow to his laudable ambition; for, finding his 
 purse drained, his land, and even the house in which he was 
 bom, mortgaged, he declined a second nomination. His fami- 
 ly consisted entirely of daughters ; and so, though his exer- 
 tions enabled him to protect them from want, he was quite 
 unable to afford assistance to those removed from his care. 
 
 Abby Linden, the eldest daughter of the immigrants, 
 had a very indistinct recollection of large, airy rooms and ele- 
 gant furniture ; a moment of terror when her father threw 
 himself upon the sofa and groaned aloud, while her mother 
 wept and conjured him to be comforted, was more strongly 
 impressed upon her memory. After events were spread out 
 on her chart of the past in too deep colors to be forgotten ; 
 for, when sorrow came, the child was made the mother's 
 friend and confidante, and from that moment she had never 
 ceased to sympathize, cheer, and even advise. Abby had la- 
 bored too. With her little straw bonnet tied closely under her 
 chin, and her basket on Jier arm, she had for years gone every 
 I morning to the lov/, uncomfortable district school-house, and 
 won over the rebellious spirits there to obey her. And then, 
 when night came, she would walk two weary miles ; not loi- 
 i tering under the solemn old forest trees, where it would have 
 [ been her delight to linger ; but hurrying onward to perform 
 I another task with her needle, and again another over her 
 i books, before she retired for the night. But things were 
 i changed now, and the darling, idolized eldest daughter, the 
 
10 GRACE LrNDEIN. 
 
 companion, the friend, the all that a mother's heart could 
 desire to love and rest upon, was gradually but surely going 
 do^vn to tlie dead. Her bright sparkling eye, her hollow burn- 
 ing cheek, her faltering footsteps, her frail figure, slightly 
 bended, and her thin transparent hand, all told a tale tliat filled 
 a mother's bosom with anguish. Till now, what with the 
 eldest daughter's little salary and the proceeds of the mother's 
 ever busy needle, despite the father's small bargains, by which 
 he was sure to lose more than he had been able to gain for 
 weeks before, the family had contrived to live in comparative 
 comfort. But now that poor Abby was confined within doors, 
 she could only advise and cheer. The other children were 
 yet too young to be useful. Francis, a bright boy of twelve, 
 and " the little girls," two fair, slender creatures of eight and 
 six years, were all that the grave had left. Small debts ac- 
 cumulated, and finally credit was refused. What could be 
 done ? Poor Abby revolved the subject in her mind night and 
 day, and finally she ventured to propose a last resource. She 
 told her mother that factory labor was respectable in Amer- 
 ica ; indeed none but respectable people could gain employ- 
 ment in these establishments — there was light work in them 
 expressly for children — Frank and Grace were old enough 
 to be employed, and Lizzy might be sent to school. For her 
 part, the doctor had spoken very encouragingly of her case, 
 and while the warm weather continued she might make her- 
 self very useful. She would teach Frank and Grace WTiting 
 and arithmetic, and see tliat the childi-en's clothes were in 
 order, and possibly she might be able to do a little extra sew- 
 ing herself. All this had cost poor Abby long nights of 
 weeping ; for she had looked on a side of the picture that she 
 did not attempt to describe ; but now the proposition was made 
 so cheerfully and confidently, that it received but slight oppo- 
 sition. Indeed, the father, from constant discouragement, had 
 grown almost indifferent ; he was sure that fate had nothing 
 worse in store for tliem ; and the mother had been too much 
 accustomed to rely upon the daughter's judgment, to take a 
 fair survey of the subject until it was too late. But when 
 
GRACE LLNDKN. 
 
 she looked on the long narrow building, with its dingy walls, 
 and doors which received their ebony blackness from the soiled 
 fingers of the laborers, and thought of her tender children 
 being immured there all through the pleasant summer days 
 she had well nigh preferred beggary — beggary in the open 
 air, the fresh green fields, beneath the broad laughing heav- 
 ens — to this life-crushing imprisonment. As for Frank, he 
 whispered mysteriously in his little sister's ear of running 
 away ; hinted that his mother was a very cruel woman to 
 shut them up so ; pouted over his fishing-rod ; examined the 
 edge of the little axe so well accommodated to the strength 
 of his arm that he had been able to use it for several years ; 
 and then boasted of the mighty exploits he would perform 
 when once free from his mother's control. But Grace had a 
 heart all sunshine. She was a genuine honey-gatherer, and 
 she made all about her sip of the same flowers with herself. 
 There certainly was, she OAvned, a something very prison-like 
 about the old factory, " but then tliink of the ten shillings a 
 week, Frank I " she would add, triumphantly. 
 
 " Two dollars, you mean, Grace." 
 
 " Yes, you can earn two dollars, and so will I before long. 
 Oh, it is so nice to be earning something for mother and poor 
 sister Abby. Don't you think so, Frank ? " 
 
 But the first morning that Grace looked into the dark, dirty 
 factor)'-, with its strange machinery, making noises that fright- 
 ened and almost distracted her ; its greasy blackened walls 
 and disagreeable smells, the sunshine of her heart was well- 
 nigh overshadowed. She clung close to her father's hand, 
 avoiding as much as was in her power a nearer approach to 
 the machinery, and looking askance at every pillar, as if she 
 doubted whether anything in that strange place could remain 
 stationary. Grace trembled more and grew still paler as she 
 looked upon the faces of the • laborers. So many strangers 
 she had never seen together before, and their faces, all be- 
 grimmed with dye from off the wool, presented features any- 
 thing but attractive. As she turned away and chmg closely 
 to her father's arm, a boy darted before her, grinning and 
 
12 
 
 CJKACE LLNDEN. 
 
 throwing himself into various attitudes, evidently on purpose 
 to alarm her. 
 
 Oh, that long deep breath as she once more stepped fonli 
 into the free air ! How it relieved her ! And then how licr 
 little bosom swelled, as she thought of days, and weeks and 
 mouths, perhaps years in that same place ! She looked up 
 into her father's face as if for a word of encouragement, of 
 hope, but it was darkened with gloom. Grace was fright- 
 ened, and trembled more than ever. The noise of the ma- 
 chinery — the grating, crashing, thundering, were still in her 
 cars. Again she saAV those besmeared faces staring at her, 
 and saw the sickly, yellow light struggling through windows 
 dim with blackness, and oil and filth, and flaunting \vith the 
 long wreath-like cob-webs, hung with black wool dust, accu- 
 mulated from that which constantly filled the air, she would 
 soon be compelled to breathe, from early morning to the set- 
 ting of the sun. That first sight of her neAV abode had cast 
 a spell upon her young, gay spirit ; it had scared away its 
 joyousness ; and little Grace Linden, finding the bird-like 
 melody of her soul hushed in gloom, might become prema- 
 turely old, careworn before her time. Now, she hurried away 
 from her father before any one had seen her ; and, crouched 
 in an obscure corner of the unceiled chamber, with her apron 
 thronm over her head, and her face resting on her knees, she 
 sobbed and sobbed, until her little strength yielded to her first 
 overpowering grief, and she found rest in sleep. 
 
 A few days found Grace Linden all ready for her labor ; a 
 neat cap, fitted by Abby's careful fingers, confining the bright 
 curls that had been accustomed to Avander freely about her 
 shoulders, and a bro-\vn linen apron, reaching from chin to 
 ankle, enveloping her graceful little figure. The child 
 laughed at the oddity of her own appearance, heavy as her 
 heart felt at the moment ; and Lizzy clapped her little hands 
 and outlaughed hsr sister. Frank, too, joined, half in vexa- 
 tion, half to show that he was not vexed. Abby smiled en- 
 couragingly, and crushed with her thin hand a tear that was 
 forcing its way among her long, dark eye-i^shes , and Mrs. 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 13 
 
 Linden turned to the window and concealed her face among 
 the snowy folds of muslin. As "for the husband and father, 
 he was none the less to be pitied that he had neither tears nor 
 words. He lacked the self-sustaining power that to his wife 
 and daughter had been the gift of adversity. With a full 
 share of intellectuality, morbidly sensitive, yet fully conscious 
 of his deficiency in all the attributes that make up the char- 
 acter, his whole life had been but a continued nightmare 
 dream — a striving to do, while a dead numbness seemed to 
 settle upon every limb and faculty. Now, unless something 
 of importance roused him, he seemed in a continued reverie, 
 utterly regardless of everything passing around him. And 
 this was a moment when the whole past, the present, and the 
 dark, dark future, all together, stared him in the face. He 
 could not bear it j and for a whole week did he shut himself 
 in his room refusing to admit even the gentle Abby to console 
 him. At first, Grace thought her work ver}- easy ; and the 
 ambition consequent upon learning something new, made her 
 foiget to look at the walls that had so much inspired her hor- 
 ror. A long, low table was behind, covered with a cloth, 
 which, by rollers at each end, was kept creeping slowly on- 
 ward ^\^th its light layer of vrooUen rolls. These, Grace was 
 to take up by handfuls and fasten, one by one, ta the ends of 
 those extending douTi an inclined plane before her, covered in 
 the same manner with a moveable cloth. These rolls, in 
 their turn, were fastened to spindles behind the plane, and a 
 man, with a low forehead, smaU peering eyes, and a bushy 
 beard quite innocent of clipping, turned a crank, at the same 
 lime walking backward, until the wool was drawn out into a 
 thick thread, afterwards to be spun into a finer one. Grace 
 had no opportunity'- to falter in her task ; for the man kept up 
 his steady monotonous tramp, tramp, tramp — turn, turn, turn, 
 until her little head grew giddy, and she found a moment's 
 pause to mend a broken thread, an inconceivable relief. The 
 boy, too, whose grimaces had so frightened her on the day of 
 her first visit, was close beside her, supplying the carding ma 
 chine \vith wool ; and he seemed inclined to take advantage 0/ 
 2 
 
14 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 her timidity, thrusting his hideous face, marked as it was with 
 black, before her at every opportunity. 
 
 Oh, how her heart leaped when the heavy strokes of the 
 dinner-bell sounded from the belfry, and all the machinery 
 stopped in an instant ! And how bewildered she seemed at 
 the strange silence, till some half dozen persons about her 
 burst into a loud fit of laughter ! Then Frank came and took 
 her by the hand, and they hurried home together, so delighted 
 with the moment's respite that Mrs. Linden was delighted too, 
 and thought the poor children might be happy after all. But 
 the afternoon — oh, how long it was ! Grace thought it 
 would never end. Her little fingers, from constant rubbing 
 their backs upon the rolls to fasten them together, began to 
 bleed ; her head felt like bursting, for it seemed as though the 
 machinery was constantly grating against her brain ; and her 
 feet ached till she thought the bones had certainly perforated 
 the flesh. That night, poor Abby kissed and carefully bound 
 up the wounded fingers, and took the little feet soothingly be- 
 tween her hands, and talked of brighter days, and sung with 
 her faint, soft voice, little hymns, until, ill able as she was to 
 bear the weight, the child nestled in her bosom, and slept as 
 only those who love and labor can. 
 
 Week after week passed by, and though Jittle Grace Lin- 
 den's feet ached less, her heart ached more. Dick Grouse, 
 tlie malicious machine-tender, became an object of absolute 
 terror to her ; it seemed his delight to torment her by every 
 means in his power ; and though the man turning the crank 
 often defended her, it did not lessen her fears. She trembled 
 when he looked at her during the day, and at night dreamed 
 that he was an evil spirit dragging her away from her mother 
 and Abby, to a place of horrible darkness. The trees bud- 
 ded and leaved; flowers bloomed and faded, leaving their 
 places to brighter flowers still ; the brooks frolicked and jostled 
 their tmy drops together ; and the birds answered back from 
 ten thousand fresh green coverts with startling bursts of glad- 
 someness. All this passed, and Grace Linden, the darling 
 little woodland fairy, that might have claimed the flowers as 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 15 
 
 sisters, and the birds as chatty friends and playmates, scarce 
 looked upon the laughing- sunlight. True, on a Saturday 
 afternoon, she was free two hours before sunset ; free as the 
 winds of heaven and almost as wild. She laughed, and sang, 
 and shouted, and laughed again, to catch the ringing echo of 
 her own voice, as its music was caught up and prolonged by 
 the bold bluff just over the river. Then she would fling her- 
 self upon the turf, and nestle close to the ground to smell its 
 freshness ; and at last, when the hour for returning homeward 
 could be no longer delayed, she would load her little arms 
 with all that was green, and beautiful, and fraught with life, 
 because sister Abby, too, loved the things of summer. But 
 Grace grew pale and thoughtful. A sensation of heaviness, 
 as though neither mind nor body had strength to support its 
 o^vn weight, crept over her. She was sad, as though some 
 great sorrow had passed above her and left an immoveable 
 shadow. August came, with its warm, sultry days, and 
 brought no relief. It had now become a habit with Grace to 
 droop her eyelids heavily upon her wan cheek, as though she 
 would thus shut away the pain from her temples ; and when- 
 ever her hand was at liberty, to press it against her side. 
 Poor Grace ! 
 
 One morning, as little Grace Linden happenea to glance 
 upward from her work, she observed a fine, spirited boy of 
 some fourteen summers watching her languid motions with 
 an air of interest. He went away on being observed ; but 
 his tour through the -cleaner and pleasanter rooms above, was 
 soon made, and he returned to the carding-room. He looked 
 around and whistled a little, and approached the quarter where 
 Grace stood, by studied evolutions. But once there, he could 
 not well be accused of that most unboyish of all traits, bash- 
 fulness. 
 
 " I say, Sliggins," he called out, authoritatively, " why don't 
 you stop that tramp and let this little girl have a minute's 
 rest ? " The man at the crank gave a knowing wink with 
 the left eye, and jogged on as before, while Grace cast a look 
 of wonder, not unmixed with gratitude on the daring intruder. 
 
16 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 That look was quite enough for the boy, for, without waiting 
 a farther consultation, he marched direct to the carding-ma- 
 chine and threw the band from the wheel. 
 
 " There, Sliggins ! Look'ee, Mr. Machine-tender, you will 
 be glad of a rest, I dare say, so snuggle down on the wool, 
 and mind you sleep fast, my boy." Dick Grouse leered at 
 Grace over his shoulder, and drawing near, whispered some- 
 thing that made her utter a suppressed scream of terror; 
 then, dancing for a moment with malicious satisfaction, and 
 rubbing his hands gleefully, he betook himself to a pile of 
 wool. 
 
 " Rest ! Oh, yes, Master Hal, rest never comes amiss to 
 factory folks ; but your father moughn't like it quite so well," 
 said Sliggins, good-naturedly, at the same time seating him- 
 self on a roll of satinet and resting both elbows on his 
 knees. ' Without paying any attention to this answer, Henry 
 Russel busied himself with arranging a comfortable seat for 
 Grace ; who, without knowing whether to be grateful or not 
 for a display of power characteristic of the boy, even though 
 for her benefit, mechanically availed herself of his officious- 
 ness. 
 
 " Is your name Grace ? " inquired the boy, " is that what 
 Sliggins called you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Grace — Grace — Gracey ! that 's it I that 's a pretty nick- 
 name ! I like nick-names, don't you ? " 
 
 Grace was not quite sure, for she had always thought nick- 
 names were something bad ; but she was certain that Gracey 
 was not bad; and then she thought of Abby, and Frank, 
 and Lizzy, and she said " Yes," again. 
 
 " Then you must call me Harry, or Hal, or Hank — though 
 I think Harry a little the prettiest for a girl to speak, don't 
 you ? " 
 
 Again Grace said " Yes." 
 
 " "Well, I shall be here all the vacation — six weeks; and 
 I '11 come do\vn e ery day and stop the machine, and make 
 Sliggins give you a rest. Would n't you like that, Gracey ? " 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 17 
 
 Grace felt like saying yes, again, and blessing this wonder- 
 ous magician with all her heart ; but she remarked, instead, 
 "Mr. Sliggins said your father wouldn't like it." 
 
 " Poh ! he likes everything that I do — for, you see, I don't 
 come home but once a year, and then it would n't become him 
 to be cross to me." 
 
 Grace thought it would n't become anybody to be cross to 
 such a good-natured boy ; and, as this thought was comhig 
 up from her heart, (the source of little girls' thoughts,) sh? 
 could not avoid a glance towards the quarter where the two 
 eyes of Dick Grouse were peering out from the wool — and 
 then she shuddered and involuntarily drew near her new 
 friend. Harry had followed the direction of her eyes, and 
 remarked the shudder. 
 
 " I don't think that 's a very good boy, Gracey ? " 
 
 Grace made no answer, but she stole another glance at the 
 wool-pile. 
 
 " Halloo there, fellow ! " shouted Harry, " turn your big 
 starers the other way, if you can't shut them." 
 
 " Oh don't, don't ! " whispered Grace, seizing his ^vrist in 
 alarm. " He 's a dreadful boy, HaiTy, and I don't know what 
 he would do if you should make him angry ! " 
 
 Harry only laughed and shouted still louder, " Do you hear, 
 Blackey ? " 
 
 Dick dropped his head, and Grace, evidently relieved, inter- 
 posed : " He can't help getting black in this dirty place ; but 
 if he would n't mark that black ring around his eyes, and 
 make up such awful faces, and tell me such horrible stories, 
 too." 
 
 " He 's a bad boy, Gracey, I know he is, and I '11 tell father 
 all about it — he will make him walk straight. Father will 
 employ nobody that is not good ; for he says that would make 
 factories in this country almost as bad as they are in England. 
 He shall hear all about this mean Dick Grouse ; and then, if 
 the fellow don't look out, he will have to clear. To think of 
 his being hateful to you, and you so nice and good ! " 
 
 "Oh, no! he don't do anything to me — anything much, 
 2* 
 
18 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 I mean. Mr. Sliggins \\dll not let him strike me any more, 
 and he says he shall not pinch me and pull my hair, but Dick 
 does that so slily that nobody finds him out." 
 
 " Why don't you tell ? " 
 
 " It scared me dreadfully to see him and Blr. Sliggins quar- 
 rel, and it makes Dick tell me worse stories when nobody 
 hears him. Oh ! I would rather have him pinch me — ten 
 times rather, than hear those terrible things ! they make me 
 dream so badly. I wish you tended tlie machine, Harry — I 
 don't mean I \A-ish you were poor and had to do it, but it 
 would be verj' nice to have some one here that was kind and 
 good-natured all the time." 
 
 Harry thought it would be very nice, too, and almost wished 
 that his father would let him leave school for the purpose, 
 Grace, however, assured him that she would rather have the 
 company of bad Dick Grouse, than that he should do such a 
 thing. To this, Harrj- responded verj' generously ; and so a 
 half hour passed in just the most agreeable and childish chat 
 in the world. At tlie end of this time, Harr)' started up wdth 
 a loud " hurrah ! " threw the belt upon the wheel of the ma- 
 chine ; buried Dick Grouse in the wool ; gave the roll of 
 cloth a push, which made Sliggins turn a quite unintentional 
 somerset; and then, with a hearty laugh, in Avhich Grace 
 joined quite as heartily, and Sliggins uproariously, took an 
 abrupt departure. 
 
 The next morning, true to his promise, Harrj^ Russel was 
 at the factor}^ ; but he told Grace that his father was not quite 
 pleased with his stopping the machine, and so he would do a 
 better thing than that. She should teach him to splice the 
 roUs, and he would help her all day. " But why do you 
 work in the factory ? " he inquired, looking into her face very 
 earnestly. "If it were not for that ugly cap and this queer 
 apron you would be ver}^ pretty." 
 
 Grace thought *he cap that sister Abby made could n't be 
 ugly, and she said so. Harry admitted that it looked well 
 enough ; but he had had a glimpse of the curls peeping out 
 at tlxe side, and they looked much better. 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 19 
 
 *' But why," he continued, pertinaciously, " why do you 
 work in the factor}', Gracey ? To be sure I think it is about 
 as good as moping in the corner, the way most girls do ; but 
 don't you like running in the fields and hunting birds' nests, 
 and would a'l you like to see me fish, Gracey ? " 
 
 Grace cou.d not answer. She was choking with tears ; 
 for she thought of the summer previous, when she had tripped 
 it by Frank's side along the borders of the brook, wallowed 
 in the rich clover, made little bouquets of the field daisy and 
 queen of the meadow, and tested fortune by holding the but- 
 tercup beneath her brother's chin. Hany's words had recalled 
 all this ; and the tears came crowding into her eyes, and her 
 head drooped upon her bosom, until she was startled by an 
 angry exclamation from Sliggins. 
 
 " Poh, Sliggins ! " said the merry voice of Harry, " never 
 mind if a few rolls did run in I It will rest your arm to 
 mend them. You needn't look so cross, old fellow I Only 
 wait a little, and Gracey and I will keep you jogging ! " 
 
 As Harry grew more expert in his new business, the two 
 children had more time for talking ; and at last he succeeded 
 in extracting from Grace the cause of her working in the 
 factory. He declared it a sin and a shame, that aU people, at 
 least aU good people, couldn't have just as much money as 
 they wanted. As for Grace, she should have the ten shillings 
 a week, and she should not work either. He would speak to 
 his father about it that very day, for his father was a good 
 man and had oceans of money. Then they would have rare 
 times, for he assured her, in confidence, that the girls at Fac- 
 tory Huddle were just the stupidest set he ever saw; and 
 there was not one that knew what fun meant but her. 
 
 This was a happy day for Grace ; she had been assisted, 
 and amused, and encouraged ; indeed, she had quite forgotten 
 to count the hours, and was comparatively but slightly 
 fatigued. But better than all, Dick Grouse, though there was 
 a world of malice in his eye, had not ventured to play her a 
 single trick since morning, when Harry had duly punished 
 
20 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 him for an attempt at one; and for this she was grateful 
 to her new champion in proportion to her former fears. 
 
 The next morning Harry Russel appeared full half an hour 
 earlier than on tlie preceding day, bringing with him a little 
 package of linen, which he said was to be made into an apron 
 like the one Grace wore. His soiled cuffs and collar had 
 given his mother an inkling of his new occupation ; but when 
 Grace suggested that it Avas wrong to come there at all in 
 opposition to his mother's wishes, he laughed outright. 
 " Mother never minds what I do," said he, " unless I get into 
 what she calls bad company. To think of your being bad 
 company, Gracey ! She laughs at my tricks at school with 
 the rich boys, but if I have anything to say to the poor ones, 
 she scolds me and teases father about it from morning till 
 night. Oh ! it is rare fun to get into company with some of 
 tiiese ragamuffins, and make her believe I like them. But 
 then I suppose it is wrong to. plague her ; if you think so, 
 Grace, I '11 never do it any more, even if she is queer." 
 
 Grace assured him that it was very wrong ; but still she 
 Avas sure she was not bad company, and pouted very prettily 
 upon the occasion, till Harry assured her he would stay at the 
 factory all the time, just to show that he dared do it. Then 
 she begged of him not to disobey his mother, and intimated 
 that she was not quite sure of its being right for her to make 
 the apron at all. 
 
 " Bless your heart, Gracey ! " cried the boy, opening his 
 eyes wide in astonishment, " my mother never approves of 
 anything. I am sure I never obeyed her a half dozen times 
 in my life. Why, don't you know she 's a lady, a real Jine 
 lady, and not a sensible woman, like your mother, Grace? 
 I 'm sure I should always obey your mother." 
 
 " But your father, Harry ?" 
 
 " Oh ! father says it don't hurt boys to work at anything 
 He gave me the stuff for the apron, and told me to get my 
 pretty little Gracey (mind, he called you my Gracey) to 
 make it." 
 
 Grace doubted whether she should be able to accomplish 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 21 
 
 such a feat ; but as Harry declared that kis Gracey must know 
 how to do everything, she promised to try. ' Poor Grace ! 
 Little did she know what she had promised ; for though she 
 was very well versed in over and over seams, and could, upon 
 a pinch, hem a pocket handkerchief, cutting out icork was 
 quite out of her line. Little girls are mimic women, and 
 Grace was a complete little girl, with all the sensibilities, the 
 refinements, and pretty little concealments that characterize 
 the sex; so instead of going to her sister with the apron, and 
 tallving frankly of her new friend, as Harry had done of her, 
 she stole away to her chamber and tried to cut one apron by 
 the other ; measured and re-measured, made mistakes and 
 rectified them ; but never gave up the task till she could pro- 
 nounce the garment in some degree shapely. Then Grace 
 Ix'gged a tallow candle from her mother, and plied her needle 
 all alone till far into the night. The next morning she was 
 up with the first grey dawn, singing gaily as she worked ; 
 and right prOud was she to fold the apron in her pocket hand- 
 kerchief and bound away to the factory at the very moment 
 the bell called. Oh, beautiful was the light in the little girl's 
 eyes when Harry Russel appeared that morning, though she 
 tried to look unusually demure ; and beautiful the dimples 
 that would trip it across her pale face in spite of her assumed 
 soberness. As for Harry, he ranted in his new dress like a 
 stage player, and stalked about in a. manner that Grace thought 
 excessively amusing, quite forgetful of his self-imposed duty, 
 till he saw the little girl press her hand against her side. 
 
 Day after day passed by, and Harry was still at his post, r.s 
 sympathetic, and vigorous, and noisy as ever. Although he 
 had somewhat overrated his influence with his father, when 
 he promised Grace the wages without the work, his complaints 
 of the machine-tender received more attention. Mr. Russel 
 investigated the matter with promptitude ; and, as Sliggins 
 brought several other charges against him, he was at once 
 dismissed, and Francis Linden, as a special favor to himself 
 and sister, was allowed to take his place. On the evening of 
 tlie day on which Dick Grouse was discharged, as Grace sal 
 
22 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 alone in Abby's little room, she was startled by a rustling oi 
 the vines at the window. She raised her head and caught 
 sight of the face of her tormentor peering at her through the 
 opening. Grace screamed and started to her feet, while the 
 face kept moving slowly forward until half of the body was 
 "^vithin the room. Grace could not scream again, and the boy 
 probably thought he had alarmed her sufficiently ; for, shaking 
 his c-enched fist, and declaring that he would remember the 
 Avork of that day forever and ever, and pay her for it, and 
 Harry Russel too, he drew himself back and darted out of 
 sight. 
 
 A dear, sweet respite was that vacation for little Grace Lin- 
 den, and when it was passed, and Harry had returned to 
 school, the fruits of his kindness still remained ; for her brother 
 was close beside her, and his cheering voice, rising Avith diffi- 
 culty above the noise of the machinery, beguiled many a 
 wearisome hour. But a cloud was destined to eclipse even 
 this faint glimmer of sunshine. The first autuijinal frost fell 
 like a blight upon the frail form of Abby ; and she drooped 
 with the flowers that she had loved in summer time. Oh, 
 never was there a being more loved, more cherished, more 
 idolized than she who was now stricken ! Never were raised 
 prayers more fervent, more wildly agonizedthan those which 
 broke from the bursting hearts that gathered- around her bed ; 
 and yet she died. They buried her before the November days 
 came on, deep in the quiet earth, where the bleak winds could 
 not reach her, and where she might rest on her cold, damp 
 pillow, undisturbed by the busy thoughts that scared away her 
 rest while living. Sorrow made the mother sharp-sighted, 
 and she now detected the strong resemblance between her liv- 
 ing eldest daughter and the dead. The high fair forehead, 
 with the blue veins crossing it, the large meek eyes, the thin 
 pale cheek, the sharpened chin, all were the same that had 
 once been Abby's ; and this same paleness and thinness, and 
 sharpness of outline, had been the marks of disease, imme- 
 diately preceding the preternatural brightness which had for a 
 long time been efiectually deceptive. Grace's ten shillings 
 
GRACE LINDEN. ' 23 
 
 could be dispensed with now ; the mother did not say it, for it 
 seemed sacrilege to accept of a relief which death had 
 brought ; but she insisted on removing back to her dear beau- 
 tiful Alderbrook, and living as they best could. Behold them, 
 then, in the humble cottage which they had left six months 
 previous ; the mother and little girls busy with their needles, 
 Franlf apprenticed to a country printer, and Mr. Linden deep 
 in a job of copying, which he had been lucky erxugh to 
 obtain on his arrival. 
 
 CHAPTER II. EIGHTEEN. 
 
 It was a fresh, bright August morning, and a group of 
 young girls had collected in the hall and on the portico of a 
 fine large building in one of our principal cities. There was 
 a ^vreathing of pretty arms, a fluttering of muslins, a waving 
 of curls, and a flashing of bright eyes, peculiarly fascinating 
 to any one (could such an individual be found) failing to share 
 in the popular disgust felt toward "bread-and-butter misses." 
 A carriage stood at the door, and a fair girl, graceful as a 
 drooping willow, and strangely, spiritually beautiful, equipped 
 for travelling, was yet detained by the gay throng about her. 
 ' Nay, one more kiss, Gracey, dear," said a bright little 
 creature, bending her neck, and putting up a pair of fresh, red 
 lips, ^vith the daintiness of a bird; " don't forget 7/?e, darling ! " 
 
 ' And remember me .' " exclaimed another, balancing on 
 her toes to peep over her neighbor's shoulder. 
 
 ' Pensez a moi, ma chere amie" responded the tall neigh- 
 bor, with an attempt at tune and melody that elicited two or 
 three ringing laughs. 
 
 " Good-bye, Gracey, dear ! " 
 
 " Be a good girl, darling ! " 
 
 " Be sure you are back the first of the term I " 
 
 " Take care, Gracey ! don't lose your veil ! " 
 
 " Nor your heart, either ! " 
 
 " Keep a sharp look-out for — you understand, Gracey!" 
 
 " Regardez ! — now behind the pillar ! Look, Grace ! he 
 he!" 
 
24 
 
 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 These were only a few of the exclamations rising above a 
 Babel of sounds', such as only school-girls — and those very 
 chatty school-girls — can produce. 
 
 " Good-bye ! au revoir ! " answered Grace ; and, jumping 
 into the carriage, she wafted back kisses on her gloved hand, 
 answered the waving of handkerchiefs by allowing her own 
 to stream out a moment on the air, and then disappeared 
 around a corner. 
 
 And this was Grace Linden — the pale, sad little girl, who 
 had spliced rolls away in the dismal factory — now a beauti- 
 ful creature, in the full pride of maidenhood. She, who had 
 been deemed an unfit associate for the son of a manufacturer 
 stood on a perfect equality with the refined and highly-bred 
 daughters of the proudest families America can boast. Wliat 
 change, will be asked, had come over the Lindens? Had 
 they become suddenly possessed of an immense fortune ? or had 
 some wealthy friend, in compliment to the young girl's evi- 
 dent superiority, taken upon himself the pleasant task of edu- 
 cating her ? Neither. Mr. Linden made bargains, as usual ; 
 and Mrs. Linden plied her needle ; Frank had become a part- 
 ner in the printing establishment where he was apprenticed, 
 and was flourishing away, v/ith the least of all little caprtals, as 
 a country editor ; and Lizzy was teaching a school of young 
 misses at Alderbrook. Nothing unusual had occurred, but 
 all had been busy — Grace quite as much so as the others. 
 The struggle was not now what it had formerly been ; for all 
 were able to help themselves. Women often atone for their 
 d ificiency of muscular power, by making capital of the brain ; 
 and Grace Linden early learned that her hand could be no 
 sure dependence. She therefore followed the example of 
 Abby, and gathered a little school about herj but she had not 
 poor Abby's drawbacks, and all her efforts were prospered. 
 Mrs. Linden and Lizzy Avere adepts with the needie, and 
 Frank, now and then, threw an extra dollar, which economy 
 multiplied to a dozen, into the general fund ; and so the family 
 lived respectably and comfortably. But there had been a time 
 when Grace had learned to think, and thought once busied 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 25 
 
 Will never leave the heart till death. Ay, the heart — for 
 thence proceed the weightiest thoughts. She was not a 
 schemer, but she looked at the present and into the future ; 
 she regarded her mother's pale cheek and her father's sad 
 countenance, and resolved to leave nothing undone to render 
 their age "easj'- and happy. It was for this that she had 
 taught, and studied far into the night, and laid by her little 
 savings with almost miserly care, until, at eighteen, she had 
 raised a sum large enough to place her in a boarding-school 
 of the highest character. She entered only for one year, for 
 she had already, by her own unassisted eflbrts, laid the foun- 
 dation, and almost built up the superstructure of a superior 
 education. Half of that year had passed ; and oh ! how hap- 
 py was the young student to meet her friends, after that first 
 wearisome separation ! It was a very humble home to which 
 Grace Linden repaired to spend her vacation, but a very sweet 
 and pleasant one, nevertheless. Holy affections consecrated 
 it ; and so happy was Grace that she thought not a moment 
 of her companions, treading on soft carpets and lounging on 
 rich sofas, receiving splendid presents and enjoying costly 
 amusements. Her mother's eye beamed lovingly upon her ; 
 her sister's arm encircled her waist ; her brother strewed her 
 table Avith the books marked by his own pencil, and fresh 
 flowers cultivated by his own care ; and her father followed 
 her dreamily about, in pride and wonder, and seemed almost 
 happy. 
 
 But this was not all. Grace and Lizzy, notwithstanding 
 their humble circumstances, had gathered about them a little 
 company of friends and- companions, and these, on the return 
 of the elder sister, flew to welcome her ; and walks, and 
 drives, and picnics became quite the order of the day among 
 the young people of Alderbrook. 
 
 " An old friend of yours proposed calling on you this even- 
 ing, Gracey," said Frank, one day, " and mind, my lady, to 
 have on your very prettiest face, and make yoiir very prettiest 
 speeches ; for, to my certain knowledge, you will be tbe first 
 feme sole in town to be so highly honored." 
 3 
 
2t) GRACE LKVDEN. 
 
 " ^Vh ! ■' said Grace, stitching away on her wrist-band with 
 ihe most unconcerned manner in the world. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' you would say something more than ' oA,' if you 
 knew what an object of emy you "will be to all the misses 
 and mammas in the village. Here 's our mother now ; her 
 imagination wiU be striding off in seven-league -boots, the 
 minute she hears the name." 
 
 " Mother guesses the name," said ^Irs. Linden, glancing 
 up from her work archly, " but she will leave the romancing 
 to younger heads." 
 
 " A truce to your mysteries ! " exclaimed Grace, " who is 
 this wonderfnl personage ? Come, I am prepared for any 
 announcement. Is he an Indian nabob ? or a German prince 1 " 
 
 " You recollect the Russels, Grace?" 
 
 " The Russels ! yes ; or one of them at least. Dear, kind, 
 generous Harry Russel I I shall recollect him as long as I 
 live ! " 
 
 " Ha I ha ! ha ! " laughed Frank, " that is a good one, 
 Grace ! Generous and kind enough is this Russel, for aught 
 I know; but — ho I ho! the boldness of young ladies, no w-a- 
 days, is unparalleled I don't you think so, mother ? Imagine 
 Grace, with that demure face, saying ' dear Harry Russel,' of 
 a stately sis-footer, so handsome as to turn every girl's head 
 in the neighborhood, and so proud as never to give them even 
 a smile to make amends ! "V\Tiy, Grace, do you think ever\"- 
 body stands still but your own womanly little self? There 's 
 no such little boy as Harry Russel, now ; but there 's a ' Hen- 
 ry J. Russel, Esq., Att'y. at Law, &c., &c.,' and a fine, noble 
 fellow he is, too." 
 
 " I had much rather see the gaUant little Harry of yore, ' 
 !?aid Grace, with a decrease of animation. " Does this Rus- 
 sel visit here ? " 
 
 " Of course not. He visits nowhere but among his legal 
 brethren ; and so you have reason to feel wonderfully flattered, 
 you see." 
 
 " But did this proud man, that it seems I shall not like at 
 all, call himself an old friend, Frank ? " 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 27 
 
 •' Oh, no ! he is too much of a gentleman to make an allu- 
 sion that he was not quite sure would be pleasant. He is in 
 the habit of coming into the office ever}' day, so we are no 
 strangers ; and this morning he made verj' particular inqui- 
 ries after you, mentioned having met you once at Mrs. Som- 
 mers', when he was there, three or four years ago, and 
 er|)ressed a desire to renew the acquaintance. Of course. I 
 would throw nothing in the way of ^ dear Harry Russd:' 
 and '.11 I have to say now, is, look your prettiest ." 
 
 But Frank was obliged to say much more ; for Grace had 
 a hundred questions to ask about the Russels, of whom she 
 had not heard for the last two years. A year or r\vo after the 
 Lindens abandoned their scheme of factory labor, Mr. Russel 
 had turned his attention to a different branch of business, and 
 consequently removed to the city of New York. The acci- 
 dental meeting of Harry and Grace at the house of a mutual 
 friend, some time after, had been extremely embarrassing 
 for both ; they were just of that awkward age when we poor 
 foolish mortals learn to be ashamed of frankness and simplici- 
 ty, and are too unpractised to appear at ease under the mask 
 we choose to assume. Grace now learned that Mr. and ilrs. 
 Russel were both dead; and that the wealth, on which the 
 mother had so prided herself, had passed with them. The 
 son, thus deprived of the fine fortune that he had been accus- 
 tomed to consider his own, had yet his profession left, and he 
 bent not for a moment beneath the disappointment. Findin?, 
 however, that he must hew out his fortune by his own strong 
 will, he resolved to shrink not from severe labor; and he 
 knew that i young man, without money or powerful relations, 
 may occupy a more respectable position, and advance more 
 surely and steadily in a countn,' village than in a large town. 
 It was TN-ith this view, and at the urgent solicitations of an 
 old friend of his father's, wishing to retire from business, that 
 he returned to Alderbrook ; and even in less than six short 
 months, by his talent, his legal knowledge, his sterlins: worth, 
 and gentlemanly accomplishments, he had won the confidence 
 
28 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 of the oldest and most influential inhabitants, not only of the 
 village but of the county. 
 
 Grace thought it very strange that such a distinguished 
 gentleman, as Mr. Russel vi^as considered, should endeavor to 
 seek her out, and she did not believe — not she — but there 
 was a little touch of her old friend Harry about him yet. At 
 any rate, there was no harm, as Frank had said, in looking 
 well ; and so our heroine examined her little wardrobe, and 
 spent a half hour in deciding Avhich of her very limited num- 
 ber of pretty dresses would set off her figure to the best 
 ■advantage. Lizzy said a lemon-colored hattiste, but Mrs. 
 Linden spoke a word in favor of a plain white muslin, and 
 Grace submitted to her mother's judgment, not a little influ- 
 enced by the consideration that Lizzy wore white muslin too. 
 
 Very lovely Avas our charming Grace Linden that evening, 
 and very much bent on entertaining her visiter,'in whose large 
 dark eyes she detected a lingering resemblance to her friend 
 Harry. At first, Russel seemed surprised at the beautiful 
 vision before him ; perhaps he too had forgotten the flight of 
 time, and expected to see his little Grace again. However 
 that might be, before the evening Avas far advanced, he was j 
 evidently reconciled to the change. As for Grace, she suc- 
 ceeded very well in making " pretty speeches," whether she 
 studied them for the purpose or not, but. she did not succeed 
 so well in feeling entirely at her ease. She Avould have 
 been much better satisfied making aprons for the good-natured 
 Harry Russel, than playing the agreeable to the courtly gen- 
 tleman Avhose call had been pronounced such an honor. She 
 did play the agreeable, however, to the admiration of her sis- 
 ter Lizzy, particularly, who was quite sure " dear, darling 
 Grace " must be the most accomplished lady in the world, and 
 watched her Avith proud, loving eyes the Avhole evening. 
 
 In a Avcek from this time, Mr. Russel- Avas quite domesti- 
 cated in the family of the Lindens. He came almost every 
 evening, but he no longer devoted himself exclusively to 
 Grace. Indeed, a kind of reserve seemed to have sprung up 
 between them, which curtailed the strides of the booted imag- 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 29 
 
 ination amazingly. The attention of Grace was nocossarily 
 very much devoted to the young; friends with whom she had 
 for years been on terms of intimacy. She sang and played 
 for them, and chatted, and laughed, and danced ; and, when- 
 ever she did, she was sure to receive a full share of flatteries 
 and caresses. And then, in the midst of her triumphs, when 
 her lip put on its brightest smiles, and her eye flashed with 
 pleasurable excitement, Kussel would look upon her, and 
 think of the pale, sad little girl, that had so strongly excited 
 his boyish sympathy. Could this gay, thoughtless creature 
 be the same ? this pretty butterfly, basking in the sunshine of 
 admiration, as though it were the life of her spirit ? Could 
 this be the Grace Linden that he had longed to look upon 
 again, as something consecrated to all that is beautiful, and 
 good, and pure, though the impersonation of suffering ? Rus- 
 sel might be unreasonable, but he could not bear to see Grace 
 Linden so happy. Perhaps he had hoped again to be her 
 comforter. Be that as it may, he felt displeased, disappointed, 
 almost resentful ; and the more he saw of the lady's singular 
 power of fascination, the more closely he devoted himself to 
 the unassuming, single-hearted Lizzy, and her no less unas- 
 suming and still interesting mother. Russel had yet to learn 
 that a settled steadiness of purpose, an earnest spirit, and a 
 deep, changeless, watchful, living love, are not incompatible 
 with light words and gay smiles. 
 
 " She has rare endowments," he would say to himself, 
 and is strangely accomplished for one so young and friend- 
 less ; but Lizzy, with her artless ingenuousness, and truthful 
 simplicity, is far more lovely." And yet, while dra-\ving these 
 sage comparisons, Russel's eyes followed their unconscious 
 subject from place to place, as though he deemed that might 
 check her mirthfulness, or throw a veil of homeliness over per- 
 fections at which he chose to carp. The truth is, Russel was 
 reading in a strange book, and he had yet the alphabet to 
 learn. With all his lore, the key to woman's nature had not 
 been given him. In the effort to please and render happy, he 
 saw only a fondness for admiration ; the good nature which 
 3* 
 
30 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 smiled at a ^oss flattery, rather than wound the flatterer, was 
 in his eyes vanity ; and in the sensitiveness which led Grace 
 to forbear speaking of a time when she was the object of his 
 pity, Avhen she was even more miserable than he could well 
 imagine, he read pride and heartlessness. When obliged to 
 acknowledge the unquestionable superiority of Grace over 
 those around her, he lamented the selfish ambition that he be- 
 lieved had led her to labor all her life long for her own ad- 
 vancement, rather than sit down at the simple hearth-stone 
 consecrated by love alone. Such a picture would Russel 
 draw of Grace Linden, meanwhile, shutting his heart against 
 her ; but it always faded before one of her gentle, winning 
 glances, and then he would sit and converse with her by the 
 hour, strenuously resisting every interruption. As for Grace, 
 she saw herself, for the first time in her life, the object of 
 criticism, Russel was studiously polite to her, but she knew 
 that he was not always pleased, and she began to watch her- 
 self as she thought he watched her ; until, by natural distrust, 
 she was driven to very humiliating conclusions. All this 
 could not be without its influence on her manners, and she 
 gi-ew capricious. Sometimes she was timid and reserved, 
 sometimes startlingly brilliant ; again gay and trifling to an 
 excess in ill keeping with her thoughtful face and character 
 of pensive sweetness ; but never quite simple and easy, and 
 natural ; it was impossible when Eussel was near. She had 
 looked up to Harry Russel confidingly, and acknowledged 
 his superiority by constant deference, when they were first 
 associated ; but now that distance seemed immeasurably in- 
 creased, and she had learned to fear him. Russel always 
 listened attentively to all she had to say, and seemed pleased 
 to hear her converse ; but notwithstanding the promise of his 
 boyhood, he was no lady's man. He was unskilled in the use 
 of those pretty nothings, which are usually thought to be all 
 important ; his words were full of meaning, and Grace, in 
 listening to him, forgot to reply. Then she was free and nat- 
 ural, and Russel failed not to admire her ; but this often gave 
 way to a strange embarrassment that made her almost awk- 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 3. 
 
 ward. At such times, after he was gone, poor Grace would 
 review every foolish sentence she had uttered, and dwell pain- 
 fully on some thoughtless act, which she was sure she would 
 not have commuted in any other presence. The pleasaui 
 vacation that Grace had promised herself grew uncomfortable, 
 and she almost wished that Russel would be a less constaiu 
 visiter ; but when he did chance to stay away, the eyes of 
 Grace were off the door scarcely a moment. Had she offend- 
 ed him, she constantly inquired of herself, or could it be 
 indifference or disgust ? 
 
 One morning Grace Avas very pleasantly surprised by a 
 piece of new music from Russel ; and she practised upon it 
 all day that she might play it to him in the evening ; but 
 when evening came she was dissatisfied with her execution, 
 and refused to play until a long time urged, and then her hand 
 was not firm, and she touched the keys falteringly. Russel 
 seemed vexed — she had played for others, well and often — 
 why would she never do anything that he wished ? Grace 
 saw that he was displeased, and her eye moistened ; then she 
 recollected that he had no right to be, and, with a very cold, 
 quiet excuse, she turned from the piano, and joining a young 
 friend on the other side of the room, was soon engaged in a 
 very animated conversation. Now and then the sound of 
 Russel's deep, manly voice, made her reverse a sentence or 
 forget to finish one ; but nearly a half hour passed before she 
 ventured to look at him. He was explaining to her brother 
 the true bearing of some political question, and seemed deeply 
 interested ; but whenever he paused, Grace observed a deep, 
 painful seriousness upon his brow that was quite unusual. 
 "'He has something to trouble him," thought the fair girl, 
 •' and I, foolish child that I am, have added to his annoyance." 
 Instantly every thought of his superiority vanished — she did 
 not care if he did consider her a simpleton — she was sure 
 she could not appear more of one than when she attempted 
 that show of dignity so little in accordance with her character. 
 He was inquiring for a paper Avhich Frank did not think was 
 in the house ; Grace knew where it was, and she glided qui 
 
2P GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 etly out of the room, and returning, slid it into his hand with 
 a pleasing, winsome glance, which seemed to inquire, " Can 
 we not still be friends ? " Russel looked up, surprised and 
 delighted ; and that bright, earnest, heartfelt expression, which 
 Grace so well remembered in the boy, lighted up his coun- 
 tenance. And they were friends — such very interested 
 friends, that Frank, and Lizzy, and young Edward Sommers, 
 and two or three other mischievous persons, amused them- 
 ?el\es at their expense for the rest of the evening. 
 
 " You must hear me play that exquisite air before you 
 icave, Mr. Russel," said Grace ; " the fault was all in my 
 band before; I can assure you the will had nothing to do 
 with it." 
 
 " And the rare pet you got into afterwards, Gracey ?" in- 
 quired Frank. 
 
 '' That was — but I '11 not have you for my confessor, with 
 your saucy questions and brusque ways; would you, Mr. 
 Russel ? " 
 
 Russel thought he should like to propose a candidate for 
 that office himself; and when Grace again crimsoned, and 
 made some remark to her mother to hide her embarrassment, 
 he Avondered that he could ever have esteemed her cold and 
 heartless, ruined by her ambition. She sat down to the 
 piano; and now, conscious of his approbation, she played 
 with more spirit and animation- than was her wont. Once 
 she cast a quick glance at Russel. He stood in breathless at- 
 tention. Then her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and 
 her beautiful neck arched itself proudly. She finished, and 
 rose from the instrument in conscious triumph — her only 
 thought that she had redeemed her fault. Russel wished she 
 had not played ; and Grace easily detected the want of heart 
 in his cold, measured compliments. 
 
 " He is not v/orth the trouble that I have bestowed upon 
 him," thought Grace, as, with pouting lip and swelling bosom, 
 she curtsied him out of the room. 
 
 " Ruined by her ambition," thought Russel, all the way 
 home ; and all night long it was the burden of his dreams. 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 33 
 
 As Russel walked home that evenhig, a drunken man stag- 
 gered up to him, guided by the light from a low-eaved, filthy- 
 grocery, and, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder, poured 
 forth a profusion of half-profane, half- vulgar slang, of which 
 nothing could be well understood. Russel, however, caught 
 the name of Grace Linden ; and, swinging the impertinent 
 intruder around, he dropped him by the roadside and proceed- 
 ed on his way. In the mean time the drunken man crept from 
 the gutter ; and, half-sobered by the energetic proceedings of 
 Russel, turned slowly down the street and walked on until he 
 reached the house of Mr. Linden. Here he paused, and 
 gazing up at the lighted windows, seemed revolving a bitter 
 subject. " Yes, it is all owing to her," he muttered, " all ; 
 and if I should die on a gallows I would say she brought me 
 there. She did n't like my face, forsooth, and my voice was 
 Inot so smooth and soft as old Russel's son's, and so I was sent 
 [out to starve. Now, by all the powers of hell — " the mis- 
 [erable man, pausing in his malediction, as though his hatred 
 'could not be shaped into words, shook his clenched fist toward 
 jthe window, and then, leaning over the fence, seemed engaged 
 in eager plotting with his own cunning. Now and then, he 
 kvould raise himself, and gaze up at the house with a dark, 
 fierce glare ; but, one by one, the lights went out, till every 
 window was darkened, and then the drunkard stretched him- 
 self upon the sod, and slept more sweetly than many a better 
 ran. 
 As Grace Linden looked from her Avindow early on the 
 'ensuing morning, she observed a miserable wretch, in tattered 
 'garb and with a face distorted by evil passion, regarding her 
 intently from an opposite corner. A feeling of indefinable 
 fear crept over her, for there was something strangely familiar 
 in that malicious expression, which led her at once to think 
 of the boy who had filled her little head with tales of horror, 
 that even now she shuddered to recall. Immediately, the face 
 peering at her through the vinifts of Abby's little window, with 
 all its dark malignity, was portrayed in living colors ; and 
 hastily drawing the little curtain before the window, she sat 
 
34 
 
 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 down upon her bed-side, and wept long and bitterly, not over 
 the sufferings, but the touching sorrow of the past. That 
 Abby's lot had been so dark, so sad ! and now they were all 
 so very happy ! Grace, however, soon dried her tears, and 
 tying on her bonnet, stole silently down the stairs, through 
 the garden, up a well-trodden foot-path, and soon she was 
 kneeling on her sister's grave, within the enclosure of the vil- 
 lage church-yard. 
 
 " And when six months more have passed, you will take 
 up your abode in Alderbrook, I suppose, or, perhaps, favor 
 some brighter clime with your presence," said Russel, one 
 evening, when Grace had been drawing a mimic picture of 
 her return to school ; and as he spoke, he bent his searching 
 eyes upon her, as though he expected to read the answer more 
 in her face than words. 
 
 " Oh I the brighter clime, of course, has my patronage," 
 answered the lady, gail);- ; " my next visit to Alderbrook will 
 be a flying one." 
 
 Russel's countenance fell. " Your frien Is," said he, with 
 some bitterness, " will doubtless find the parting easier, since 
 it is for your happiness." 
 
 " Yes, for my happiness," echoed Grace, with an ill sup- 
 pressed sigh. 
 
 " On what quarter of the globe, fair lady, will you deign 
 to cast the sunlight of your smiles ? " inquired a slim clerk, 
 in the first and worst stages of dandyismp stepping daintily 
 towards the seat which Grace occupied. 
 
 " That is beyond my circumscribed prescience, most gal- 
 lant subject mine," answered Grace, mischievously ; " will yo\a 
 cast my horoscope ? " 
 
 The flowering dandy seemed a little puzzled. It was evi- 
 dent that he was no lexicographer, and he retreated without 
 attempting any familiarities with the stars 
 
 *' Then you have not decided as to the future, Miss Lin- 
 den ? " inquired Russel. 
 
 " Circumstances must decide me, Mr. Russel," and the lips 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 35 
 
 of Grace remained apart as though she would have added 
 more, but was for some reason withheld. 
 
 " We are all very much at the mercy of circumstances," 
 remarked Russel ; " but it seems hardly fitting that one like 
 you should confide your destiny to such a capricious guide." 
 
 " It may be so," answered Grace, almost gloomily, " but in 
 that case the world has but a choice few, well-guided. — I 
 must bide my destiny," she added, with more cheerfulness. 
 
 Russel was silent. There was evidently a thought he 
 would have spoken, but it was probably something that he had 
 no right to speak, and so he bit his lips and crowded do^vn 
 the temptation. Meanwhile Grace was not quite sure that she 
 had not said too much of herself and her plans ; and, con- 
 fused by his silence, she proceeded, like all embarrassed per- 
 sons, to say more. 
 
 ' Not that I anticipate a severer destiny ; it is much pleas- 
 anter to look for sunshine than clouds." 
 
 'And you have no reason to look for clouds," said Russel, 
 with a sad smile ; " I predict for you a smooth destiny." 
 
 " Then I shall add the weight of your prediction to my 
 owTi hope," answered Grace, cheerfully; " and, looking upon 
 the whole past, I will venture to believe that Fortune may not 
 so change as to prove herself a severe 'step-dame.' " 
 
 ' Heaven grant that she may not ! " answered Russel, " and 
 yet, success is not always for our best good ; I have knowni 
 its influence on the character to be anything but salutary." 
 
 " I hope my character stands in no need of reverses now ;■'' 
 answered Grace, affected beyond control ; " you, Mr. Russel, 
 better than any one else, should know how deeply it has been 
 tried. The future can have nothing too dark, too bitter for 
 me ; for the remembrance of that one gloomy summer, Avith 
 the toils and privations that succeeded it, would make all after 
 adversity a light thing. Forgive the allusion to those days — 
 I had thought never to mention them ; but the remembrance 
 is vdth me always ; and I cannot separate the generous boy 
 to whom I owe perhaps life — reason, I am almost sure, 
 from — " Grace had been too much excited, she had gone too 
 
36 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 far. One thought of the proud, stern countenance of Russei, 
 abashed her ; and, unable to extricate herself, she found re- 
 lief in an ungovernable burst of tears. 
 
 " Do not separate them, dear Grace, do not try ! " The 
 words fell upon her ear in low, thrilling tones, that she could 
 scarcely recognize ; and Grace dared not raise her eyes, lest 
 she should discover that they had been spoken in mockery of 
 her emotion. 
 
 " AVhat a stupid couple you are, here in this comer !" ex- 
 claimed Frank, coming forward, as is the fortune of some 
 people, just when he should not ; " and tears, as I live ! Be- 
 tween ourselves, Russel, Gracey is getting to be the veriest 
 cry-baby in Christendom. I wish you could convince her that 
 it will spoil her eyes to be so mopish." ' 
 
 " Mopish I " repeated Russel, abstractedly. I 
 
 '• Excessively — if you could only have seen her the other 
 evening, just when you were not here to see her — " 
 
 " Frank ! " exclaimed the sister, quite thrown off her'guard. 
 " Don't believe anything he says, Mr. Russel ; his word is 
 not to be depended on for a moment. You know I am always 
 happy — it is my nature to be happy. I could not be mopish ' 
 if I should try. By the way, Frank, did you bring me the' — J 
 the book you promised ? " 1 
 
 " "What book ? " 
 
 " "V\Tiy the nice story-book, that was to- amuse me while 
 travelling. Frank has a very treacherous memory," she 
 added, turning to Russel. 
 
 The young man started and looked up vacantly. " Were 
 you speaking to me, Gra — Miss Russel — Miss — Miss Lin- 
 den ?" and poor Russel, confounded by his most awkward of | 
 all awkward blunders, reddened and looked more confused 
 than ever Grace had done. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! yes; I recollect all about the book, Gracey 
 laughed Frank, brimful of merriment, at the sudden light that* 
 broke in upon him ; and, with a very laiowing look, and a very 
 loAV bow, he turned' as be said. 1o company less pre-occupiod. 
 
 '\ 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 37 
 
 " Frank is very merry to-night," observ^ed Grace, " he must 
 have been visiting the Ashleys." 
 
 There 's nothing like Avoman's tact to disentangle the Gor- 
 dian knot of a double and twisted embarrassment, that, origi- 
 nating in nothing, tends to nothing. The Ashleys afforded a 
 fruitful theme, and they were discussed with a genuine relish 
 for gossip, that had never before been developed in either of 
 our young friends. It may be that there were mingling some 
 home-allusions, and direct personalities ; it is certain that there 
 were looks and tones not quite in keeping with the careless 
 words ; otherwise, what should place the two young people 
 on the very peculiar footing that they evidently occupied at 
 parting ? 
 
 The next meeting between Grace and Russel was joyous 
 and cordial on one side, timid, pleased, and gracefully shy on 
 the other. They met in the magnificent old woods, where 
 conventionalism seems a mockery, and heart speaks to heart 
 through the medium of invented words, or the more eloquent 
 language traced by a divine finger on the countenance, and 
 colored from the soul. 
 
 Side by side, they walked beneath the grateful shadows, 
 talking in tones low and deep, as if every word had its origin 
 in the inner sanctum of the spirit ; and carelessly crushing 
 the bright-eyed flowers, and the large, round dew-drops, scat- 
 tered in their path-way, as if they had never admired the 
 humble beauties of the woodland. And there Grace unfolded 
 all her plans for the future — those plans that she had never 
 fully confided even to. her darling brother ; and looked up for 
 approbation, just as she would have looked to Harry Rus- 
 sel ten summers before, only far more confidingly. And yet 
 Grace was no longer the child, but the strong-minded, deep- 
 judging, all-enduring woman ; beautiful in her simplicity, 
 generous in her unmeasured trustfulness, and strong in those 
 high resolves, which had been the dreams of her childhood, 
 and were now approaching to realities. And now Russel 
 learned the object of that ambition which he had so often 
 censured. Lizzy must be allowed advantages equal to her 
 4 
 
3S GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 sister's ; and Lizzy's father and mother must be provided with 
 a comfortable, pleasant home, and find again the happiness 
 they lost in youth. It was a debt she owed, so Grace insist- 
 ed, for all the care and wearying anxiety which she had oc- 
 casioned them in childhood ; and she would repay it, though 
 grey hairs should come long before her mission could be ac- 
 complished. And Grace was surprised to see the dignified, 
 Manly Russel, with all his coldness and sternness, display an 
 almost girlish weakness of feeling, at the unfolding of a plan 
 so simple and natural. She wished him to praise her ; — in 
 deed, it would have made her sad to think that he did not 
 appreciate the self-denial it would require to separate herself 
 from all she loved, and spend years of toil among strangers. 
 She was no heroine, but a fond, devoted, confiding woman, 
 ready for any sacrifice of her own interests, but in the midst 
 of all, panting for that breath of life to every true woman — 
 sympathy. And yet she saw no cause for the deep emotion 
 which almost unmanned her lover. She knew that she was 
 doing right ; that she v/as acting as the world would call (if 
 the world ever knew it) generously ; but little did she know 
 the touching beauty, the deep, tender sacredness., which her 
 cnaracter from that moment assumed in the eyes of the hith- 
 erto suspicious, though fascinated Russel. It was late before 
 they emerged from that now endeared forest ; and then words 
 had been spoken which are thtis spoken but once ; and which 
 never, never, even through a long eternity, could be recalled. 
 The solemn stars had witnessed their betrothal ; and the green 
 forest leaves, fluttering their fresh lips together, murmured it 
 to each other, and to the wandering breezes ; and the spirit of 
 the dead sister, in whose bosom Grace had wept her bitterest 
 tears, carried the holy vows to Heaven, and saw thenx en- 
 graved on angelic tablets. 
 
 CHAPTER III. EIGHT-AND-TWENTY. 
 
 " And you have never heard from him since, dear Grace ?" 
 
 " Not a word." 
 
 ♦* And yet you feel no resentment ? " 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 39 
 
 *• Not resentment, but something of disappointment, — a 
 great deal disappointed, indeed. Few persons in the world 
 would stand a ten years' trial, Lizzy ; but I did have full con- 
 fidence in Russel. However, it has not made me distrustful 
 of my kind ; faith and hope are yet strong within me, and 
 even if the past failed, I am quite satisfied with the present. 
 Our home here is a perfect little paradise. Your husband is 
 tlie most perfect specimen of a man (always excepting one 
 that I have no right to remember) in the world ; and ' Gan- 
 papa's little pet, Charley,' the dearest and cunningest little 
 fellow — a perfect Cupid, Lizzy ! I am 50 glad you persuaded 
 Sommers to settle near us ! As for Frank's wife, I shall love 
 her dearly. She is so patient, and gentle, and amiable ! I 
 see that father and mother are very fond of her." 
 
 " And well they may be. She is entirely devoted to them 
 and Frank. At first, mother had some misgivings about liv- 
 ing with a daughter-in-law, but Mary is so respectful and 
 dutiful, and so companionable withal, that she would not part 
 with her now for the world. But do tell me, Grace, what you 
 suppose could have actuated Russel to treat you in such a 
 
 manner 
 
 " Nothing, I think, but time and absence. It is perfectly 
 natural — or would be in any other man ; but I was foolish 
 enough to suppose him exempt from all the frailties of hu- 
 manity. Indeed, I now think him exempt from most of them." 
 
 " How strange ! " 
 
 " What, Lizzy ? " 
 
 " Why, your talk. Do you know x Jtiave been watching 
 your face this half hour, and at last have come to the conclu- 
 sion that you were never in love ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " The truth is, Grace, you are a little too much reconciled 
 to suit me." 
 
 " Do you wish me unhappy, then ? " 
 
 " I cannot say that I do, exactly ; but it would be impos- 
 sible to pity you with that smiling face, and happy way of 
 Baying and doing everything. Own, Gracey, that you only 
 
40 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 fancied Mr. Russel — that your heart was touched only on 
 the surface." 
 
 " It may be so," said Grace, carelessly. 
 
 " Good ! and now solve a mystery. Why didn't you fall 
 in love with that amiable young Frenchman that you wrote 
 me about?" 
 
 " Because my fancy (since you call it that) was pre-occu- 
 pied." 
 
 " The only reason, Gracey ? " 
 
 " The only reason, I suspect. If I had seen him at eight, 
 or even at eighteen, Russel might never have had the oppor 
 tunity to exhibit his fickleness." 
 
 " But when you ceased hearing from Eussel ? " 
 
 " It made no difference, Lizzy. My vows to him are as 
 binding as though his remained unbroken." 
 
 " Oh, Grace! do not say that! His falsehood must not 
 condemn you to a life of loneliness. You would make such 
 a dear, loving liitle wife! I would forget him just out of 
 spite, if I were in your place." 
 
 " And so spite myself. Ah, Lizzy ! that is too often the 
 case with us foolish women ; but we are spirited at a vast 
 expense. To show a false lover that we can do without him, 
 we sell the remnant of happiness which he has left us, and 
 become martyrs to our own vanity." 
 
 " But think of your being an old maid, Grace ! " 
 
 " Ha ! so it comes to that after all ! An honorable sister- 
 hood, Lizzy ! " 
 
 " Grace, a strange notion has just possessed me. Let me 
 see Russel's last letter." 
 
 Grace walked across the portico very sloAvly, and by the 
 time she again stood before her sister, her face wore its usual 
 expression of subdued, but heart-felt cheerfulness. 
 
 " Those letters, Lizzy, I have not looked upon in three 
 years. It is not well to test our strength of character too far. 
 They are so, so like him ! " she murmured, as she again 
 turned away and bent her face close to a little rose-bush tliat 
 .stood beside her. 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 41 
 
 At another time, it is probable that Lizzy would have ob- 
 served all this ; but the calm, quiet manner of her sister had 
 effectually misled her, and she was only intent on looking 
 into the mystery. 
 
 " But tell me, Grace, if you discovered any change in his 
 letters — any coldness or indifference — " 
 
 " Oh, no ! they were like himself to the last — as he was 
 before I left home for New Orleans — so tender, and gener- 
 ous, and noble ! No, Lizzy ! his letters never changed." 
 
 " Then, Grace, my word for it, that Frenchman, that young 
 l)e Vere, who loved you so much, is at the bottom of the mis- 
 chief. I am certain his letters Avere intercepted." 
 
 " Never, Lizzy ! at least by De Vere. He is the soul of 
 honor. I would sooner suspect you, or myself, or anybody, 
 of such a crime." 
 
 " Then what could it be, Grace ? " 
 
 " Time and constant occupation — nothing else, I feel 
 assured." 
 
 " But is n't it strange, then, that he has never married some 
 one else ? " 
 
 " Lizzy, dear Lizzy ! let us change this subject. We can- 
 not account for all Russel has done ; we only know that he is 
 lost to us, and forever. I cannot feel resentment for what I 
 know to be very natural. I have schooled my heart into sub- 
 mission and cheerfulness, and I intend to be very happy with 
 you here — dear loving ones, that you are ! But, Lizzy, 1 
 have a woman's heart, and I must own to you that it has not 
 yet learned to subdue its many weaknesses. No tears, dar- 
 ling, I do not need them — indeed, I do not, and you must 
 not pity me. I am no love-lorn damsel, but neither am I a 
 stoic. Now for a ride on horseback, and let us forget for a 
 while that there is anybody but us two in the wide world." 
 
 Ten years had not passed over the head of Grace Linden 
 without leaving an impress. They had matured her beauty, 
 added polish and dignity to her manners, ripened her intel- 
 lect, but cast a deep, deep shadow on her heart. In pursu- 
 ance of an original plan, on leaving school, she had gained a 
 4# 
 
42 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 Situation as governess in a southern family. The first few 
 years of her exile from home had been tedious and weari- 
 some ; but then she entered the family of the De Veres, and 
 from that time everything was changed. She had spent bu 
 a few mouths with them before she became less the governess 
 than the friend and companion — the daughter and sister. 
 As she intimated to Lizzy, delighted would they have been to 
 make her so in reality, to keep her with them forever ; but 
 when Grace gently and truthfully gave her great reason for a 
 refusal, she suffered no diminution of kindness. Political 
 troubles having driven the De Veres from their own country, 
 they had brought with them those republican sentiments which 
 were the fruit of the times, together with cultivated minds, 
 -efined tastes, polished manners, and a high-souled generosity , 
 that sometimes led to the most noble and chivalric actions. | 
 Such spirits have a mesmeric lore by which they read each • 
 other's natures at a glance; and this must have been the 
 secret of the strong attachment between Grace Linden and 
 those she served. The residence of Grace in this family was 
 highly advantageous to her ; for she mingled with them freely 
 at home, and accompanied them abroad as the daughters' 
 friend ; at the same time receiving a salary which enabled 
 her fully to carry out her intentions with regard to her parents. 
 For five years, almost every act of her life and wish of hei 
 heart were known to Russel ; and he found time, even in the 
 midst of his high duties, to return her confidence warmly and 
 without measure. Then, as the time for her returning home 
 drew near, he became of a sudden strangely silent. Grace 
 was all-trusting, and, from day to day, from week to week, 
 she busied herself with framing excuses, which, if not satis- 
 factory, yet served the purpose of busying the mind. She 
 did not cease to wrhe ; and every day, with a kindling eye 
 and beathig heart, did she descend to meet the post-boy at the 
 hall door, returning as often to weep over her disappointment 
 alone. And still did she try to excuse. He was so very 
 ousy — it was selfish to ask so much of his precious time — 
 then the letters might have miscarried — those southern mails 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 43 
 
 were so irregular. Yes ! they had certainly miscarried, and 
 she would write again. And again she wrote, and again ; 
 and her heart grew sick with disappointment. Then came 
 the fearful conviction of his illness — illness among strangers, 
 looked after only by hirelings ; for poor Grace had not yet a 
 doubt of his truth. She could not inquire of her friends, for 
 Russel had been for years a popular metropolitan lawyer, and 
 they seldom saw or communicated with him. And Grace, 
 with her usual unselfish consideration for others, concluded 
 that since they were unable to assist her, she would no* 
 trouble them. But her fears for his illness were soon dissi- 
 pated, for she one day saw, in a northern paper, a notice of a 
 fine plea which he had made a few days previous ; and his 
 eloquence, his legal learning, and lofty principles were so 
 highly extolled, that for a moment Grace forgot her own trou- 
 bles in her pride for him. But it was only for a moment. 
 Gradually came tlie conviction that his success was no longer 
 aught to her; that, however brilliant his career might be, her 
 future must be one of darkness and loneliness — she was 
 studiously neglected and forgotten. Oh ! that hour of wild, 
 withering anguish ! that dark, deadly struggle of every power 
 within ! It was fearful, but Grace was alone, and not a hu- 
 man heart dreamed of the depth of her wretchedness. Then 
 came a sense of utter, utter desolation, when all her treasured 
 hopes were crushed within her bosom ; and then a dead, cold 
 calm, as if the life-current had been suddenly congealed, set- 
 tled upon her heart. Her friends knew that she was unhap- 
 py ; and, without seeking for the cause, showered upon her 
 the most tender attentions, till Grace was ashamed not to 
 reward their unwearied kindness with success. For their 
 sakes she tried to be cheerful, and the attempt was not alto- 
 gether in vain. The time came Avhen Grace should have re- 
 turned to her home in the north, but every motive for return- 
 ing had now been taken from her. She could not bear that 
 those, whose happiness had been the whole care of her life, 
 should see her changed, and know that grief had so changed 
 net : that would be blottinsr out the work of her own hands, 
 
44 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 extinguishing the light which she had herself created. The 
 De Veres were about to make a visit to the old world, and 
 were urgent that she should accompany them. And Grace 
 consented. Though she had now shut up her inner heart 
 against her other self, and resolved not to be the victim of her 
 own dead hopes, it yet made but little difference where she 
 was, pro-vided the earliest and noblest of her plans failed not 
 through her own sorrows. She wrote to announce her inten- 
 tion of going abroad; and then, for the first time, she spoke 
 of her changed prospects, though, so lightly, as to leave the 
 impression with all that the arrangement had been made am- 
 icably and very probably for the good of both parties. When 
 she returned home, four years after, she was so entirely the 
 Grace Linden of other days, that no one would have dreamed 
 a single woe had crept into her heart, a single grief shaded 
 her clear, open brow, or a tear dimmed the lustre of her deep, 
 soulful eye. Months passed before she even made a confi- 
 dante of Lizzy, and then she only gave her facts, carefully 
 covering up all that might be painful in the history. 
 
 " Take care, cognata mia ! " said Edward Sommers, as 
 Grace playfully pointed her little riding whip at him, while 
 he stood cautioning for the dozenth time his young wife, 
 " take care ! your day will come yet, my gay Beatrice." 
 
 Grace flourished her whip again, the horses arched their 
 necks and touched the pavement daintily, as if proud of their 
 fair burdens ; and, without waiting the conclusion of another 
 caution, which the careful husband was just commencing, the 
 sisters bent their heads with a gay laugh, and tightening the 
 reins, away they flew like two beautiful birds. A shower of 
 rain had fallen an hour before, and whole strings of large 
 liquid crystals clung quiveringly to every spear of grass, 
 while many a big drop lay snugly nestled in a flower -bell ; 
 and every now and then a breath of pure fresh air came 
 sweepmg by, and scattered thousands of the bright tremblers 
 from the trees that overhung the wayside. The sky was 
 beautiful and clear, and the air delightfully refreshing ; and, 
 as the two ladies reined in their gay palfreys and paused to 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 45 
 
 listen to the bursts of music issuing from the woodlands, they 
 would catch the gladsome strain, and echo it back with a true 
 joyousness diat proclaimed their sisterhood with the spirits of 
 the green wood. On they went, now prancing along under 
 the laden trees and catching the rain-drops as they fell, now 
 entering a green pasture and galloping upon the turf, and 
 again emerging into the high-road, and pursuing their way 
 at a pace more sedate and dignified. 
 
 " Grace, do you recollect your old tormentor, Dick Grouse ? " 
 mquired Lizzy Sommers, as the two sisters slackened the rein, 
 and proceeded amblingly over a very rough road. 
 
 " It would be impossible to forget him," answered l/race, 
 with a slight involuntary shudder. " I never should have 
 dreamed of the existence of such malice if I had not seen it 
 displayed." 
 
 ' He lives yonder," returned Lizzy, pointing to a low, board 
 hovel, set down in the midst of a potato-patch. 
 
 " He ! " and Grace involuntarily turned her horse's head. 
 
 " What a coward, Grace ! " and Lizzy, smiling over her 
 slioulder, cantered gaily forward. 
 
 n a moment Grace was beside her. " Now slower, Lizzy, 
 but do not look in the direction of the house ; I always have 
 
 horrible feeling connected with my thoughts of that man ; 
 and there is not a being on earth I should be so much afraid 
 to meet alone. There is something fearfully supernatural in 
 all my notions concerning him, for I once actually believed 
 him an evil spirit clothed in flesh and blood. But how came 
 he here ? and how does he live ? " 
 
 ' He haunted the village until grown to manhood, some- 
 times spending a year or two away, but always returning, 
 until about the time you went south; he then disappeared, 
 and nothing was seen of him for a long time. About three 
 years ago he came to Alderbrook, bringing with him a coarse 
 virago of a woman whom he called his wife, and a child then 
 six months old. They lived in the village, and supported 
 Jiemselves by any little jobs of work' which they could get, 
 until about a year ago, when the wife died. Grouse behaved 
 
46 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 like a brute upon the occasion, openly rejoicing at his free* 
 dom." 
 
 " Horrible ! " exclaimed Grace, glancing around her in 
 alarm, for now the hut was very near. 
 
 " Oh ! it was inhuman ! but then, Gracey, if you could 
 have seen the poor motherless baby, clinging around his neck 
 — forlorn little thing as it was ! you would have respected! 
 him some, (you couldn't have helped it,) for the child's sake. 
 He could not have been so loved by such an innocent crea- 
 ture, if there were not a little humanity yet within him." 
 
 Grace mused a few moments. " Lizzy, I cannot altogether 
 divest myself of the idea that I have injured that man. I! 
 was a silly child, scared at my own shadow, and it may be 
 that I deprived him of his only honorable means of subsist- 
 ence. I believe people are as often driven into crime as re- 
 formed by injudicious punishment." 
 
 " It may be, Grace, but what better could have been done ? 
 He was thoroughly bad, even then, and I have never heard 
 of his performing a good action in his life. The only 
 redeeming trait in his character is an all-absorbing love for 
 his child." 
 
 " What has become of the child ? " 
 
 " Several of the neighbors offered to talce it and bring it up 
 respectably ; but he ridiculed the idea of not being able to 
 care for his own, and removed at once to this hut. But look, 
 there is some one with him ! " 
 
 Grace had no need to look, to know that Dick Grouse was 
 near, for she heard a volley of oaths that she firmly believed! 
 could issue from no other lips. Before the door of the hut 
 stood a horse, and beside it. Grouse, holding the half-mountedJ 
 OAvner of it by the collar. 
 
 " Let go ! " said the stranger, soothingly, " let go ! there 
 would be no use in my staying any longer, and there are a i 
 dozen other patients waiting for me." 
 
 The tAVo ladies shuddered at the answer, so full of blas- 
 phemy, so replete with agony — and hurried on a few steps, 
 then paused and looked back. The physician, for such he 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 47 
 
 evidently was, had shaken the hand of the desperate man 
 from his collar, and was now trying to free the reins from his 
 maniacal grasp. 
 
 " I tell you, Grouse, I cannot help her ! You should have 
 called me earlier." 
 
 Again the wretched Grouse renewed his oaths and threats, 
 and the physician, evidently o'Ut of all patience, was raising 
 the butt of his whip over his knuckles, when a sharp, shrill 
 cry, as of intense suffering, issued from the interior of the 
 hut. 
 
 " Gome, in God's same, come ! " exclaimed Grouse, " she 
 shaU TWt die ! " And dropping the reins he hurried into the 
 hut, while the physician, relieved, turned hastily homeward. 
 The two sisters, pale with fear, looked into each other's faces, 
 as though each expected the other to speak first. 
 
 " Let us go in," said Grace, in a low hoarse voice ; " we 
 ought to go ; the child is sick, and Doctor Glay said he could 
 do nothing to help her." 
 
 •' But he is such a horrible man, Grace." 
 
 " He wouldn't hurt us, if he knew we came in kindness." 
 
 " How dreadfully he talked ! " 
 
 " Dreadfully, but the poor child — " 
 
 Another piercing shriek interrupted her, and Grace sprang 
 from her horse. Instantly Lizzy followed ; and, leaving the 
 two animals to nibble the fresh grass, they turned to the hut. 
 
 The first object that met their view on entering the door, 
 was a little child three or four years old, tossing upon a mis- 
 erable substitute for a bed, in a burning, raging fever ; it was 
 flinging its little arms about its head, and rolling from side to 
 side in agony. A few feet from the bed, stood Grouse, with 
 glaring eyes, set teeth, and folded arms, the clenched fingers 
 almost buried in the flesh, and his features distorted to a dread- 
 ful expression ; nor did he turn his head, nor move an eye- 
 lash, until Grace had laid her cool hand upon the forehead of 
 the child. Then he bounded forward like a tiger. 
 
 " Away ! away ! would you kill my child ? " 
 
 " No ! I am come to help her, if I can," said Grace, softly. 
 
48 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 " Help her ! no ! no ! I know that smooth voice. I have 
 seen Grace Linden before. Help ! ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Grace shuddered, and every nerve quivered with irresisti- 
 ble fear; but she passed the hand soothingly over the child's 
 limbs, and made no answer. 
 
 " You would help her, as you helped her father. Oh I you 
 do good gloriously ! " 
 
 " Mr. Grouse," exclaimed Lizzy, stepping firmly forward, 
 " if you have any love for your child, you will cease this. 
 We came to do her good, but if we meet with hard words or 
 ill-treatment from you, we leave her to her fate." 
 
 Grouse was bending over the bed, as she spoke, and the \ 
 child put up her little arms as though she recognized him. 1 
 He was instantly subdued. 
 
 " Leave her I Don't, don't leave her ! My poor little Nan- 
 nie ! Oh ! help her if you can." J 
 
 "We will!" exclaimed Grace, tears rushing to her eyes, s 
 at the sound of his altered voice, " we will do all we can for ! 
 her." i 
 
 Lizzy had employed the few moments that had elapsed I 
 since her entrance, in taking a survey of the little hut. She j 
 found it as she expected, destitute of everything most needed. 
 
 " There is no use in staying," she began ; but suddenly she , 
 paused in fright, for the manner of Grouse became furious ; 
 " but we will come back and bring Avhat is necessary." 
 
 " No, no, no ! You think her grave-clothes are necessary ! 
 But she shall not have them yet. A shroud for her! Her ,, 
 so young ? Oh ! I meant no suffering, no harm, no wrong 
 should ever come to her ! My poor, poor Nannie ! ' j 
 
 The wretched man crouched upon the floor, like a wounded 
 dog, and groaned aloud. 
 
 "J will stay!" said Grace, in a low, half-hesitating tone. 
 Then she added, more cheerfully, 
 
 " Hurry home, Lizzy, and send Frank with fresh linen, | 
 and — everj thing that is needed — you will know what. ' 
 And, Lizzy, ask Franlc to bring Doctor Furman ; he will help 
 her if anybody can." 
 
GKACE LINDEN. 49 
 
 ' Now, God bless you, Grace Linden ! " exclaimed Grouse, 
 in a subdued tone, " if you had made me ten times the villain 
 that I am, God bless you for this ! " 
 
 " Will you help my sister to her horse ? " asked Grace 
 quietly. 
 
 Grouse hurried to the door, but Lizzy recoiled from his 
 touch, and mounted without assistance. 
 
 " Kide for life, dear Lizzy ! " said Grace from the doorway. 
 
 The child screamed, and the answer was lost ; for Grace 
 was alarmed at the rough handling of the frightened father. 
 
 " I shall need some warm water, Mr. Grouse," said Grace, 
 as soon as the paroxysm ceased, " and then will you please to 
 bring me a tub, and soap, and towels ? We must try to cool 
 this terrible fever ; poor child ! her flesh seems on fire. In 
 the mean time, I will bathe her temples in cold water if you 
 will bring me a basin." 
 
 Grace spoke in those calm, quiet tones, which are so puis- 
 sant in subduing madness, and poor Grouse performed her 
 bidding with the submissive simplicity of a little child. He 
 listened to every word, watched every look, and obeyed the 
 slightest direction to the letter ; starting at the child's screams 
 as though every pang had been his own, but only bending his 
 eager eye on her for a moment, and then turning away, as 
 though satisfied that she was in better hands than his. Wlien 
 Grace had bathed poor little Nannie's aching limbs, and 
 smoothed her hair, and beaten up and spread anew her little 
 cot, cooling the linen in the doorway, she laid her dowm 
 gently ; and, fanning her with a fresh green bough W'hich 
 Grouse had brought her, the little sufferer was soon in a 
 troubled slumber. When the miserable father perceived the 
 effect of Grace's care, he crept cautiously to the bedside, and 
 crouching upon the floor, with his elbows resting on his knees, 
 and his chin on both hands, he gazed long and fixedly upon 
 the sleeper. At last he turned to Grace. 
 
 ' You have wronged me, Grace Linden, and I you ; but if 
 you knew all, you would never — " and he pointed to the bed- 
 
 ' If I have ever had the misfortune to do you a wrong," 
 5 
 
50 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 answered Grace, feelingly, " it was unintentional, and I anu 
 sorry for it. If it is not too late now to remedy it — " J 
 
 " It is too late ! " growled Grouse, sternly. * 
 
 " Perhaps it may be done in the person of your child," 
 faltered Grace, timidly ; for there is nothing that makes us 
 such cowards as the slightest consciousness of having per- 
 formed a reprehensible act. 
 
 " Ay I save my child, my poor little Nannie, and I will be 
 your slave — your dog, to do your bidding while I live. 
 There is nothing, Grace Linden, nothing, that I will not do > 
 for you, if you make Nannie live." 
 
 He paused a few moments, and then began brokenly — 
 
 " You were a child, only a child, and could not know what t 
 you did. It was the fault of others — they should have seen i 
 
 that the poor were not trampled on, and driven to theft, and 
 
 and every crime. No, Grace, you were not so bad, you did n't : 
 mean to ruin poor Nannie, and I have wronged you." 
 
 Grace thought the man was going mad, and she fixed her 
 eyes on him apprehensively, repeating after him, " To ruin 
 Nannie ? " 
 
 " Yes ! to ruin her — to make us glad to put her in the 
 grave. Oh ! I did not hate you \vithout a reason, Grace Lin- ■ 
 den — but that is passed, all passed, and you will save my 
 own poor little Nannie ; you will save her, won't you ? " 
 
 " If I can ; but of what other Nannie have you been 
 talking?" 
 
 Grouse looked at her suspiciously. " What other Nannie ? 
 "What one but her that they drove into the street to make 
 room for you — her that — " ' 
 
 " I never heard of it, Mr. Grouse." 
 
 The face of Grace vouched for the truth of her words ; and 
 Grouse, after being a little urged, proceeded to explain to her 
 the cause of his original hatred. Ho was not very explicit ; 
 but Grace gathered enough to account for the infinite pleasure 
 Dick Grouse had seemed to take in tormenting her, and to 
 free him, partially, at least, from the charge of unprovoked 
 mdlice. The boy's parents, being both drunkards, the children 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 51 
 
 often sufTered for ihc necessaries of life, and Dick and his 
 
 elder sister Nannie, were at last glad to gain situations in the 
 
 factory of Mr. Russel. It is easy to be believed, however, 
 
 that they were no favorites, and when Mrs. Linden wished 
 
 employment for two of her children, it is not strange that Mr. 
 
 Russel made a vacancy in favor of Grace and at the expense 
 
 of Nannie. The sister of Dick Grouse Avas then nearly 
 
 fifteen, indolent, careless, and vicious ; and, as she could not 
 
 obtain a situation in a respectable family, her course was from 
 
 that time downward. This tale was told brokenly, sometimes 
 
 in piteous tones, sometimes with harsh words and a wolfish 
 
 expression of countenance ; but Grace discovered the iron 
 
 !• that had been cankering^ in the man's soul his life long, the 
 
 ': ban of society brought by a parent's crimes I Oh ! that she 
 
 u had sooner known all this ! Even as a child she might have 
 
 ; saved a world of wrong. Her heart grew sad as she sat in 
 
 i that gloomy hovel, by the bedside of the dying, perhaps, and 
 
 I in the company of one, not only sinning but sinned against, 
 
 I and, as she now believed, by her own self. 
 
 Oh ! glad was Grace Linden when her brother arrived with 
 all the little sick-room comforts, prepared by her mother and 
 Lizzy. And glad, too, was she to see the wrist of the suf- 
 ■ ferer spanned by the fingers of good Doctor Furman ; for she 
 knew that if man's skill could avail anything, little Nannie 
 Grouse would yet be saved. The kind physician advised 
 Grace to return home, and leave the patient to his care ; but 
 the proposal seemed such a startling one to Grouse, that she 
 concluded to remain and keep watch with her brother during 
 the night. In the morning the fever was somewhat abated, 
 and little Nannie seemed quite rational ; for she put up her 
 parched Tips for her father's kiss, and passed her hot hand 
 over his face, winding the fingers in the shaggy beard, and 
 trying to win a smile even in the midst of her suffering, till 
 the boldly vicious man was fain to turn away his face, ashamed 
 of his softness. On his return to the village. Doctor Furman 
 engaged a careful nurse to attend upon his patient ; and every 
 day Grace and Lizzy showed their kind, cheerful faces at the 
 
52 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 hut, until the child was pronounced out of danger. Long 
 before this, it would have been difficult for Grace Linden to 
 recognize her old enemy, Dick Grouse, in the timid, gentle, 
 grateful being, who, she doubted not, would go the world over 
 to save her ; and yet, at times, a strange expression flitted 
 across his face, an expression so full of meaning, and such 
 mysterious meaning, too, that Lizzy, and sometimes Frank, 
 thought it boded no good. But Grace was sure the wolf Avas 
 tamed ; and when she spoke of it at home, Sommers laughed, 
 and professed his implicit belief in the veritable history of 
 " Beauty and the Beast." For more than a week before little 
 Nannie's nurse was dismissed, Grouse went out in search of 
 employment, and when he obtained it, set himself to work 
 industriously, saying to all who rallied him on his improved 
 habits, that he had need of money. As soon as the child had 
 recovered, he brought her in his arms one day to Mr. Linden's 
 door, and very humbly begged of Grace to afford her protec- 
 tion and shelter during a short absence. " And," he added, 
 struggling with some almost overpowering emotion, " and if I 
 never return, whatever may chance, Grace Linden, oh, do not 
 let her starve ! My poor little Nannie never wronged you." 
 
 Grace accepted the charge, and gave her word that the 
 child should be cared for Avhile she lived ; and the strange 
 man went away grateful and satisfied. 
 
 " Be sure that you do not fail us," said Grace Linden to 
 Mr. Sommers, as she parted from him at the hall door ; " and 
 bring Charley. His little eyes will lose none of their sparkle 
 by being kept open one evening." 
 
 " You must convince mamma of that," said Sommers. 
 " We careless fathers will believe anything you tell us." 
 
 " Well, I shall expect you and Lizzy, if 'leetle pet' is con- 
 fined to his crib ;" and Grace tripped lightly up-stairs to her 
 own room, and, tired with her long ramble, flung herself upon 
 a couch beneath the window. Grace was in no particularly 
 musing mood, but the tide of thought is never still ; and 
 numerous and hope-fraught visions came clustering thick 
 around her, though in none of them was there room for self. 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 53 
 
 Her parents were happy — so happy that their hearts were 
 constantly gusliing forth with thankfulness, and their joy was 
 told in words that meant not to tell it — words of the most 
 eloquent simplicity. Then Lizzy, the proud young wife, and 
 prouder mother, could not have admitted another drop into 
 her cup, for it was already brimming over ; and Frank, though 
 performing the innumerable duties of a country editor, and 
 swelling his tiny capital by immeasurably small particles, yet 
 found time to be the most heartily gladsome of the whole 
 family. Then Grace thought of Mary, her quiet, gentle, 
 affectionate sister-in-law ; and she sprang lightly from her 
 couch, and, opening a drawer, began hastily, turning over a 
 bundle of laces. 
 
 " Yes ! she ought to wear caps," thought Grace, " pretty 
 little dress caps ; they are so becoming to her sweet face. I 
 will make one this very evening." 
 
 The door-bell rang just as Grace was deciding whether the 
 cap should have a little crown to cover the braid, or pass over 
 the top of the head and fall on the neck at the sides, leaving 
 the hair more uncovered. 
 
 " Too early for Sommers and Lizzy," she thought, pulling 
 out her watch. 
 
 Old Janet tapped at her door, and put in her head. " Mr. 
 Russel, Miss;" and little Nannie Grouse squeezed in beside 
 her, repeating " Mittah Ushil ! " 
 
 Grace started, and the whole box of laces fell from her hand. 
 
 " Who is it, Janet ? You have made a mistake ! he did 
 not call himself — that?-" 
 
 Janet began to protest that he did call himself that; and 
 that she heard just as plain as day ; and that (this was said 
 in a lower key, however) some folks could hear a great deal 
 better than some other folks ; but the appearance of Frank 
 cut her short. 
 
 " Your old flame, Russel, Grace — in the greatest tease to 
 see you — could scarcely say how d'ye do to me. But, bless 
 me ! how pale you are ! Water, Janet ! Bring some water ! 
 quick ! " 
 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 Grace put away the proffered cup, and, bending her head 
 upon her cold, white hands, only murmured, 
 
 " To come noio, when I was so, so happy ! it is too much ! " 
 
 " Don't go down, Gracey, dear ! Don't try ! " whispered 
 Frank, drawing near. " There is something here that I do 
 not understand, but you must tell me at another time. Now 
 I will make an excuse for you. I will say you are ill — en- 
 gaged — anything you like ; and tell him to come again, or 
 intimate that you will be always invisible. Don't try to go 
 down, Gracey ! " 
 
 And Grace thought at first that she would not. Then 
 came all her womanly pride to aid her ; and she would not, 
 for the world, that Russel should suspect her of being less 
 indifferent than himself. She immediately arose, and wreath- 
 ing the long masses of hair that she had allowed to fall over 
 her shoulders, into a knot, attempted to confine it ; but the 
 bodkin slipped from her trembling fingers, and Frank was 
 obliged, though somewhat awkwardly, to act the part of tire- 
 woman. 
 
 " Now, can you assist me farther, Frank ? Put a pin in 
 that lace, close to the top of the dress — how rumpled ! " 
 
 And Grace passed her clammy hands ove^ the folds of her 
 flowing skirt, to see that each one was in place. 
 
 " Never mind, Gracey, it is well enough ; and if there was 
 but a little more color in your cheek, I have never seen you 
 so pretty. Now look in the glass." 
 
 " I don't care to be pretty, just now, Frank ; that makes no 
 difference. But if Russel should see me carelessly dressed, 
 or less cheerful than I used to be, he would suspect what, my 
 dear brother, I do not like to have him know — that he has 
 caused me sorrow." 
 
 " But he has, Grace I has he not ? Oh ! why have you 
 not told us this before ?" 
 
 " It was nothing — was not worth telling. Come now with 
 me, Frank, and leave me at the door." 
 
 The young man took his sister's arm in his, but as he per- 
 ceived she walked totteringly, he clasped her cold hand 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 closely, and wound his arm around her waist. " Grace, my 
 poor sister, this will be too much for you ! " 
 
 Grace pressed forward. Slowly, step after step, as though 
 joining in a funeral march, they descended the stairs ; the 
 strorxg arm of the brother alone preventing her from falling. 
 Poor Grace ! Her heart was the grave of its o\vn crushed, 
 withered, but now intensely alive feelings. They drew near 
 the door, and Frank paused, with his hand upon the latch. 
 * Grace, let me see this man ! If his perfidy has occasioned 
 all this, it is fiendish in him to come to you now. As your 
 brother, your best friend and protector, I should and mus;t 
 shield you. Indeed, Grace, you are not equal to" this severe 
 task. Let me seek an explanation." 
 
 " Never ! no ! no ! " 
 
 " "Well then, I will not ; but don't see him tO'^night — don't, 
 darling ! You are so pale and miserable ! " 
 
 Grace pressed both hands upon her temples, as if their 
 throbbing would madden her ; and then leaned her head 
 against her brother's shoulder and sobbed without restraint. 
 Frank bore her from the door, and, without opposition, guided 
 her back to her room. 
 
 " It is so long since I have thought of these things, and 
 now they come upon me so suddenly ! " she whispered, as he 
 imprinted a kiss upon her dewy forehead. Bitter Avere the 
 thoughts of Frank Linden, as he turned from his suffering 
 sister to encounter the expected cold eye, and civil speeches 
 of the accomplished man of the world. 
 
 Russel was examining a port-folio of pencil sketches as he 
 entered, and the centred light of his fine eye, and the qviet 
 smile lurking at the corners of his exquisitely moulded mouth 
 bespoke a complacent happiness, strikingly contrasted with 
 the wretchedness he had occasioned. A joyous smile broke 
 from his parted lips and flashed over his whole face like a 
 sunbeam, when the door opened ; and then a look of disap- 
 pointment followed, so deep and heartfelt that Frank was 
 sorely puzzled. He had heard neither side of the story yet. 
 and could pnly read faces. , 
 
«56 GEACE LINDEN. 
 
 " My sister has taken a long walk and is very much 
 fatigued to-night. She wishes me to make her excuses." 
 
 Russel looked still more disappointed — somewhat dis- 
 tressed even. 
 
 " If she could afTord me a few moments — my business is 
 important." 
 
 " Another time perhaps : now she is resting and I would 
 not, on any account, have her disturbed." 
 
 " She is not ill, I trust?" and Kussel looked so anxious, so 
 troubled, so unlike his usually proud self, that Frank's resent- 
 ment began to give way, and he assured him that she was 
 quite well — stronger and healthier even than when he last 
 saw her. Russel said no more, but drew a small parcel from 
 liis pocket, and ^\^:iting a few lines on the cover delivered it 
 to young Linden, with the expressed hope that it might soon 
 find its way to his sister's hand. When Frank entered her 
 apartment, Grace was seated by the window, leaning her fore- 
 head against the raised sash, and gazing upon a retreating 
 figure, now almost invisible in the grey twilight. 
 
 " And he will never come again ? " she asked, turning 
 suddenly. 
 
 " I do not know ; here is something he left you;" and Frank 
 placed the package in her hands. 
 
 Grace clutched at it convulsively and drew it close to her 
 bosom ; and then she gasped for breath, and attempted to tear 
 away the slight fold of lace that shaded her neck, as though 
 it had been that which so oppressed her. Frank was alarmed 
 and was about to call for assistance, but she arrested his de- 
 sign. 
 
 "No — no ! I am better now. It was only a momentary 
 struggle and will be the last. I shall be your own Grace 
 again m a few days — as happy as I was before this terrible 
 mterruption. He did right to return my letters, and I ought 
 to thank him for it. I suppose there is no danger of his 
 coming again." 
 
 Frank thought not, and with a few soothing words — words 
 
GKACE LINDEN. 57 
 
 SO beautiful falling from a brother's lips — he left her to 
 herself. 
 
 " It is all over," murmured Grace, " and we are parted 
 forever and ever. Oh, why did he come to disturb my hap- 
 piness ? " 
 
 Hour after hour passed by, and still Grace Linden sat in 
 that same position ; her white hands buried in her loosened 
 hair, and her cheek pressed closely upon the table before hei 
 Frank came in, and, folding her in his arms, gave her the good 
 night kiss, and Mary pressed her soft, loving lips upon the 
 aching forehead; but she scarce knew it. Midnight drew 
 near , the candle flickered and yielded up its light ; and the 
 moon went down behind the trees, leaving the chamber in 
 utter darkness. Siill Grace moved not : it was her hour of 
 utter abandonment. Morning came, and Grace slept — her 
 head resting on her crossed arms, and her face buried in the 
 sleeves of her robe. Again and again there came a light lap 
 at the door, and a pitying face would look in for a moment ; 
 but despair has a deep sleep, and this was not easily broken. 
 At last Grace moved, and murmuring- her brother's name, 
 'awoke. She looked around her with a wild, troubled expres- 
 sion, as of one haunted by the memory of a fearful dream. 
 
 " Oh, that it could be a dream ! " she murmured, but her 
 hand fell upon a little parcel in her lap, and she remembered 
 all — all her agony -and all her hopelessness. Slowly she 
 jraised the package and unwound the string, and as a number 
 !of letters fell from the envelope, she pushed them from her 
 to the other side of the table, and shaded her eyes froni them 
 las though the sight was painful to her. Then she mechaiii- 
 jcally smoothed the wrapper that she had at first crumpled ia 
 iher hand ; examined the seal, bearing simply the letters " H. 
 |R.," and the superscription, his own hand-writing, until finally 
 Iher eye fell upon some pencilings, and wandered over them 
 jat first quite vacantly. In a moment she raised her hand as 
 Ithough she would brush away the haze that obscured her 
 ivision, and read, although the strange words half bewildered 
 iher: 
 
68 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 " I would give the world, dear Grace, to see you to-night, i 
 for I have everything to say. But this package will explain j 
 all — it contains our intercepted letters. A miserable wretch, i 
 touched by your kindness, has confessed the fraud and deliv- I 
 ered them up. Forgive, dear Grace, my credulity, though j 
 even then I shall not forgive myself. H. R." 
 
 The sun had been up nearly two hours, when Lizzy Som- 
 mers found her sister extended upon the floor senseless, with 
 the paper crushed in her two hands, and her white lips parted n 
 with the first involuntary expression of surprise. She had!| 
 borne her sorrows well, and but few had even suspected their ■, 
 existence ; but the transition was too sudden, too unexpected, j 
 and her power of endurance was spent. In a few moments ■ 
 her heart palpitated wildly ; a crimson flushed her cheeks ; a i, 
 light broke from her eye, and throwing herself on the friendly ■ 
 bosom of her sister, Lizzy was for the first time made ac-- 
 quainted with all her weakness and all her strength. 
 
 Russel found no difficulty in obtaining pardon, for if his 
 rich, manly voice, had pleaded in tones less winning, and! 
 spoken words less delicately tender, and if those deep, soulful 
 eyes, had looked into hers with but a tithe of their thrilling 
 earnestness, there was that in the heart of Grace that would 
 have forgiven a greater offence than being convinced of hen 
 untruth when there remained no longer a foothold for faith. 
 Grace had not loved Russel for the power which she had ! 
 gained over him ; she had never even dreamed how great that : 
 power was, and testing it, by way of learning, she would have ■ 
 deemed degrading to them both. It was his rare intellectual 1 
 endowments, his high-toned character, his conscious manli-- 
 ness, that had at first won her; and although other and! 
 tenderer qualities had conspired to make him dearer than she 
 could have known, had not sorrow unveiled to her her owni 
 secrets, she could never have rested so securely in his heart, , 
 had that manliness ever bent too low beneath the weight of' 
 passion. He had poured out the priceless wealth of a noble '. 
 heart at her feet — it was a fit offering, and it could not be' 
 made richer. His reason, his independence were his own : : 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 0\f 
 
 hers, as far as their guidance and support were needed, but 
 tliey Avere no part of the sacrifice. Perhaps it might have 
 been otherwise had Grace loved less ; men have often yielded 
 up their noblest traits of character to womanly caprice, but 
 never to womanly love. 
 
 Russel and Grace had so much to talk of, so many little 
 plans to frame and re frame, and so many more interesting 
 revelations to make, that it was several days before she was 
 in possession of the facts concerning the letters. She had, 
 however, found time to read all his, and had been duly 
 remorseful on finding that his package numbered more than 
 hers, and that several of them bore a later date. 
 
 Soon after Russel's departure from Alderbrook he had found 
 Grouse in abject circumstances, and, thoroughly conscious of 
 his unworthiness, he had been generous enough to employ 
 him in several petty services out of mere charity. Grouse 
 had nursed the hatred, imbibed in boyhood, for all those who 
 he believed had influenced for ill his fortunes ; and he had 
 brooded over his wrongs in solitude and wretchedness, until 
 they had assumed a most portentous form, and swallowed up 
 every other consideration. The very name of Russel roused 
 the demon within him ; and, but for the bread which he must 
 have to keep him from starving, he would have poured forth 
 his pent-up venom -without measure. As it Avas, he contented 
 himself with petty annoyances, which at first were not noticed. 
 One day, however, Russel found occasion to reprimand him 
 severely, and Grouse went away angry ; but driven by neces- 
 sity, he soon returned, and pleaded his cause so effectually 
 that the young attorney took him into his service again. It 
 was nearly six months -after this, that Miss Linden's letters 
 suddenly ceased, and although Grouse was employed as post- 
 boy to and from the office, he had been so faithful in other 
 respects, that he was not even for a moment suspected. His 
 position, too, shielded him ; if Russel had looked for villany, 
 it would have been to a quarter less ignorant and degraded. 
 As for Grouse, he had evidently laid no plan for injuring his 
 victims ; but discovering one day, accidentally, to whom the 
 
60 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 letters were addressed, he \vithheld them merely for the pur- 
 pose of carrying out his system of annoyance. One letter of 
 inquiry addressed to Mr. De Vere, and another to Francis 
 Linden, shared the same fate ; for Grouse had been too long 
 accustomed to read upon Grace's letters, " Gare of Monsieur 
 De Vere," not to understand the object of the first, and the 
 other bore the name of Linden. Russel, however, had per- 
 severed in his attempts to discover the cause of Miss Linden's 
 unaccountable silence, until she set sail for France. Then he 
 repeated, but in a tone more sad than bitter, (men learn toler- 
 ance by living long with mankind,) " ruined by her ambition." 
 He caught one glimpse of her from a position whence he 
 could not be recognized, when she landed in New York ; but 
 notwithstanding the truthful expression that seemed deepened 
 even on her still beautiful face, her easy cheerfulness only 
 confirmed his belief. He thought a noble spirit had been 
 sacrificed ; and he lost all confidence in the truth of human 
 nature, even while he learned more sincerely to pity and for- 
 give its follies. 
 
 Grouse threw the letters into an old trunk that had been his 
 sister's, and therefore was preserved with a strangely tender 
 carefulness. He had never thought of them since, except to 
 chuckle in private over his successful villany, until he saw 
 Grace Linden v/atching by the side of his sleeping child. 
 Gratitude broke up the dark, bitter fountains of hate, and 
 threw a smile upon his heart which had never visited it be- 
 fore. Then he resolved to make all the restitution in his 
 power, though he little knew the injury he had done. And 
 often, when he looked upon Grace Linden afterwards, he 
 exulted in the thought of being able to show, in some degree, 
 his appreciation of the kindness which almost bewildered him. 
 As soon as he was able to earn a little sum to defray travel- 
 ling expenses, notwithstanding his fear of deserved punish- 
 ment, he started in search of his wronged master; and 
 Russel, more inclined to reward him for the present, than to 
 punish him for the past, lost no time in repairing to Alder- 
 brook 
 
GKACE LINDEN. 61 
 
 Before the autumn leaves had all fallen, there were rejoic- 
 ings and weepiiig in the fomily of the Lindens ; for the bridal 
 festivities were only the precursor of a sorrowful separation. 
 
 " Why not build a little villa, and have one hone for us 
 all," said Sommers, shaking heartily the hand of his brother- 
 in-law. " The world you are bustling in will never reward 
 you for half your labors." 
 
 " Suppose my labors Avere of a nature to reward them- 
 selves?" answered Russol, smiling. 
 
 " Pursue them then, but be sure never to look beyond your 
 own bosom for it. I have but little faith in gratitude en masse; 
 I would deal with the individual." 
 
 " Ay," said Frank, unconsciously moving his fingers after 
 the fashion of a compositor, "kind deeds do sometimes meet 
 with gratitude vv^hen they assume the form of personal favors ; 
 but who ever heard of a whole state, or county, or village 
 even, being grateful for the most disinterested services ? " 
 
 " How now, Frank ! " exclaimed Russel, laughing. " What 
 brother editor has been giving you a specimen of his talent 
 at blackguardism this morning ? " 
 
 " Frank is right, however," answered Lizzy. " Only think' 
 of Dick Crouse. By a little kindness, without positive incon- 
 venience to herself, Grace has secured his everlasting grati- 
 tude. She might have built a hospital for sick children, (a 
 dozen of them for that matter !) and good, generous-hearted 
 people might have enjoyed its benefits without feeling the 
 least touch of an emotion so pure and unselfish as animated 
 Dick Crouse in spite of his degradation. So much for labor- 
 ing for the public ! " 
 
 " True, Lizzy," began Grace, " but — " 
 
 " But ! No — no, Grace ! None of your huts now ; we 
 all know what is coming. These young brides always take 
 their cue from their husbands ; but wait, Mr. Russel, till she 
 has been matronized a few years — only wait I She will be 
 as positive and opinionated as any of us." 
 
 Well, of one thing I am certain," said Grace, gaily, " as 
 6 
 
62 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 long as ]\Ir. Russel looks well to one individual, I shall not 
 interfere with his public services, I can assure you." 
 
 " Recollect that the individual has a fee to pay, however," 
 answered Russel, "since the public is so ungrateful." 
 
 Our nowly-wcdded friends took their departure at an early 
 day, and proceeded to the city of Washington. Russel was 
 now deeply engaged with public afTairs ; and Grace entered 
 with a greater zest into his plans, and encouraged his designs, 
 because she found him actuated by true patriotism, and knew 
 tliat his honorable spirit would never stoop to the petty arti- 
 fices of manceuvrmg politicians. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. EIGHT-AND-THIRTY. 
 
 It was a scene of rare brilliancy. Large mirrors flashed 
 back the blaze of the glittering chandeliers, and mimicked on 
 their surface the varying features of the crowd traversing the 
 magnificent saloon. There were noble dames in jewelled 
 tiaras and robes of every description, from the royal ermine 
 and glossy velvet, with its rich, heavy folds, to the silver gos- 
 samer floating like a misty veil around some figure of rare 
 etherialness. Beauty cast its spell around, and wit and senti- 
 ment sped like light-winged, pearl-tipped arrows, flashing 
 from lips all familiar with the elegant artillery. Brave, high- 
 botn men, bearing honored titles, (men, who from infancy had 
 looked on scenes of regal grandeur, and become so familiar- 
 ized with the gay, trifling pageantry, as to act their parts 
 perfectly with absent thoughts,) passed up and down the 
 tlironged apartment, and bent their heads, and smiled, and 
 dropped dull words that passed for wisdoni, or wise ones that 
 no one appreciated, with a courtly air that disclaimed kindred 
 with all associations below the level of the palace. 
 
 " A rare masquerade ! every face is as completely en masque 
 as though the famous iron one had been put in requisition for 
 all." 
 
 So spake an elegant woman, standing in the recess of a: 
 window, and half shaded by the folds of crimson drapery;! 
 
GRACE LINDKN. 
 
 63 
 
 from the gay scene on which she commented. She seemed 
 quite at home amid all that glitter, and yet not like one whose 
 heart was in it very deeply, though in the meridian of her 
 days, and passing lovely. She wore a robe of black velvet, 
 fitting closely so as to display the beautiful contour of he. 
 form ; and her head-dress was of fleecy whiteness, looped by 
 a single diamond set with rubies, and surmounted by a mag- 
 nificent plume bending beneath its own rich weight to the 
 shoulder. Her ornaments were few and tastefully arranged. 
 We have said she looked like one whose heart was not with 
 the gay scene in which she mingled ; for her large, humid 
 eyes had in them a meek lovingness, and sometimes a pen- 
 sive abstraction, as though the shadow of serious thought had 
 fallen early upon them and mingled with their light forever. 
 She received gracefully the flattering attentions of the crowd 
 from which the heavy curtain had not been able to shield her ; 
 for beauty is a born queen and counts her vassals every- 
 where ; and, the wife of the American ambassador (such was 
 the rank of the lady we have presented) was beautiful enough 
 and accomplished enough to command no liitle share of admi- 
 ration, even if her position had been less distinguished. 
 
 " You leave us early, Mrs. Russel," remarked a gentleman 
 who had just elbowed his way through the crowd in time to 
 hear the lady give directions concerning her carriage. " It 
 would be worth the while of some of our court geniuses to 
 spend their wit m inventing some fascination that should keep 
 you with us beyond the magic one hour." 
 
 " Nay, do not attempt it, my lord. I am already quite be- 
 wildered by such an array of splendor, and it is only to save 
 my poor republican brain a total overthrow that I fly the field 
 while I may." 
 
 " Ah ! if that be all, come with me, lady. Yonder is a 
 delightful alcove, where a few choice spirits — " 
 
 " Ah ! my lord ! the danger is not always in the broadest 
 blaze. I am but a novice in all these enchantments and my 
 only safety is in flight." 
 
 " That means, lady bright, that you have conned the lav? 
 
64 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 of mercy. But when your fair republic deigns to drop a 
 choice star among us, we like not that it should be veiled." 
 
 The lady bent in graceful acknowledgment, and the con- 
 versation proceeded more gaily, until Mrs. Eussel's carriage ■ 
 was announced to be in readiness ; then his lordship, carefulJy 
 wrappmg her cloak about her, handed her to a seat within, 
 bowed his head almost to her gloved hand, drew up the glass, 
 and the carriage whirled away. In a few moments the lady 
 of the ambassador was at her hotel. She tripped lightly up 
 the broad stair-case, and flinging cloak and hood into the 
 hands of her half-sleeping maid, with a bright smile which 
 many a weary belle whom she had left behind might have 
 envied, passed onward to an inner apartment. A night lamp 
 stood burning on a marble table ; and, as she came near, her 
 foot touched some light substance on the floor. It was a 
 child's slipper, tiny enough for the foot of Titania herself; 
 and, as the mother clasped it in her jewelled hand, there was 
 a dewiness in her soft eye, that told how touchingly dear to 
 her was everything hallowed by connection with her heart's 
 treasures. She paused and bent over the couch of a fair 
 sleeping girl, parted the bright curls from her forehead, and 
 gazed fondly on the exquisite chiselling, then pressing her lips 
 upon that, on the closed eyes and rose-bud mouth, turned lin- 
 geringly, and proceeded to the little crib beyond. I-t was the 
 nestling place of Cupid himself. The round, rosy face looked 
 out from its golden ambush of curls, with almost its waking 
 roguishness of expression ; and the fat, white arms were 
 clasped determinedly over a little whip, the most petted, be- 
 cause the newest of his playthmgs. Those dimpled arms 
 received many a fond kiss before they were enveloped in the 
 folds of the night-dress ; and the little whip was removed as 
 carefully as though it had been the choicest of treasures. 
 Then the mother bent again over the fair boy, and while her 
 eyes rested lovingly upon him, her heart went up to heaven 
 with all those holy aspirations which often shed their halo on 
 the path of men when the spirit that breathed them has gone 
 to its rest. As the lady emerged from the nursery she was 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 65 
 
 mot by her husband, and they returned to her dressmg room 
 1 togelher. 
 
 " You made a masterly retreat to-night, Grace," he said ; 
 " now if I only had half your assurance, I should be as grate- 
 ful as grateful can be. Oh,- how I pity those poor ladies that 
 must stay and mope to the end of the chapter ! " 
 
 " And how they pity people so little au fait to the ways of 
 the world as we are ! Why, only last night, I overheard a 
 lady duchess remark of your charming wife, ' poor thing ! how 
 new!' and all because she turned in disgust from a very dis- 
 gusting scene at a card-table." 
 
 " And were you not very much shocked, Grace ? " 
 
 " Of course, it was a very shocking thing, but I could not 
 resist the temptation of turning to assure her grace that it was 
 a defect which ijears would remedy. She is as much 
 ashamed of being old as though it were a crime." 
 
 " And you of course knew the sensitive point by intuition, 
 and touched it in a most lady-like manner. You are a true 
 woman, Grace. Who would once have thought of 'my 
 Gracey's ' ever tilting with these gossiping court ladies ? Fie ! 
 fie ! It is ill-natured of you." 
 
 " It ought to please you, Harry; it proves that I am not 
 new. But truth to tell, I am sick myself of this constant 
 sharpening of wits never over bright. I am afraid they will 
 be worn out before I have my own fireside again to use them 
 by. If you had not promised that your public career should 
 end Avith this embassy, I verily believe, Harry, that I shoulil 
 run away from you, and nestle down in a certain quiet nook 
 away in the green woods of New York." 
 
 " You are not so very miserable here, Grace ?" 
 
 " Miserable ! oh, no ! I can afford to go and play my part 
 in such a great farce every day, since I may come home to 
 you and the children ; and it suits me very well indeed, since 
 I know it is not to last." 
 
 " And what think you, dear Grace, of those ladies, who 
 have neither husband nor children to go home to ? that is, 
 
66 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 those who have both, but scarce see them from week's end to ; 
 week's end." j 
 
 " Oh ! they are the initiated — born fine ladies. You know ■ 
 I am a butterfly so late from the chrysalis that I have some 
 very contracted notions clinging to me — notwithstanding my 
 fine wings," she added, glancing at the magnificent plume 
 that had formed her principal head ornament for the evening. , 
 
 It will be seen that our old friend Grace was yet unchang- ; 
 ed. Prosperity had not turned her head, nor a mawkish' 
 sentimentality stepped in to supply the place of heart. She 
 had no interminable flood of murmurs to drawl forth against 
 the follies that surrounded her, no repinings, no peevish fret- 
 fulness ; but on her pillow she did picture a charming little 
 retreat, close beside a little village, in which Lizzy and Liz- ■ 
 zy's children figured largely ; and a darling old lady, smil- ' 
 ingly receiving the homage of loving hearts, occupied the 
 foreground. Her own transformation, instead of serving as ' 
 food for vanity, amused her with its strangeness ; and philos- 
 ophy itself — Diogenes in his tub, and Epicurus in his sen- 
 sual elysium — might equally have envied -the cheerful 
 equanimity with which a fair American dame could mingle 
 in the gayeties of one of the gayest European courts, keeping 
 meanwhile close in her heart the little domestic paradise that 
 she had loved beyond the seas. Grace Linden (we like not 
 to change the name) twined jewels in her hair, fastened the 
 broach and clasped the bracelet, and thought no more of 
 them ; but there was a plain gold ring that she always looked 
 upon with earnest, sometimes with tear-dimmed eyes. When 
 no one was near — not even husband or child — the homely 
 ornament was often pressed long and fervently to her lips ; 
 she would not have bartered that simple ring for the whole 
 court's wealth of diamonds ; it had once encircled the pale 
 finger of her sister Abby. Eich, costly vases, filled with the 
 choicest flowers, made the air of her apartments heavy with i 
 perfume, and rare plants wooed the sunlight in her recessed ! 
 windows ; but in the midst of all she forgot not to write to 
 her brother Frank : " Do not take, as you threatened, that ; 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 67 
 
 pretty eglantine from the window that was mine the last 
 
 summer I spent at home. It was just scrambling up the 
 I third pane then, and you must not let it grow higher, or I 
 
 should never know it. And plant the sweet peas across the 
 : little patch down by the currant bushes. I have Avatchel the 
 
 bees by the hour, glancing about them like lost specks of 
 , sunshine, and then plunging among the bright leaves with a 
 
 • hearty boldness that made the robbers quite fascinating. Do 
 I not change anything, Frank ; you cannot make better the 
 :dear, dear spot, and I must find every violet and marigold in 
 jits place when I come home." 
 
 ) Two years had passed. A light, simple, airy mansion had 
 I risen behind an avenue of native forest trees, close by the 
 ^ unpretending home of the Lindens; and the young lawyer 
 [who had commenced his professional career in our small vii- 
 jlage some twenty years before, was now its most honored 
 citizen. It was a mild autumn evening, and the three fami- 
 lies, as was their wont, had gathered in the little parlor, more 
 dear to all than any other, because more particularly asso- 
 ciated with the hopes, and fears, and loves of other days. 
 Half buried in a large cushioned chair, in the corner, sat 
 i Mrs. Linden, a very little bent and a good deal wrinkled, 
 with her snowy locks parted smoothly on a brow as serene 
 as a summer evening, and her sweet mild eyes wandering 
 from face to face, in maternal fondness. Close by was her 
 I husband, dandling another little pet, that had taken the place 
 i of Charley, on his knee, and amusing the company, from 
 time to time, with the self-same anecdotes (so the old lady 
 1 asserted) that he had told at her father's table during the 
 days of his wooing. Tavo lovely women, evidently sisters, 
 occupied each an ottoman close beside a work-table, and as 
 I one pared with her scissors a little from the neck of a muslin 
 
 • collar, she would lay it on the other's shoulders and smooth 
 ! it with her hand, and then remove it to her knee again, drop- 
 ping, from time to time, those artless remarks which make 
 such a poor figure in the telling, but Aveave many a golden 
 link in the chain of love. Near to these, a placid matron, a 
 
68 
 
 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 year or two older, was leaning- over the shoulder of a fine boy 
 engaged with his pencil, and talking in a soft whisper of 
 spoiled eyes and aching heads — things so preposterous as to 
 set the large, mirthful orbs, at which they particularly pointed, 
 in a dance of glee. The village clock was on the stroke of 
 nine, when the family party received an accession. Neddy 
 Sommers, the pet, sprang from grandfather's knee to father's 
 arms, begging to be allowed to sit up just a little while longer; 
 a larger, firmer hand began guiding the pencil of the embryo 
 artist ; and the manliest figure of the three bent over the arm 
 of grandmother's rocking-chair, and listened to her with the 
 most respectful tenderness. 
 
 " What is that you were just saying of my lady — Crinkum- 
 Crankum — jaw-breaker, Grace?" inquired Frank, replacin^^ 
 the pencil in the boy's hand. "You had better look to yo'ir 
 wife, Ned Sommers, or all this foreign trash will quite run 
 away with her reason." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " returned Sommers, quietly, and tossing the 
 baby within an inch of the ceiling. " I expect no less ; I am 
 prepared for any extravagance, even to a livery.". 
 
 "I should be obliged to put it upon you and the childiL.i, 
 then," answered Lizzy ; " for I think you gave your last 
 ' help ' a holyday week, this morning," 
 
 " You had better be upon your good behavior, alt," said 
 Grace, " or we will get up an establishment in right princely 
 style, and press you into the service. There is Frank, calls 
 himself a capital whip, and Mr. Sommers would let down the 
 steps with superlative grace, I dare say." 
 
 " Frank," inquired Russel, with a twinkle in his eye, and 
 a mischievous curl at the comers of his mouth, " did I ever 
 tell you the story of your gracious sister and the footman 
 of " 
 
 " Harry ! " 
 
 " You see she don't like me to expose her follies." 
 
 " Oh, tell ! Let us hear ! Give us the story, by all 
 means ! " exclaimed three or four voices. 
 
 " Did she mistake him for his master ? " inquired Frank. 
 
 •'ATot exactly, but — " 
 
GRACE LINDEN. 69 
 
 " Now, Harry ! " and Grace rung the bell violently. 
 Small things are matters of mirth where hearts are merry, 
 nd the laugh against poor Grace had not had time to sub- 
 ide, when a sad little face was thrust in at the door. 
 
 " Nannie, bring ' Mittah Ushil ' a pie — a whole one, mind, 
 or he is near starving. Excuse me, Mary; I should not 
 iresume to play mistress of the house, but in an extreme case 
 ike this. Try that apple, Harry. It may serve your turn 
 ill the pie comes." 
 
 " I am sorry to see you so discomposed, Grace," remarked 
 Russel, with provoking coolness ; " but since you so earnestly 
 liesire it — since," and here he glanced archly at his brothers, 
 !* since it is perfectly natural that you should desire it, we 
 ivill put the story over till another evening." 
 ' " What is it, Grace ? " whispered Lizzy. 
 ! " Oh, a foolish thing. He makes half of it, and it was 
 ridiculous enough to begin with. A silly fellow managed to 
 get a fine joke upon me. It was nothing at all — but if Frank 
 Should hear of it, I should have no peace." 
 I " Nannie looks sad, poor child ! " remarked Mary. " She 
 ^as been telling me to-day that her father is in trouble again." 
 ' That fellow is incorrigible ! " said Russel. 
 ' What has happened to him ? " inquired Grace. 
 ' He is confined in the county jail, as a vagrant," was 
 Mary's reply. 
 
 " I do believe he might be made to reform, if proper means 
 twere taken. Nannie came to me to-day, with streaming 
 jeyes. and said, if the gentlemen would but procure his release 
 I'this once more, she would coax him to be good and industri- 
 lous. She was sure he would n't drink any more, when he 
 [Isaw how badly she felt — and it was all the drink, she kne^v 
 i.it was. Her father was too kind to do Avrong when he was 
 !in his right mind. I wish something could be done." 
 [ " Something must be done," said Grace, earnestly. " We 
 :know the good that is in Dick Grouse better than police- 
 officers, and a seat at the table beside Nannie, in your kitch- 
 en, Mary, would do more to reform him than all the jails in 
 
70 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 the county. You will sec him, Harry, in the morning, will 
 you not ? " 
 
 " If 1 coLilJ be as sanguine as you and Mary. However, , 
 the poor wretch must not be given up. We shall be obliged 1 1 
 to allow him another trial — a half-dozen more, very likely." ! 
 
 " If you could get upon some plan, Harry, to employ him, i 
 and have him under your immediate care — " 
 
 " It would be a somewhat troublesome care, Grace." 
 
 " I mean, keep him where he will believe you have a con- •, 
 stunt interest in him. Then I might take pains to drop a i! 
 word to him, now and then, which would have some influence. .' 
 I can't believe that he is past hope yet." 
 
 " I believe," said Sommers, " no man is past hope, as long 
 as proper means are taken to reform him." 
 
 " Then if the means be all, consider Dick Grouse a useful 
 citizen hereafter ; for with such a superabundance of means 
 as we have here, neglecting him would be a greater sin than 
 any he ever committed." 
 
 " If means were all, there would be few vicious people 
 within the sphere of your influence, Grace," exclaimed her 
 husband, with affectionate pride. " At any rate, Sommers, 
 we will give your theory a trial, and if Grace fail — " 
 
 " She will not fail," returned the brother; "such as she 
 never do." 
 
 " Good! And now, Ned, as a kind of 'a reward for that > 
 handsome compliment, you shall have the story of the foot- • 
 man. Don't 'oh, Harry' me, Grace; I will leave the em-? 
 bellishments for another day. You must know that a certaia| 
 nobleman whom we met abroad, had a servant so much given 'i 
 to his cups, that he could not be trusted. He was a good, , 
 honest fellow, and a favorite withal, and so every means had ' 
 been used to reform him that could be devised, but without suc- 
 cess. The worst of it was, he had an aged grandmother and 
 blind sister entirely dependent on him ; and when in his sober 
 senses, he would plead their cause so eloquently that it was 
 impossible not to be moved by his entreaties. At last, how- 
 ever, his master became exasperated, and refused to keep him 
 
OKACE LIA'DKN. 71 
 
 another day. Grace happened to be a witness to this scene, 
 and became a sort of sponsor for the fellow." 
 
 ' That is all, Harry ; only he never became intoxicated 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, if you could have seen him, drunk as he was, blub 
 bering away on her — not hand but foot I We all laughed — " 
 
 " Ah, Harry ! All those pocket-handkerchiefs were not 
 hurried out so suddenly to cover nothing but a laugh. The 
 truth is, there were tears in more eyes than mine ; and well 
 there might be, for the poor fellow's gratitude would have 
 stirred up the very stones to feeling." 
 
 " I never saw a scene more ludicrously pathetic, and what 
 with weeping and what with laughing, the drunken footman 
 had the honor of producing quite a sensation. But it seems 
 that Grace was not altogether satisfied with this demonstra- 
 tion, and so — " 
 
 " You are too bad, Harry ! " 
 
 " And so she took her opportunity to draw a promise from 
 him, and the pledge was sealed by a ring, which he was to 
 wear until he had broken his word. Afterwards, whenever 
 she met him, at the house of his master or in the public 
 street, he would bow low, as though again in search of the 
 lady's foot, and hold up the finger with the ring upon it. At 
 first, we paid no attention to it ; but after a while, Grace 
 began to blush — " 
 
 " You looked so comically — " 
 
 " And you so confused ! Oh, Grace, you ought to thank 
 me for giving the story such a favorable version." 
 
 " I do, Harr}-- ; for it is the first time that you have told it 
 correctly, and I was not quite sure before that — that — " 
 
 " That I was not jealous of the poor footman, eh ? " 
 
 " That you thought I did right." 
 
 " You never do wro7ig, Grace I " 
 
 " And never did since she was a little baby in my arms," 
 broke ia the tremulous voice of grandmother. " Abby told 
 me, on her dying bed, that Grace would be a blessing to the 
 family, and she told mc true." 
 
72 GRACE LINDEN. 
 
 " True ! true ! " repeated Mr. Linden, in the deep tones 
 of emotion. 
 
 Lizzy's arm was twined around her sister, their two hearts 
 beating together ; a large round tear-drop stole silently down 
 the manly cheek of the brother ; and the proud husband bent 
 his eloquent eyes on her who was for the moment the focus 
 of all eyes, in deeper, holier admiration than ever stirred the 
 pulses of an unwedded lover. 
 
V3 
 
 CLINGING TO EARTH. 
 
 DO not let me die ! the earth is bright, 
 And I am earthly, so I love it well ; 
 
 Though heaven is holier, all replete with light, 
 Yet I am frail, and with frail things would dwelL 
 
 1 cannot die ! the flowers of earthly love 
 
 Shed their rich fragrance on a kindred heart ; 
 There may be purer, brighter flowers above, 
 But yet with these 't would be too hard to part. 
 
 I dream of heaven, and well I love these dreams, 
 They scatter sunlight on my varying way ; 
 
 But 'mid the clouds of earth are priceless gleams 
 Of brightness, and on earth let me stay. 
 
 It is not that my lot is void of gloom. 
 
 That sadness never circles round my heart; 
 
 Nor that I fear the darkness of the tomb, 
 That I would never from the earth depart. 
 
 *T is that I love the world — its cares, its sorrows. 
 Its bounding hopes, its feelings fresh and warm. 
 
 Each cloud it wears, and every light it borrows. 
 Loves, wishes, fears, the sunshine and the storm ; 
 
 I love them all : but closer still the loving 
 
 Twine with my being's cords and make my life ; 
 
 And while within this sunlight I am mo\'ing, 
 I well can bide the storms of worldly strife. 
 
 Then do not let me die ! for earth is bright, 
 And I am earthly, so I love it well — 
 
 Heaven is a land of holiness and light, 
 
 But I am frail, and with the frail would dwell. 
 1 
 
74 
 
 ASPIRING TO HEAVEN. 
 
 Yes, let me die ! Am I of spirit-birth, 
 
 And shall I linger here where spirits fell, 
 Loving the stain they cast on all of earth ? 
 
 make me pure, with pure ones e'er to dwell! 
 
 'Tis sweet to die ! The flowers of earthly love, 
 (Fair, frail, spring blossoms) early droop and die 
 
 But all their fragrance is exhaled above, 
 Upon our spirits evermore to lie. 
 
 Life is a dream, a bright but fleeting dream, 
 
 1 can but love ; but then my soul awakes, 
 And from the mist of earthliness a gleam 
 
 Of heavenly light, of truth immortal, breaks. 
 
 I shrink not from the shadows sorrow flings 
 Across my pathway ; nor from cares that rise 
 
 In every foot-print ; for each shadow brings 
 Sunshine and rainbow as it glooms and flies. 
 
 But heaven is dearer. There I haA^e my treasure . 
 
 There angels fold in love their snowy wings ; 
 There sainted lips chant in celestial measure. 
 
 And spirit fingers stray o'er heav'n-wrought strings. 
 
 There loving eyes are to the portals straying ; 
 
 There arms extend, a wanderer to fold ; 
 There waits a dearer, holier One, arraying 
 
 His oion in spotless robes and crowns of gold. 
 
 Then let me die. My spirit longs for heaven, 
 
 In that pure bosom evermore to rest ; 
 But, if to labor longer here be given, 
 
 "Father, thy will be done !" and I am blest. 
 
7h 
 
 UNDER HILL COTTAGE. 
 
 Nay, reader mine, it is all a mistake, all — Fanny Forester 
 could not breathe (for a long time) in New York or Albany, 
 or any otlier pavement-cribbed spot of earth, that men seem 
 to have leased of the Hand that made it, to torture into unnat- 
 ural shapes for their own undoing-. No, no ! Give her 
 
 " the fresh green wood, 
 
 The forest's fretted aisles, 
 And leafy domes above them bent, 
 
 And solitude, 
 So eloquent ! 
 Mocking the varied skill that 's blent 
 
 In art's most gorgeous piles — " 
 
 Give her this, and " other things to accord," and then — a fig 
 for all town attractions ! 
 
 Wouldst see, sympathetic public, the little nestling-place, 
 almost in the wilderness, to which ' Bel ' Forester's country 
 cousin is most warmly Avelcomcd after a half-year's absence ^ 
 Then turn thy myriad-footed locomotives thitherward, (forest- 
 ward, I mean,) as soon as the swelling buds begin to burst, iu 
 the spring-time, and the odor of fresh turf and apple-blossoms 
 is o;it upon the air. Nay, straighten that curl in the lip, and 
 drop the uplifted eye-brow. What if it be a simple spot ? 
 Simplicity is a rare thing, now-a-days ; and the people of the 
 great world have a wondrous liking for Avhat is rare. jMorc- 
 over, I doubt if they had purer dews, or softer airs, or brighter 
 waters, whtere the Euphrates tinkled the first note of time, 
 and the breath was borne to the lips of our mother upon an 
 angel's wing. I am not sure that there are any angels here ; 
 but the flowers sometimes have a look to them that makes me 
 afraid to break their stems ; and there are moments when it 
 
76 UNDERHILL COTTAGE. 
 
 would require infinite daring to toss a pebble into the brook ; 
 for who can tell but it might hush one of those voices thai 
 sing to me in the holy solitude ? The trees, too, have a 
 strange lovingness, leaning over the brook protectingly, and 
 shadowing the little violets, as many a high spirit stoops to 
 watch over a poor human blossom. Oh ! there are beating 
 pulses in the trees, and I love them, because I know there is 
 a Great Heart somewhere, that keeps them all in motion. 
 
 Perhaps But you shall not be told all the things that 
 
 have been whispered in my ear by those fresh-lipped leaves, 
 when not a mortal foot was nearer than the far-off road ; 
 though feet enow were tripping it over the grass blades, and 
 a listener sat perched on every spray. Page on page of spirit- 
 lore have I gathered there ; but I have closed the book now, 
 and " clasped it with a clasp." That is my wealth, and I am 
 a miser. 
 
 Come to Alderbrook, I say, in the spring time, for the 
 crackle of the wood fire, by which I am writing, might be a 
 music which would scarce please you ; and, sooth to say, our 
 winter cheer offers little that is inviting to a pleasure-seeker. 
 It is well to take to the turf when you reach the toll-gate at 
 the foot of the hill ; for the road has a beautiful green margni 
 to it, grateful to feet sick of the dust of a day's ride. It is 
 not a difficult walk to the top, as I well know ; having climbed 
 it a score of times every year, since first I chased a playful 
 little racer of a squirrel along the crooked fence, fully per- ; 
 suaded that there was some sudden way of taming it, not- • 
 withstanding its evident scorn of the peeled nut, which I hela j 
 coaxingly between my thumb and fore-finger. High hilk-, , 
 skirted by forests, are rising on the right; and on the left, is 
 a slope, terminating in a deep gorge, through which the little < 
 brook tinkles, as though myriads of fairy revellers tripped it j 
 there, to the music of their own silver bells. Perched on the ; 
 top of the hill, is a tall, weather-painted house, of a contracted j 
 make ; though, like some people, whose mental dimensions ; 
 have been narrowed, with a very smart, uppish air about it ; 
 and fronting it, away down in a deep, wild ravine, is an old, , 
 
UNDERBILL COTTAGE. I < 
 
 moss-growTi saw-mill. It has been forsaken this many a long 
 year ; the wheel is broken, and the boards are rotting away ; 
 but yet it is verily believed by many, that the old saw still 
 uses its rusty teeth o' nights, and that strange, unholy guests, 
 keep wassail there, at the expense of a poor mortal long since 
 mouldering in his shroud. Alas I for thee, old Jake Gawes- 
 ley I It was a fearful thing to raise such a pile of worldly 
 possessions between thyself and humanity ! How gladly 
 woiildst thou, in that last hour, have bought, with the whole 
 of them, a single love-softened hand to soothe, with such a 
 tourli as love only knows, thy throbbing temple I Oh! it is 
 a horrible thing to turn from the world, and bear not away 
 till' pure passport of a mourner's tear ! Thy grave has never 
 
 watered by the dews distilled from a human heart, like 
 iower-planted ones around it; the small grey stone at its 
 
 is broken, and no one cares to replace it ; and the thistle 
 
 - to the wind above thee. It is said that this saw-mill 
 
 was erected on an orphan's rights ; and men are as fond of 
 
 the doctrine of retribution, as though they never sinned. 
 
 Hence the superstition. 
 
 You will see, from this point, the little village of Alder- 
 brook, so near, that j'^ou may count every house in it. There 
 are two pretty churches ; one on the top of the rise called 
 " The Hill," the other nestled down in a very sweet spot on 
 " The Flat." Then Ave have, besides, the seminary made 
 memorable by poor Jem Fletcher ; a district school-house, 
 painted red ; and a milliner's shop, painted yellow ; three 
 stores, two taverns, (one with a sign-post, once tantalizing to 
 my young eyes, so candy-like did it look in its coat of white, 
 with a wisp of crimson about it,) a printing office, in which 
 the " Alderbrook Sun " rises of a Wednesday morning ; a 
 temple of Vulcan, and two or three other establishments, 
 sacred to the labors of our native artisans. 
 
 As you pass along, you will find the road lined with berry- 
 bushes and shad-trees, now (it is spring, you know) white 
 with their bride-like clusters of delicate blossoms ; and many 
 a thick-shaded maple and graceful elm will wisjx that you 
 7* 
 
78 UNDEKHILL COTTAGE. 
 
 had waited till midsummer, when they might have been of 
 service to you. Very hospitable trees are those about Alder- 
 brook. 
 
 You are within a quarter of a mile of the village ; and 
 now the fence on the left diverges from the roadside, making 
 a pretty backward curve, as though inviting you to follow it 
 down the hill. A few steps farther, and you look down upon 
 the coziesii of little cottages, snuggled close in the bosom of 
 the green slope, with its white walls and nice white lattice- 
 work, looking, amid those budding vines, all folding their 
 arms about it, like a living sleeper under the especial protec- 
 tion of Dame Nature. Do you feel no desire to step from the 
 road where you stand, to the tip of the chimney, Avhich seems I 
 so temptingly near, and thence to plant your foot on the bniw 
 of the hill over the brook? It may be that you are a sol •- 
 minded individual, and never had any break-neck propensii 
 may be you never longed to lose your balance on the wrung 
 side of a three-story window, or take a ride on a water-wheel, 
 or a sail on a sheet of foam down Niagara, or even as much 
 as put your fingers between the two teethed rollers of a wool-i 
 carder. There are people in the world so common-place aa 
 to have no taste for " deeds of lofty daring." 
 
 There are eglantines and roses grouped together by the 
 windows ; and a clematis wreathes itself, fold on fold, and 
 festoon above festoon, in wasteful luxuriance, about the trellis 
 that fences in the little old-fashioned portico. You wondei 
 how any horse-vehicle ever gets down there, and may think 
 the descent rather dangerous ; but it is accomplished with 
 poifect ease. A carriage cannot turn about, however, and is 
 obliged to pass up on the other side. The house is very low 
 in front, and has an exceedingly timid, modest bearing, as :g 
 sometimes the case even with houses ; but when you see ;1. 
 from the field-side, it becomes quite a different affair. The 
 view from within is of fields and woodland ; with now and 
 then a glittering roof or speck of white peering through the 
 trees between us and the. neighboring village. The backi 
 parlor window looks out upon a little garden, just below it ; 
 
UNDERHILL COTTAGE. 79 
 
 ami beyond is a beautiful meadow, sloping back down to the 
 brook. From this window you have a view full of wild 
 sweetness ; for nature has been prodigal of simple gifts here ; 
 land we have never been quite sure enough that art would do 
 [better by us, to venture on improvements. So the spotted 
 lily rears its graceful stem down in the valley, and the gay 
 ,*phlox spreads out its crimson blossoms undisturbed. There 
 khe wild plum blushes in autumn with its worthless fruit ; 
 rthe gnarled birch looks down on the silver patches adorning 
 its shaggy coat, quite unconscious of ugliness ; and the alders, 
 !the dear, friendly alders, twist their speckled limbs into any 
 jshape they choose, till they reach the height that best pleases 
 khem, and then they droop — little brown tassels pendant from 
 each tiny stem — over the bright laugher below, as though 
 ready, every dissembler of them, to take an oath that they 
 grew only for that worship. There are stumps a-plenty, 
 rking where the forest used to be ; and growing from the 
 decayed roots of each, you will be sure to find a raspberry, 
 purple currant, or gooseberry bush, or at least a wild col- 
 umbine, whose scarlet robe and golden heart make it quite 
 welcome. We like the stumps for the sake of their pretty 
 adornments, and so they have let them stand. (Would you 
 know who we and they are ? come, then, at evening ; you 
 shall be most cordially welcomed ; for, the kindly forbearance 
 with which you have looked upon the first simple efforts of 
 e there beloved, has made you quite the friend.) 
 Beyond the brook, rises a hill, bordered on one side by a 
 wild of berry bushes, and on the other, by broken rocks, with 
 little wizard of a stream, leaping, like an embodied spirit of 
 mischief, from fragment to fragment, with a flash, and a clear 
 Ijsilvery laugh, to which, I believe, the inhabitants of Under- 
 ] ihill Cottage owe the gay bubble dancing on the brim of every 
 n heart. The hill (Strawberry Hill we call it, and if you had 
 j I come to us last midsummer, you should have knovm the 
 ii wherefore) is capped with hemlocks, with sprinklings of 
 ;; beech, ash, elm and maple, that, in autumn-time, make an 
 i; exceedingly gay head-dress for it; and, peeping out from 
 
80 UNDERiriLL COTTAGE. 
 
 their midst, stands the log-cabin of an Indian woman, who ia 
 said to have been a hundred years old when she wove my 
 first blossom-stained rattle-box. Last year she went aboul 
 with her thick blanket, which passed over her shiny hair, 
 fastened under the chin, and surmounted by an old woollen 
 hat ; and, on her arm, a huge basket, inside of which was n 
 smaller one, and a still smaller one in that, until they dimin- 
 ished to the size of a fitting shell for the nest of a humming- 
 bird. But now, sadly do we miss the little curl of silver that 
 used to rise so gracefully above the trees ; for the log-dwelling 
 is deserted, and its age-worn owner sleeps in the grave-yard. 
 Dear old Polly ! many a son of ambition, with his laurels on 
 his brovv', will be laid in his cofiin, crowds trooping ostenra- 
 tiously after, with fewer tears to embalm his ashes in, than 
 thy humble virtues won for thee. 
 
 A little way from the bridge, is an immense elm tree,! 
 draped in green down to the very roots ; and just where the 
 shadow of its massive top falls heaviest at noon-day, is a 
 little — for want of a more descriptive name, I must call it a 
 bower. Dear was the boyish hand that tied those branches 
 together, and trained the wild grape-vine over all, because a 
 little sister sometimes wished for a dreaming-place more 
 exclusive than the old ledge on the hill-side, or the shadow 
 of the black cherry-tree in the meadow — dear was that 
 kindly hand ; and none the less dear is it now that it may 
 never again rest upon the head it has toyed with hours and 
 hours together, long before the mildew of disappointment 
 had spread itself upon our hearth-stone. These days are 
 passed forever and forever ; but bless God for the rich memo- 
 ries clinging to every shrub, and tree, and hillock ! What is 
 there in all the gay visions dancing before us, one-half so 
 dearly grateful as a single love-glance, a word, a smile, a 
 tear, a touch of the hand, a kindly act, embalmed in the heart 
 when it is young, to keep in flower the spot where it lies, 
 until it has ceased its wearied pulsations ? Hope is a butter- 
 fly, and Imagination loves to chase it from flower to flower, 
 and from glitter to glitter ; but Memory is an angel, that 
 
UNDERHILL COTTAGE. 81 
 
 I ^omes in the holy night-time ; and, folding its wings beside 
 las, forges silently those golden links, which, as years wear 
 I fway, connect the spirit, however world-worn, with its first 
 "reshness. But I am dreaming, when I should not. 
 ; Come in the spfing-time to Alderbrook, dear friend of 
 nine, whatever name thou bearest; come \vhen the little 
 lirds are out, careering, stark mad with joyousness, on their 
 i;iddy wings; when the air is softest, and the skies are 
 [|irightcst; come, and I will cut the nib from my pen, owning, 
 yith a right good will, its clumsy inefficiency ; and then, 
 mid bursting buds and out-gushing music, thou shall have 
 ar less reason than now, to complain of the dulness of ihy 
 
82 
 
 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 We have our excitements at Alderbrook, as well as in you 
 great Babel of " brotherly love," (love like that of the firj 
 brothers, I have heard it insinuated,) but the doctrine of caus 
 and effect has a slight twist-alout between the two places 
 which might puzzle a philosopher. In your great city,; 
 great cause produces a small effect ; in our small village, i 
 small cause produces a great effect. Does a barn or a blacii, 
 smith's shop take fire at Alderbrook, the whole village — meii; 
 v.'omen and children — are up and out ; and it furnishes mat 
 ter for conversation at every tea-party during a year, at least 
 With you, a whole street may burn down, while you li 
 quietly snoozing in your beds, or mentally denounce " tha 
 noisy engine," between naps ; and in less than a week th 
 whole affair passes from the minds of all but the suflerers ; 
 You may see a dozen hearses move by in one day, and neve 
 be sobered by it ; is there a death in our village, the shadov 
 falls on every hearthstone, and a long, solemn train of weep \ 
 ing mourners (the mourning town) leave their various avo ; 
 cations and amusements, and go to lay the sleeper in the dust 
 Oh ! let me die in the country, where I shall not fall, like thi 
 single leaf in the forest, unheeded ; where those who love mi , 
 need not mask their hearts to meet the careless multitude ■ 
 and strive as a duty to forget. Bury me in the country, 
 amid the prayers of the good and the tears of the loving; no 
 in the dark, damp vault, away from the sweet-scented air ant: 
 the cheerful sunshine ; but in the open field, among the flow 
 ers I loved and cherished while living. Then — 
 
 " If around my place of sleep 
 The friends I love should come to weep, 
 
 They might not haste to go ; 
 Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, 
 Should keep them lingering by my tomb." 
 
I LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. S3 
 
 But to return to our contrasts. A ruffian meets a stranger 
 . .n a dark alley, and stabs him to the heart, for the sake of 
 } Delf ; another whips his Avife to death, or perhaps butchers a 
 i rtrhole family. The lawyers and paragraphists are thereby 
 "urnished with employment — for which they are of course 
 .haukful — and, except in extreme cases, no one else cares, 
 {t is quite different with us. A drunken Indian murdered a 
 svhite man, at Alderbrook, some twenty years ago, and paid 
 'Jhe penalty of his crime, near the foot of the slope, at the 
 West end of the village, while thousands on thousands stood 
 japing at the terrible spectacle. This tale, whispered to me 
 n the dark, furnished one of the gloomy visions which used 
 ;o haunt my childhood ; and I would as soon have taken the 
 rip that Orpheus did, as go within a quarter of a mile of 
 the spot where old Antoine was hung." The same story, 
 in all its horrible and disgusting details, is to this day re- 
 peated and re-repeated by many a gossip of our village, 
 (^hile jaws drop, and eyes stand out with terror, and every 
 stirring leaf or quivering shadow causes a start of alarm ; for 
 ,t is said that the troubled ghost of old Antoine still walks 
 ap and down the forests of Alderbrook. With you, picked 
 pockets are such every-day and every-hour things, as to 
 excite no attention at all, except perhaps a laugh now and 
 then, when the feat has been performed with unusual adroit- 
 but if an axe disappear from a door at Alderbrook, or 
 couple of yards of linen are taken from the grass in the 
 ight-time, the whole village is in commotion, and wonders. 
 and guesses, and sagacious nods and mysterious innuendoes, 
 constitute, for a month at least, the staple of social intercourse. 
 I You will not think strange, then, when I tell you of the 
 flwonderful excitement that has fairly swept every other topic 
 under with us, for more than six months past. It has been 
 suspected for a long time, that a band of thieves existed some- 
 where in our quiet county ; but such crimes are so unusual 
 here, that no one likes to be the first to give them a name ; 
 so, though every washerwoman put her wet linen under lock 
 .and key at dewfall, and stables were double-locked and shops 
 
84 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 double-guarded, the careful ones only shook their heads mys 
 teriously, as though something lay at the bottom of their 
 knowledge, which they might tell, but that they were too 
 
 generous, while others scouted at the idea of county's 
 
 harbormg such rogues. At last, however, some who had lost 
 to an uncomfortable degree, began to speak more plainly, and 1 
 incredulity wavered. Finally, one night toward the lattei' 
 end of last May, a farm-house in the neighborhood was fired, 
 obviously (that is, it was obvious when too late) for the pur- 
 pose of drawing away the villagers, while the principal shop 
 ill Alderbrook was despoiled of its most valuable goods. 
 Such a daring deed ! said everybody. It was now supposed 
 that the villany must have been carried on for years, andi! 
 many persons who like a large story, declared that the band 
 must consist of at least fifty men. There had not been such 
 an excitement here since the execution of poor old Antoiiie. 
 One man was arrested on suspicion, and flattered and threat- 
 ened by turns, in the hope of bringing him to confess. At 
 last, he promised to do this, and betray his associates, pro- 
 vided he could be assured of his own safety. This was the 
 latest news which reached us one evening toward midnight, 
 and so we concluded to pillow our curiosity until morning. 
 
 " They have diskivered the robbers, at last," said old Uncle 
 Felix Graw, hurrying, all out of breath, into our breakfast 
 parlor, and throwing his ungainly figure into one chair, while 
 he stretched his long legs to another. " They have diskiv- 
 ered the robbers, neighbor Forester, every one of 'em ! " 
 
 Down went forks and up went eye-brows in a twinkling, 
 and old Uncle Felix was the focus of all regards, much to 
 the detrnnent of the smoking muffins which Nancy had just 
 placed on the table. 
 
 " What ! how ! who are they. Uncle Felix ? Nobody be- 
 longing to Alderbrook, I hope." 
 
 " Not exactly, though the village has just escaped by the 
 skin of the teeth ; Jem White is in for it." 
 
 " What ! that scape-grace of a son of honest Jacky ? Poor 
 old fellow ! this will be worse for him than digging in ' the 
 mud, with the ' rheumatis ' in his shoulder." 
 
LITTLE MOLLY WIUTL. 85 
 
 *' The old man never has had very comforlable Umes with 
 fern," said Uncle Felix. " He is the laziest fellow this side 
 pf purgatory, bat I never thought he would be caught in such 
 i sorry piece of business as this. They say it will go hard 
 with the rascals — burglary and arson both." 
 
 ' The old story of idleness and crime. Poor Jacky ! I pity 
 him ! " 
 
 ' Everybody pities him ; and for one, if I could catch Jem 
 White, I 'd give him a thrashing that he would n't forget 
 jwhen he was gray, and let him go, the scoundrel ! for his 
 father's sake." 
 
 ' Then he has not been taken ? " 
 
 ' No, but there is no doubt he will be. Dick Holman, 
 (the cringing sarpent ! I could pound him to pomicc-stone, for 
 [ have no idee but he druv on the whole lot,) Dick Holuian 
 bas blabbed, turned state's evidence, to save himself, and 
 posed the whole of 'em. Great good will the state get 
 from such a rascally knave as he is ; and a great honor is it 
 to the laws, to pay a premium for such abominable sneaking 
 meanness ! I would n't mind to see th? rest in iron wrist- 
 bands, (barring Jemmy White, for his father's sake,) but 
 Dick Holman, the mean, cowardly villain ! hanging is too 
 good for him." 
 
 " How many have they taken 1 " 
 
 " Three, last night. Dick Holman helped them hide, and 
 so betrayed them. One has been traced as far as Albany, 
 and another to Rochester. They will get clear, I dare say ; 
 biit Jem White has skulked aWay by himself, and nobody 
 knows where he is. There were only seven on 'em." 
 
 * Do you know where White was last seen ? " 
 
 'He was sneaking about, Saturday evening; he even had 
 ihe barefacedness to go into Willard's grocery and get a glass 
 of grog. Some pretend to be sure that they saw him yester- 
 day, but folks make a thousand mistakes in such cases ; but 
 at any rate, it is pretty certain he must be somewhere in 
 the neighborhood yet. The old 'Sun' press worked hard, I 
 tell you, last night ; and, before this time, the handbills are 
 
S6 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 scattered far and wide, so that he can't get away. And ] 
 would n't give an oat-straw for his hiding-place, with Did 
 Holman to scent him out. He was prowling about after him 
 before sunrise this morning, and trust him for a blood-hound, 
 any day. Ugh I if they should let such a chap as that gc 
 scot-free, I, for one, should rather fancy speaking to Judge , 
 Lynch about it." 
 
 No wonder that honest Felix Graw should be exasperated 
 against the traitorous knave, who, after leading all the idle 
 yo'^ng fellows that would listen to him into iniquity, turned 
 (UViberately about, and, to save himself, delivered his victims 
 into the hands of justice. Dick Holman had been for year= 
 the pest of the neighborhood — one of those dirty, cringing ^ 
 plausible villains, whom everybody despises, but upon whom 
 it is difficult to fix any crime. When, however, it was dis- 
 covered that a regular system, of robbery had been carried on 
 throughout the county, probably for several years, suspicion 
 busied herself at once with the name of Dick Holman; and 
 before he had time to concoct any plan for escape, before lie 
 even knew himself suspected, he was seized and brought, by 
 means of threats and promises, to divulge all he knew. And 
 a more rotten-hearted traitor never existed; for now that his 
 own precious person was in danger, there was no indignity . 
 to which he would not submit, and no act in which he would 
 not gladly engage, (even to hunting for his most reluctant 
 pupil, poor Jem White,) in order to buy himself consideration. 
 As for young White, he received but little sympathy except ou 
 his father's account ; but old honest Jacky was, in his way, 
 a great favorite at Alderbrook. There was scarcely a young 
 man in the village for whom he had not conjured whistles 
 out of r. slip of bass-wood, in days gone by ; and scarce an i 
 old one but owed him, poverty-stricken as he was, some gen- ' 
 erous neighborly turn. Then it was from honest Jacky that 
 we always learned where the blackberries grew thickest ; and 
 he brought wild-wood plants for our gardens, and supplied 
 the old ladies with wintergreens and sweet flag roots to 
 munch of a Sunday. But it was scarce these little acts 
 
LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. S7 
 
 which made old Jacky While so universally respected. He 
 was the kindest and simplest of old men, kind to man and 
 beast ; and if but a worm lay in his path, he would " tread 
 Mide and let the reptile live." Toil, toil, toil, from morning 
 till night, and from year to year — toil, toil, toil was the lot 
 of honest Jacky ; but not a Avord of complaint ever escaped 
 from his lips ; he was contented and cheerful, and scrupu- 
 lously honest. Fortune had treated him most scurvily; for 
 notwithstanding his patient, unremitting industry, he had 
 ' Hever known at one breakfast what should serve him for the 
 'next. After all, however, I do not know as it is quite be- 
 'coming for me to rail at fortune, since he never did ; and, 
 moreover, it is possible that the artless old man was as much 
 ; lin the fault about the matter as the partial and fickle goddess. 
 • ; Days went by, and nothing was known of Jemmy White. 
 iSo confident was everybody of the impossibility of his having 
 I made his escape, that parties were still out in search of him 
 ii — and the zeal of Dick Holman was indefatigable. The 
 I 'village was still in a state of feverish excitement, and the 
 [ i" stores " were thronged with people from the remote parts of 
 Ithe town, who flocked in to trade and hear the news. 
 I I was out in my little back garden one bright morning, 
 I spoiling the doings of the wanton summer wind, which had 
 'had quite a frolic among my treasures the night before ; when 
 i old Bridget came to the door on tiptoe, with her finger on her 
 I ;iip, and her gown, scarce full enough or rich, enough to make 
 I imucli of a rustle, gathered up in her hand. " Fanny, Fan- 
 I 'ny ! 3t ! " Bridget spoke in a suppressed whisper, showing 
 I 'all her teeth in the operation, as though, by drawing her lips 
 i far back, she might give the words egress with less noise. 
 " What now, Bridget?" 
 
 " Hush, Fanny, dear ! 'st !" and putting the fore-finger of 
 one hand to her lip, she beckoned with the other, making a 
 motion with the elbow joint very much like that of a jack- 
 ; knife with a spring at the back. 
 
 ; Bridget is always having secrets, and shaking her head, 
 and looking solemnly wise, and finding strange mysteries, 
 
S8 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 which to everybody else are as clear as the sunlight ; so 1 
 may be pardoned if I did wait to tie up a sweet pea, and give j 
 three pretty rose-buds a more desirable position among the I 
 wet leaves. 
 
 " Fanny, darling ! " was again breathed from the opened 
 doorway. 
 
 " Yes, Bridget !" 
 
 " Hush, dear ! 'st ! " and Bridget beckoned more earnestly 
 than ever. There was no resisting such importunity, so for- 
 ward Fanny wer.t, fully expecting to find a chicken with two 
 hearts, or a biscuit that had hopped out of the oven mysteri- 
 ously, or (an every-day occurrence) a churn fuU of cream thati; 
 needed a horse-shoe in it. 
 
 " Look, Fanny, look ! is n't she pretty ? " 
 
 Pretty ! Old Bridget has some taste at least. Beautiful 
 as a vision of Paradise ! I held in my breath while gazing, as 
 my good old nurse had done, and very probably kept my lips 
 out of its way precisely in her fashion. There is always a 
 shade of grey in the passage leading to the kitchen; and 
 here, in the sober light, sat a little child sleeping. One arm 
 was straightened, showing the pretty dimple at the elbow, the ' 
 fat little hand supporting her weight upon the floor, while the , 
 other grasped, as though by way of a balance, a basket of 
 green lettuce, which had wilted during her long walk in the 
 morning sun. The shoulder of the supporting arm had '. 
 slipped up from the torn calico frock, and its polished white- | 
 ness contrasted beautifully with the sun-embrowned cheek. 
 The light golden hair lay in waves, pushed far back from her 
 round forehead, and was gathered up into a knot, half curls, . 
 half tangles, behind, probably to keep it out of her way ; but ' 
 carelessly as it was disposed of, it could scarce have been as ^ 
 beautiful in any other fashion. Dim as the light was, a beam ' 
 had contrived to find its way to the curve of her head, and ' 
 left a dash of brightness on it, no ill omen to the wearied little 
 stranger. Long lashes lay against the bright cheek, all spark- 
 ling in crystal ; for the tear that could not climb over it, had ' 
 turned the little valley about the eye into a well — a very i 
 
M LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 89 
 
 pretty one for truth to lie in. The child had probably wept 
 berself to sleep ; but her little spirit had gone to a land of 
 brighter things now, for the smile that curved her beautiful 
 lips had none of the premature sadness bathing the shut eye- 
 lids. There were broad gaps in the clumsy shoes that lay 
 beside her, for she had relieved herself of the incumbrance, 
 and her chubby little feet, stained with the purple flowers 
 which she had crushed in her morning's ramble, were cooling 
 themselves against the bare floor. 
 
 " It is nobody but little Molly White, Miss," said Nancy, 
 
 I .coming forward, with the pot-lid in her hand. Nancy's voice 
 is none of the softest, and again Bridget's teeth and tongue 
 .were put in requisition, and her lips parted to emit the expos- 
 
 ijtulatory " 'st, 'st I " 
 
 Ij " And who is little IMoUy White ? " 
 
 I I " Don't you remember Molly White, who used to go trip- 
 'iping by every day last summer, as merry as a bird, to soil 
 
 |blackberries to the villagers, never seeming tired, though she 
 |had to walk three miles across the woods, and pick her berries 
 jbesides — poor thing! But I remember now it was when 
 lyou were in the city, at your Uncle Forester's, you know ; 
 .for you did n't come home till the plums were all gone, and 
 ithe leaves were pretty much off the trees." 
 
 ' Does she belong in any way to old Jacky White, who 
 lives in the Avoods beyond the hill ? " 
 
 " The very same. Miss. Old Jacky's last wife was a 
 young woman, and sort of delicate like, and she died, poor 
 thing, when Molly was but little more than a baby. She 
 always said though that she did n't suffer nor want for any- 
 thing, for the children were all amazing good to her ; and 
 Jem, bad as he is now, nursed her almost as carefully as a 
 woman. Poor thing ! she would feel sorrowful enough if she 
 knew what a dreadful end he had come to, for she loved him 
 as she did her own blessed child." 
 
 " I have seen pretty MoUj"- many a time when she was a 
 baby. She seems heavy-hearted enough now, poor child ! 
 we must try to cheer her up." 
 8* 
 
90 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 " It 's of no use, Miss ; she takes Jem's misfortune to heart 
 terribly." 
 
 " Misfortune ! But you are right, Nancy. The vicious, 
 though justice in the shape of legal officers do not hunt them 
 down, are the unfortunate of this world." 
 
 Our conversation seemed to disturb the sleeper, for sud- 
 denly her cheeks flushed, her eye-lids worked convulsively, 
 her bright lips quivered like a little bird so frightened as 
 scar;e to struggle for liberty, and the pretty arm which sup- •, 
 ported her shook beneath the weight. 
 
 " It seems cruel to wake her," said old Bridget, compas- • 
 sionately. " This is a sorry bad world for such as she is, 
 poor innocent ! " 
 
 The child seemed yet more agitated, and tossed her fat ' 
 round arms above her head, while a broken sob came strug- 
 gling forth, arid, in a voice laden with heart-ache, she ex- 
 claimed, " You shall not take him ! it was n't he that did it ! " 
 
 " Molly ! Molly ! " exclaimed Nancy. 
 
 " Mother said we must love one another when her lips were . 
 cold, and I Avill. I will love poor Jemmy. You shan't — oh, , | 
 you shan't take him away ! " 
 
 " Molly ! Molly ! " repeated Nancy, more emphatically, , 
 and shaking the child's shoulder. 
 
 " No, I will not tell ; never — never — never ! " 
 
 " Molly White ! Molly !" Nancy raised tlie child to herr 
 feet, who looked about her a few moments, in a kind of be- 
 wildered alarm, and then burst into a passion of tears, which i 
 nothing could soothe. 
 
 Poor suffering little one ! that the dregs which usually ; 
 await a sterner lip, should be upon the brim of thy beaker ! I 
 that the drop which sparkles on the surface of life's bowl, , 
 shouid be deadened in childhood's tears ! the flowers which i 
 crown it, concealing the strange mixture for a little time from ! 
 eyes like thine, fallen, withered, dead ! It was a bitter, bitter • 
 draught first presented thee by Fate, (may I miscall it — by 
 sin,) sweet Molly "White. What strange contrasts does this 
 world present ! That day so bright, so beautiful, so replete 
 
LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 91 
 
 with the evcrpvhere outgushing spirit of joyousness, and that 
 poor little heart aching with such misery as the guilty ever 
 bring to those who love them ! No wonder that old Bridget 
 and even Nancy, (blessings on their kind souls !) should be 
 strangely blinded by the gathering tears as they led the child 
 away. Throw me out, A\Tetched and friendless, on the wide 
 world, and I am not sure but I should creep to the kitchen 
 rather than the parlor, though I know that generosity, and 
 kindness, and sympathy, are the inheritance of no one condi- 
 tion in life. 
 
 It was a glorious day in the beginning of June. Beauty 
 smiled up from the earth ; beauty bent to us from the briglit 
 sky ; beauty, a delicious, all-pervading kind of beauty, which 
 often makes the spirit drunk with happiness, shone out upon 
 us everywhere. It was not a day to be wasted in-doors, when 
 the balmy airs, the warm wet skies, and the quivering life-full 
 foliage, were all wooing without ; and we have no hot pave- 
 ments to flash back the light into our faces, or cramped-up 
 streets, where the air is stifled into sickliness before it meets 
 us, at Alderbrook. The broad wavy meadow, spangled all 
 over with bright blossoms, is our magnificent thoroughfare ; 
 and when the sun shines too brilliantly the brave old trees 
 rear for us a rare canopy in the forests. The little wizard 
 stream, leaping and dancing over the rocks, to drop itself into 
 the brook at the foot of the hill, and the long cool shadows 
 lying on the grass beside the trees, each had a magic in them 
 which was quite irresistible. So I went out, and sauntered 
 dreamily ado^vn the meadow, with half-shut eyes and a deli- 
 cious sense of pleasure stealing over me, at each pressure of 
 my foot upon the yielding carpet. Crossing the -little log- 
 bridge at the foot of the slope, I picked my way among the 
 alders on the other side, close by the marge of the stream. 
 Myriads of little pearl-white blossoms bent their "sbft lips to 
 the wave •which bounded to meet them; and fside by side 
 with them, the double-bladed iris sent up its sword-shaped 
 leaves, as proudly as in its prime, though t'he bare stalks 
 which grew from its centre were all stripped of their bios- 
 
92 
 
 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 soms. The queen of the meadow stood up in its regal beauty, 
 not far from the water's edge ; further back the spotted lily 
 nodded gracefully on its curved stem, and the crimson tufts 
 of the balm-flower nestled in clusters of green shrubbery ; 
 while the narrow leaf of the willow turned out its silver lin- 
 ing, and the aspen quivered all over, like a loving heart blest 
 with its prayer, above. Beyond, tier on tier, rose galleries of 
 green, with but a step between the uppermost and heaven, all 
 radiant in the luxurious garniture of June. How glorious 
 and grand, and full of life was everything — and how my 
 nature expanded in the midst of it as it would embrace the 
 whole universe. I know there are moments on this side the 
 grave when the shackles of clay do really fall off, and our 
 spirits grow large, as though they had looked into the bound- 
 lessness of eternity, and we lift a wing with the angels. But 
 we come back again, dazzled and bewildered; for we are 
 prisoners in a very little cell, and too large a draught of 
 heaven now would not be good for us. I dallied long about 
 the brook and on the verge of the forest, seeing and dream- 
 ing ; and then I wandered on, now listening to the joyous 
 song-gushes of the crazy-hearted little Bob-o-link ; now laugh- 
 ing at the antic red squirrel, as his tiny brick-colored banner 
 whisked from fence to tree ; and now gathering handfuls of 
 the pale sweet-scented wood-violets, which follow the first frail 
 children of the spring. Then there were large banks of moss, 
 of brown, and green, and gold, all richly wrought together, 
 as by the fingers of bright lady-elves, and more elastic than 
 the most gorgeous fabrics of the Persian looms, with now and 
 then a little vine straggling over them, strung with crimson 
 berries ; the sun breaking through the closely interlaced 
 branches above in little gushes of light, which quivered as 
 they fell, and vanished and came again, as coquettishly as the 
 bright-tnr oated humming-bird, which frolicked gracefully with 
 the pink bl'ossoms of the azalia, in the hollow beyond. These 
 were interspersed with little patches of winter-green, tender 
 and spicy, of which I of course secured a plentiful supply ; 
 and clusters of; the snowy monotropa appeared at the roots of 
 
LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 93 
 
 ' trees, clear and polished and pearl-like ; and green ferns grew 
 beside old logs, half wreathed over with ivy — and everything 
 there, from the golden moss-cup to the giant tree, looking up 
 in,to heaven, shared my thoughts and love. 
 
 Then I went on, next stooping to pull from the dark loose 
 soil the long slim roots of the wild sarsaparilla ; and close 
 beside them I discovered the nest of a darling little ground 
 bird, which flew away and came back again, fluttering abou 
 most pleadingly : and so I left the graceful innocent, without 
 even taking a peep at the four speckled eggs, which probably 
 constituted its treasure. 
 
 The sun was quite low when I drew near the Sachem's 
 wood, an immense wilderness to the southeast of Alderbrook, 
 better known by sportsmen than any one else. Some poker- 
 ish story of the Indian days first gave rise to the name ; and 
 so there was a superstition connected with it which kept 
 timid people (children, at least) aloof. Moreover, old An 
 toine committed his murder there ; and it was more than 
 half suspected that some of Jake Gawsley's gold might bo 
 hidden among the jagged rocks and deep gulleys of the 
 Sachem's wood. However that might be, the mysterious pro- 
 verb that the " Sachem's wood could bring no good," had been 
 quite sufficient to prevent my young feet from tempting the 
 spirits of evil on the other side of the stump fence which 
 walled it in. But I felt some inclination now to take a peep 
 into the banned forest, and so, scaling the fantastical barrier 
 as I best might, I sprang to a bank as mossy and as bright 
 with the sunshine as any we had on the other side. The 
 air was fresh and pure, and there was a scent of wild-flowers 
 on it which made me feel quite safe; for flowers ahvays 
 betray the presence of angels. So I wandered on indolently 
 as before, now plucking a leaf, now watching dreamily the 
 shadows which were fast chasing away the sunlight, until I 
 began to suspect it quite time to return home. It was nearly 
 twilight, and I had not seen the sun go down. A few steps 
 further only, and then 1 would go ; but there was a pretty 
 silvery tinkle just ahead, which might lead to the lurkiug 
 
94 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 place of a troop of fairies. The sound proceeded from the 
 self-same little stream which trips it over the rocks to the 
 east of Strawberry-hill, and comes dancing and sparkling 
 down to the brook at the foot. It was gurgling along quite 
 gayly at the bottom of a chasm, so dark that, as I knelt on 
 the crag above, and leaned over, it was some minutes before 
 I could catch a glimpse of the silver-voiced musician. The 
 ravine was exceedingly narrow, looking as though the 
 Sachem (who was probably a giant) might have split it apart 
 with an immense hatchet; but the feat was evidently per- 
 formed a long time ago, for it was all mossed over, long 
 wreaths of green flaunted from little clefts on either side, and 
 the pretty blue-bell from the tip of its lithe stem nodded 
 smilingly to its noisy neighbor among the pebbles. I was 
 rising to go away, when a sound like the tread of some light 
 animal m.ade me pause. It came again, and then followed 
 a scrambling noise and a rustle like the bending of twigs 
 laden with foliage ; and I looked carefully about me, for I 
 might not be quite pleased with the company I should meet 
 in the Sachem's wood. This gorge must be very nearly in a 
 line with the haunted saw-mill, which is reported to be ten- 
 anted by the wandering spirit of old Jake Gawsely, and who 
 knows but the miser himself may now and then come out at 
 dew-fall to look after his concealed treasures. My view was 
 partially obstructed by a wild gooseberry bush, and when I 
 raised my head above it I saw, not the troubled spirit of a 
 dead old man, but a beautiful child, standing on the point of 
 a rock, and looking cautiously about her as though fearful of 
 being observed. It was little Molly White, and I was about 
 calling to her; when, as though satisfied with her scrutiny 
 she swung herself from the rock, clinging by her little fingers 
 to the jagged points, poised for a moment in the. air, and then 
 dropped on the platform below. Here she again looked 
 about her, and I drew back my head ; for I had had time for 
 a second thought, and I knew that no trifling thing could 
 bring the child to the banned forest alone. Beside she car- 
 ried on her arm a basket evidently well-laden, which impeded 
 
LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 95 
 
 her progress very much, and a suspicion far from agreeable 
 crept over me as I again leaned my head over the ledge. 
 The child descended with the agility of a kitten : and when 
 at last she reached the bottom, she looked earnestly up and 
 down the ravine, starting now and then, stretching forward 
 her ittle head, as though fearful that the moving shadows 
 might deceive her. As soon as she became satisfied that she 
 was not observed, she sent out a low clear sound like a bird- 
 note, which was immediately answered by a suppressed 
 whistle. She sprang forward and was met half-way by a 
 man, who emerged from the shadow of the rock just bencalh 
 i me. 
 
 " Where on earth have you been staying, Moll ? " he ex- 
 ; claimed, half angrily. " I have fed on nothing but ground- 
 [ nuts and beech leaves these two days, and — ha! I hope you 
 have something palatable in your basket. Does your arm 
 1 ache, chicky? This is a heavy load for such little hands to 
 i carry. But where have you been ? I did n't know but they 
 I had nabbed you for your good deeds, and meant to starve me 
 f out. Bless me, Moll, how you tremble I " 
 
 " Oh, I have been so frightened, Jemmy. Dick Holman 
 I suspects all about it — " 
 " Curse Dick Holman ! " 
 
 " Some of the other men have told how I ran to you the 
 night that the officers took them, and he thinks I knoAV 
 wliere you are now. He said they would hang me. Jemmy, 
 if I wouldn't tell — will they hang me?" 
 
 The beautiful face was upturned, with such sweet anxious 
 meekness, that the well-nigh hardened brother seemed 
 touched, and for a moment he did not reply. 
 " Will they hang me. Jemmy ?" 
 
 " No, Molly, no ! they will never harm a hair of your 
 head. But let me tell you, chick, you mustn't listen to one 
 word from that devil incarnate — he will be hiring you to 
 betray me yet." 
 
 " Dick Holman ? Oh no ! he can't hire me. He took out 
 a whole handful of dollars, but I would n't look at them, and 
 
9b LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 he said he would give me a new frock and a pretty bonne I, 
 like the village girls, but I did n't answer him a word. It , 
 was then he said — and he spoke dreadful, dreadful words, . 
 Jemmy — that he would have me hanged. Do you think he 
 can ? I am sure he will if he can. I was always afraid of 
 him; he looks at me so out of the corner of his eye, and goes , 
 creeping about as lightly as a cat, so that one never knows 
 when he is coming." 
 
 " Never fear, Moll, he can't hurt you," replied the brother, . 
 still swallowing down the huge slices of meat like a starved l' 
 hound. " I only wish I had him again in the place he was -! 
 when I fished him up from the bottom of the horse-pond — 
 he would beg one while for daylight before he should see it." 
 
 " Oh, Jemmy — " 
 
 " Hang me if he would n't ! That 's what a man gets by ,| 
 being good-natured. Dick Holman always pocketed two- 
 thirds of the money, and never run any danger." 
 
 " Jemmy ! Jemmy ! " exclaimed the child, in a tone of 
 sorrowful reproach, " You told me you didn't do it! You 
 told me you never took any money, and now — " 
 
 " And now I hav'n't told you anything different, little 
 Miss sanctimony; so don't run away from me, and leave me 
 to starve." 
 
 " But you ought to tell me the truth. Jemmy — you know 
 it would n't make me care the less for you — though — Oh! 
 it is a dreadful thing to be a thief ! " 
 
 "Well, you are not a thief, nor — nor I either, so save 
 your sermons and — you might have brought me a little 
 brandy, Moll." 
 
 The child sat down on the mossed trunk of a fallen tree, 
 and made no answer. 
 
 " Why did n't you come yesterday ? " 
 
 " Dick Holman watched me." 
 
 " Blast him ! The curses o' Heaven light — " 
 
 Truth does not require the oaths and imprecations of bad 
 men to be written down, and if it did I could hardly give the 
 words of poor Jem White ; for there in the solemn woods, 
 
LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 97 
 
 amid the falling shadows, I will own that the hoarse voice of 
 the miserable man inspired me with so much terror that I 
 could scarcely hear him. But I saw the little girl rise slowly 
 and sorrowfully from her seat. 
 
 " Jemmy, I cannot stay here, for I know you are a bad, 
 wicked man, and I am afraid of you." 
 
 " Afraid, JMoll ! ha, ha, ha ! that 's a good one ! you 
 afraid And you came over to the log-barn at midnight, 
 when the officers were out, without flinching a hair. Afraid ? " 
 " You told me then you did n't do it. Jemmy, and I 
 thought you didn't. Oh, it is a dreadful thing to be a thief! 
 Dreadful ! dreadful ! " 
 
 " But Molly, chick, you would n't let them take me, and 
 shut me up in a dark prison — State Prison — Jem' White in 
 State's Prison ! think on 't, Moll ! " 
 
 The child sank down on the rocks and sobbed as though 
 her little heart would break ; while her brother worked more 
 voraciously than ever at the contents of the basket. 
 
 " I '11 tell 'ee what, Moll," he at last said, " if you could 
 coax up father to take me home — can't you ? Nobody would 
 ' ever mistrust him." 
 
 ■ " No, Jemmy ; it was father who first made me believe 
 : you had not spoken truth to me. He said, too, last night, 
 that if he could find you he would give you up himself, in 
 ' the hope that it would do you good." 
 
 " Good ! A sight of good it would do me ! Cuss it, 
 
 ! Moll—" 
 
 ! "Jemmy," exclaimed the child, starting to her feet, and 
 jj standing before him with more dignity than her beautifil 
 ' bright face gave promise of, " Jemmy, I will not hear another 
 bad word from you. What I have done for you may be 
 wicked, but I could n't help it. Mother told me to love you, 
 wlien her lips against my cheek were cold ; and I will bring 
 you victuals and tell you if I hear you are in danger, but you 
 shall not use those wicked words — I will not hear you." 
 
 " Bless me, Moll ! I have said nothing to make you take 
 on so, and if you like it, you may go and tell Dick Holman 
 
ya LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 where I am, and get your smart frock and Sunday bonnet, to 
 say your Scripture lessons in. I dare say they will tell you 
 it 's a fine thing to send your brother to State Prison — a 
 mighty fine thing, Moll, and you will be a little wonder 
 among 'em." 
 
 " You shan't swear, at any rate. Jemmy ; for the great God, \ 
 who sees everything, will be angry with you, and he will let ' 
 them find where you are if you are so wicked. You 
 know — " 
 
 " I know you are a good little child, Moll — too good for 
 that matter — so cease your blubbering, chicky, and tell me 
 how niatters are going in the village, and whether Jesse I 
 Swift or Ned Sloman have confessed." ' 
 
 The child sat down and gave a circumstantial account of>i! 
 all that had occurred during the few past days, and then' 
 added, " They say that you will be taken before a week's 
 end, Jemmy, for they all seem sure that you hav'n't got. 
 away." • ' 
 
 "Aha ! they don't know what a nice little sister I have for ' 
 a jailer. But you must go now, Moll, for father will be '• 
 niiysing you, and then we shall have a pretty how-de-do. 
 Scramble back, chickey-pet, and mind that you keep a sharp ' 
 look-out on Dick Holman. This is a jewel of a place, but 
 he might track you to it when you hadn't a thought of him. 
 Come to-morrow, if you can, for the bread and meat will' 
 scarce serve me for breakfast, let alone the lunch that I must 
 lake, since I have nothing else to do, before sleeping. You 
 calculated for your own little stomach when you put it up for 
 me." 
 
 " I brought all we had, Jemmy, and I went without my 
 own dinner and supper to make it more." 
 
 "Well, you are a nice child, Moll, and I won't do any- 
 thing to bother you. Come to-morrow, and I wont worry 
 your pretty ears with a word of swearing. You are a darl- 
 ing little jailer, and — there — good-night, Molly." 
 
 He pressed his lips to the bright cheek of the little girl, aoii 
 held her for a moment in his arms, then set her on a platformi 
 
LITTLJi MOLLY WHITE. 99 
 
 just by his head, and watched her difficult ascent till she 
 again stood on the verge of the ravine. 
 
 " Safe ! " shouted little Molly White, almost gleefully, as she 
 leaned for a moment over the chasm. She was answered by 
 a whistle, and the pretty child clapped her hands, as though 
 iShe now felt at liberty to be happy once more, and bounded 
 away. She went only a few steps, however, and then 
 returned, and kneeling once more on the twisted roots of a 
 tall elm tree that grew upon the verge of the precipice, peered 
 lanxiously down the gorge. My eyes involuntarily turned in 
 ;the same direction. It seemed to me at first as though the 
 shadows were strangely busy ; then I saw them making reg- 
 ular strides up the ravine, and a faint sickly feeling crept 
 lOver me, so that I drew back my head, and closed my eyes. 
 jWhen I looked again I saw distinctly the figures of three 
 men, one a little in advance of the others, making their way 
 kip the dark gully of the Sachem's woods. Would they pass 
 iby the hiding-place of Jem While, or had his hour come at 
 last, and must that anxious little watcher at the foot of the 
 elm-tree, look helplessly on a scene that would wring her 
 young heart with agony. Bright Molly seemed suddenly to 
 have made a discovery ; for she uttered a piercing shriek, 
 which rang through the gray forest with startling wiklness, 
 and catching by the bough which had before assisted her 
 descent, she attempted again to swing herself to the first 
 rocky platform. But, in her fright, the little hand missed its 
 grasp ; the spring was made, and the bright-eyed child was 
 precipitated to the bottom of the gorge. Jemmy White had 
 heard the warning shriek, and rushed out in time to see the 
 fall of his sister and catch a glimpse of the traitor, Holman 
 leading on the officers of justice, but a few rods from his lair. 
 ;What would he do? He was probably familiar Avith every 
 ,secret lurking-place in that immense wilderness, and night 
 jwas coming on, so that it might be no difficult thing for him 
 to make hlo '^scape. At least his long limbs and hardy 
 frame warranted him the victory in a race, for Dick Holman 
 (Was a short, clumsily built man, and his companions would 
 
100 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 soon weary of clambering over the rocks. Jemmy White's 
 reflections seemed of the precise nature of mine ; for, after 
 throwing one glance over his shoulder and another up the 
 ravine, he bounded forward, and sprang across the body of 
 his sister, touching, as he went, her little quivering arm with 
 his foot. Suddenly the man's bold face was blanched, he 
 seemed to waver, and then casting another hurried glance 
 behind him, he made an effort to go on, but his limbs refused 
 their office ; a heavy groan, replete with agony, came up 
 from the depths of the gorge ; and Jemmy White paused, 
 cowering over the inanimate child as though the two had 
 been alone in the forest. The men came up and laid their 
 hands on his shoulders, but he did not look at them, nor in 
 any way heed their presence ; he only chafed the hands of 
 the little girl, and kissed her forehead, and entreated her to 
 open her eyes, for her own brother Jem was there, and it 
 would break his heart if she should not speak to him. The 
 two officers, with the delicacy which the heart teaches to the 
 rudest of men, stood back ; but Dick Holman still continued 
 his grasp upon the shoulder of the criminal, as though to 
 assure his companions that he understood this mumniery 
 much better than they did. The scene lasted — how long I 
 cannot say — it seemed to me ages. Finally one of the offi- 
 cers came forward with a coil of rope in his hand, and in- 
 timated his intention to bind the prisoner. Jemmy White 
 rose from his crouching posture to his knees, and looked up 
 as though vainly endeavoring to comprehend the movements 
 of the men ; then he lifted the precious burden at his feet to 
 hir, bosom, and clasped his arms about her closely as though 
 afraid she might be forced from him. 
 
 " I will go with you," he said, meekly ; with a dead heart- 
 ache weighing on every word, as it dropped painfully and 
 slowly from his lips. " I will go with you ; but don't 
 bind me. I won't get away; I won't try. It don't matter 
 what becomes of me, now I have killed little Molly. Stand 
 off, Dick Holman ! take your hand from my shoulder, and 
 stand away ! You made w-e do it ! I should have been a 
 
LlfTLE MOLLY WHITE. 101 
 
 decent man, if you had kepi away from me, and poor Molly 
 — ay stand off! it may not be safe for you to come too near ! " 
 
 " We had better bind him," said one of the men, glancing 
 at his companion for approbation. 
 
 " No, no; leave me my arms, for Molly's sake, and walk 
 close beside me, if you are afraid. I won't try to run away. 
 It's of no use now — no use — no use!" 
 
 Jemmy White's lips moved mechanically, still repeating 
 the last words ; and the officer crammed the coil of rope into 
 h.3 pocket again, and moved on beside the sobered prisoner 
 notwithstanding the cautionary gestures and meaning glances 
 of Dick Holman. 
 
 That night, the arrest of Jem White and the dreadful ac- 
 cident which had befallen his little sister, were the subjects 
 of conversation at every fireside; and much softening of heart 
 was there toward the wretched prisoner, when it was known 
 that he owed his arrest to the humanity which was only 
 stifled, not dead, within him. 
 
 When poor little Molly White opened her bright eyes 
 again, she was in the ceil of a prison ; ibr it would have been 
 death to the agonized brother to have her taken from him, 
 and even honest Jacky, notwithstanding his stern, unwaver- 
 ing integrity, and his abhorrence of the slightest deviation 
 from it, had plead earnestly for this indulgence. Besides, 
 Molly White must be taken care of somewhere at the expense 
 of the county, and there was no poor-house ; so Jem's prayer 
 was granted. 
 
 When she awoke to consciousness, she looked eanieslly 
 into the face of her brother, who was leaning over her, bath- 
 ing her temples as tenderly as a mother could have done ; 
 and then glanced upon the gloomy walls and scanty furniture 
 of her sick chamber. 
 
 "Where are we? Did tney find you, Jemmy?" she 
 inquired — " Dick Holman and those other men?" 
 
 The tears rained over the bronzed cheeks of the prisoner 
 in torrents ; and the child wiped them away with her little 
 9* 
 
102 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 
 
 dimpled hands, whispering softly, " I am sorry I called you 
 a bad man, Jemmy," 
 
 "Bad, Molly! Oh, I am very, very bad!" sobbed the 
 repentant criminal. 
 
 " But you are sorry, Jemmy," and the little round arms 
 n^ere folded over the neck which they had often clasped most 
 lovingly before ; but never with such touching tenderness. 
 ' And so the angels love you dearly, for the good Bible says 
 Aat they are gladder for one man who is sorry for being 
 wicked, than for a great many men that never do wrong. 
 The angels love you, Jemmy ; and mother is an angel now." 
 
 " She used to love me, and beg me not to get into bad 
 ways ; but I almost broke her heart, sometimes, Molly ! " 
 
 " Well, she loves you yet ; and you are very sorry for 
 what you have done; and so — we shall be happy, oh, so 
 happy ! " 
 
 The prisoner glanced about his cell, and his brow was 
 contracted with pain. 
 
 " I know where we are, Jemmy, for I have looked in here 
 before ; and it is better, a great deal better, than hiding in the 
 woods. I am glad they let me be with you ; I am not afraid 
 here, for you are good now, and just as sorry for being wick- 
 ed as ever you can be. We will live here always, Jemmy, 
 if they will let us ; and then we shall always- be good. Don't 
 cry, Jemmy. I wish you would fix my head — a little nearer 
 your cheek — there, so ; — now kiss me and I shall go to 
 sleep." 
 
 How different that sleep from the one I had admired a few 
 days earlier ! But the child was far happier now. 
 
 Perhaps the strong interest excited by the accident to little 
 Molly might have operated in Jem White's favor quite as 
 much as his own simple, unobtrusive penitence ; but popular 
 sympathy followed him to his cell, and remained by his side 
 during the trial. So true and heartfelt was this sympathy, 
 that there was a general elongation of countenance when he 
 was condemned, and a universal, and, for a moment, uncon- 
 trollable burst of applause when he was recommended to 
 
LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 103 
 
 m?rcy. As some palliating circumstances came to light 
 
 during the trial, it was not difficult to cbtain a pardon for 
 
 Jem White ; and I am sure no one at Alderbrook regrets the 
 
 exercise of clemency in his behalf. To be sure, his trial has 
 
 been of only six months' duration ; but he is so gentle and 
 
 kind, and withal so sober, and industrious, and contented, 
 
 that everybody places entire confidence in his" reformation. 
 
 Bold, bad Jem White has become strangely like his father ; 
 
 and the good old man goes about, calling on everybody (for 
 
 honest Jacky knows that he has a friend in everybody at 
 
 Alderbrook) to rejoice with him, for he is more blest than 
 
 : any other mortal ; Avhile his simple heart swells more than 
 
 ever with gratitude to God and love to man. As for darling 
 
 little Molly, she is one of those guileless creatures often 
 
 • doomed — nay, not doomed — so blessed, I should have said, 
 
 i as to live for the good of others. Her bright face has grown 
 
 I thin and pale with suffering, but there is a sweeter smile on 
 
 ij it than ever ; and when Jemmy carries her in his arms, as he 
 
 I does every Sabbath, to the village church, she tells him how 
 
 ■ glad she is for the accident which has crippled her, because 
 
 it has given her such a dear resting-place. Little Molly will 
 
 probably never be straight again — perhaps she never will 
 
 walk — but she smiles at the prospect, and talks cheerfully 
 
 of the wings which will be given her in heaven. 
 
 Dick Holman, alarmed by some rather hostile demonstra- 
 
 I tions on the part of Felix Graw and a few other determined 
 
 ' spirits of the neighborhood, disappeared from among us on 
 
 the day he was set at liberty, and has never since honored 
 
 ; Alderbrook with his prese ice. 
 
104 
 
 MY OLD PLAYMATE 
 
 1 
 
 Charley Hill was an old playmate of mine — a saucy, 
 good-natured, mischief-doing, flower-loving, warm-hearted, , 
 gentle, brave little playmate — and many a tale might the 
 green-mossed stones lying among the alder-roots on the bor- 
 der of the lazy brook, and the tall grass that waves on the 
 hillside, tell of our young gambols. Oh! those rare, bright 
 days — the days of my childhood ! How I wish that I could. 
 make a compromise with the old fellow of the hour-glass, 
 and save a handful of his sand from the end of my term, tot; 
 glitter in the sunshine of the beginning — for myself do I; 
 most sincerely wish it; but more, much more, for thee, poor' 
 Charley Hill ! Some people are born with a shadow on thei 
 brow, a shadow which refuses to be removed, though the 
 wheel of life should roll forever in prosperity ; yet I liave 
 known ;he sad gift to be accompanied by a spirit which mel-i, 
 lowed and softened it, till the apparent curse proved a blessing, i , 
 But my old playmate was not one of these. No cloud was; ; 
 on his face or his fortunes. The light centred in his gayi j 
 heart shone from parted lip and beaming eye, and was scat-, 
 tered without stint on all who came near him. A frank, , ; 
 jovial boy Avas Charley Hill, in those play-days; with a ;. 
 ready hand, a ready smile, and a ready wit ; to say nothing 
 of the charmingest of all charming hand-sleds, and a very 
 discriminating little fowling-piece, which he assured rne 
 never shot anything but crows. No boy at Alderbrook hadi, ,j 
 so handsome a face as Charley — that everybody said; andii » 
 no boy had so handsome a cap, (that bright purple velvet,.' ij 
 with the two silken tassels dangling so gracefully from thei p 
 apex,) nor so white a collar, nor such a "cunning" little 
 jacket — though that everybody did not say. Little girls are 
 much better initiated in such mysteries than older people. \ 
 
I MY OLD PLAYMATE. 105 
 
 i will not assert that my old playmate, Charley, was a 
 erfectly faultless lad ; for who hut his own naughty self was 
 16 occasion of my travelling about two mortal hours, my 
 ands tied fast to the schoolmistress' girdle, just because he 
 ared me down to the brookside to angle for trout with a 
 roDked pm, when stupid people thought I should have been 
 loring over Webster's " elementary ? " And who but that 
 ricked little scapegrace of a Charley, with his winsome ways 
 nd generous little heart, led me to spoil my new white cam- 
 'ric apron as I did the first time I wore it ? Who but Char- 
 y could have done it ? I will tell the story to all who 
 Bmember well when th^ were children ; but those whose 
 aemories cannot look back through the crust upon the heart, 
 rill do well to turn away to something wiser. We had a 
 rand tea-party at my baby-house under the old black cherry 
 •ee, and our dolls must have been surfeited with the luxuries 
 pread before them. There was one thing in our feast, on 
 hich we prided ourselves not a little — a dish of pretty crim- 
 on balls, made of the wool that a dozen little fingers had 
 usied themselves in picking from Debby Jones' red petti- 
 oat, nicely imbedded in a snowy pile of soap suds — an 
 xcellent substitute for strawberries and cream. Just before 
 le party broke up, who should make his appearance but 
 Jharley Hill; but when called upon to admire our ingenuity, 
 UT climax of witty inventions, he manifested a very boy-like 
 ndifference, and said nothing but " pooh ! " Charley might 
 iave argued tlie point a week, while we in defending it miglil 
 ^ave become so earnest as to eat our mock strawberries ; but 
 hat contemptuous "jsooA.' " was too much. While the little 
 ^'•rls, with disconcerted faces, were turning elsewhere for 
 liversion, Charley took me aside confidentially. There were 
 Itravvberries a plenty just over the brook ; a thick spot — and 
 Jh, so thick ! and Charley's eyes grew big and o.a^k with the 
 'ecoUection. 
 
 If Fanny would just run over with him — 
 I " But my mother, and my new apron ! " 
 
 ft would take only a minute, and I could put my apron out 
 »f the way — and oh, such a thick spot! 
 
106 THE GREAT MAKCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 There was a wedding at the Maple Bush that evening — a 
 quiet, cozy, family affair; and the pretty belle of the dislrid, 
 though quite as pretty and quite as mischievously attractive, 
 was a belle no longer. Bright, witching Dolly Foster ! what 
 a dear little neighborhood blessing she had always been, wiih 
 her sunny face and sunny heart and open hand ! And what 
 a charming little bride of a Madam Linkum she made ! How 
 everybody loved her ! How the old ladies praised her docility 
 and teachableness ! and how the young ladies doted on 
 her as a model of taste and socialness ! Oh, Dolly Foster 
 was the flower of the Maple Bush; but bewitching Mrs. 
 Linkum was its gem — its lamp — its star. 
 
107 
 
 NOT A POET. 
 
 I AM a little maiden, 
 
 Who fain would touch the Ijrre 
 But my poor fingers ever 
 
 Bring discord from the wire. 
 'T is strange I 'm not a poet ; 
 
 There 's music in my heart ; 
 Some mystery must linger 
 
 About this magic art. 
 
 I 'm told that joyous spirits, 
 
 Untouched by grief or care. 
 In mystery so holy 
 
 Are all too light to share. 
 My heart is, very gladsome ; 
 
 But there 's a corner deep, 
 Where many a shadow nestles, 
 
 And future sorrows sleep. 
 
 I hope they '11 not awaken 
 
 As yet for many a year ; 
 There 's not on earth a jewel. 
 
 That 's worth one grief-born tear. 
 Long may the harp be silent. 
 
 If Sorrow's touch alone, 
 Upon the chords descending, 
 
 Has porwer to wake its tone. 
 
 I 'd never be a poet. 
 
 My bounding heart to hush 
 And lay down at the altar 
 
 For Sorrow's foot to crush. 
 
108 NOT A rOET. 
 
 Ah, no ! I '11 gather sunshine 
 For coming evening's hours ; 
 
 And while the spring-time lingers, 
 I '11 gamer up its flowers, 
 
 I fain would learn the music 
 
 Of those who dwell in heaven 
 For woe-tuned harp was never 
 
 To seraph fingers given. 
 But I will strive no longer 
 
 To waste my heart-felt mirth ; 
 I will mind me that the gifted 
 
 Are the stricken ones of earth. 
 
109 
 
 TWO NIGHTS IN THE "NIEUW 
 NEDERLANDTS." 
 
 It was on the night of the 25th of February, 1643, that a 
 middle-aged man, with an honest, frank, sun-browned face 
 and a powerful frame, sat and warmed himself by the kitchen 
 fire in the Governor's house at Fort Amsterdam. He was 
 singularly uneasy ; every now and then clenching his fist and 
 moving his nervous arm as in angry gesticulation ; while his 
 fine eye turned from one object to another with a kind of 
 eager dread, and his naturally clear, open countenance was 
 drawn into a scowl compounded of various strong emotions. 
 He was alone, and bore himself much as though belonging to 
 the household ; for he certainly could not have been greatly 
 inferior to its master in point of dignity. All within doors 
 was perfectly silent — painfully so, it seemed to the stern 
 v/atcher — and within, the heavy, monotonous tread of a sen- 
 tinel, at a little distance, gave the only evidence that the pulse 
 of the young city had not ceased its breathings. At last the 
 man drevv from his pocket a massive " Nuremburg egg" and 
 held it up to the light. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock — five — almost ten minutes past ! Thank 
 God, if their hellish plan has miscarried ! " 
 
 A long, loud, terrible shriek, as of a multitude of voices 
 combining their agony, came up from the distance even as 
 he spoke ; and, dropping the watch upon the stone hearth, the 
 listener sprang with- an exclamation of horror to his feet. 
 
 " God forgive me, if I curse my race and nation ! It is a 
 deed worthy of the devil — and they call themselves men and 
 Christians ! " 
 
 He strode up and down the long kitchen, his brows knit 
 and his hand on the hilt of his sword, muttering as he went, 
 
 VOL. u. 10 
 
no 
 
 MV OLD PLAYMATJi. 
 
 " When was Ada Palmer here last?" and " Has little Susy 
 May grown any ? " and " Oh ! has Charley Hill got home ? " 
 
 To the last my mother gave a quiet yes. And was he as 
 handsome as ever, and as agreeable, and as good ? j 
 
 She half shook her head, and sighed ominously. J 
 
 " Is Charley sick ? " | 
 
 ■ " No, quite well." ] 
 
 " And hasn't he come home to stay?" 
 
 " Probably." 
 
 " What is the matter then ? " 
 
 " Look ! yonder is Ada Palmer just coming down thetj 
 slope;" and away I flew to meet her. ';j 
 
 We kept open doors that evening, and everybody seemedi|i 
 to know it — everybody but Charley Hill. He did not come ; ; 
 and I wenc to sleep wondering what change had come over 
 my old piay-mate. The next day I met him accidentally in'j 
 the street ; and I noteil a pleased sparkle in his eye, and a ji 
 flush on his cheek ; but he extended his hand half hesitat- i 
 ingly, and there was a painful confusion in his manner whichi 
 puzzled me. Why should the frank, noble-hearted Charleyl 
 Hill blush and cast down his eyes, as though detected in a 
 crime, at sight of an old friend ? The next evening, I was i 
 invited to a social gathering at Deacon Palmer's. Charley '.j 
 Hill was not there, and I inquired the wherefore. J 
 
 " Is it possible, Fanny ! don't you know ? " ^ 
 
 " Know what ? " 
 
 " Why, nobody invites Charley now." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Ada shook her head, and compressed her lips with an eX"< 
 pression of intense severity, i 
 
 "Why, Ada?" ' 
 
 " For the best of reasons, poor miserable fellow that he is ! 
 He is not fit to associate with respectable people." 
 
 " Tell me — has Charley done anything ! what is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 " Matter enough to break his poor father's heart, and maice 
 
MY OLD PLAYMATE. Ill 
 
 all the rest of the family miserable. He is shockingly dissi- 
 pated." 
 
 It was the bursting of a thunderbolt. Poor Charley Hill ! 
 
 That night I collected together, in one dream, all the fright- 
 ful stories I had ever heard of vice, and degradation, and 
 misery ; and strewed them along narrow, filthy streets, where 
 Charley Hill walked, as though quite at home. At last there 
 was a blow given, a shriek, a stream of blood, a dead, heavy 
 corse ; and, all trembling with horror, I awoke. How thank- 
 ful was I that my old playmate was not a murderer ; and 
 how I lay and arranged plan after plan for his redemption, 
 plan after plan which shrivelled to a cobweb as soon as 
 woven ! 
 
 When morning came, I made inquiries and learned more 
 of Charley Hill. His singular powers of fascination had led 
 liim into temptation to which the less gifted are seldom ex- 
 posed. He was full of wit and vivacity ; his natural gaiety and 
 good humor were unbounded ; and he was self-confident and 
 unsuspecting. It was a long time before Charley Hill became 
 at all aware that he was wasting himself; and then he qui- 
 eted his conscience with the thought, " It is necessary now ; 
 when once I am home again all will be well." So he went 
 on till he seemed to have lost the power of saving himself; 
 and just at this critical time, perhaps not more than a fort- 
 night too late, Judge first began to take note of tlie 
 
 derelictions of his young charge. In the mean time a few 
 reports had reached Alderbrook, and alarmed Squire Hi!!. 
 He proceeded to the metropolis, received the whole weight of 
 his friend's newly acquired knowledge, (much of it of course 
 exaggerated,) before seeing his son, showered upon the culprit 
 a torrent of expostulations, which the goadings of disappoint- 
 ment made very angry ones ; and finally concluded to remove 
 him at once from his companions to the quiet of Alderbrook. 
 The last was the only wise thing done. Here Charley Hill 
 might have been saved if but his own plan for " doing people 
 good " had been carried -out. His father was very angry, and 
 used much severity ; his mother and sister received him witli 
 
112 MY OLD PLAYMATE. 
 
 tears and chidings. The last would have won his heart, but 
 the regret it occasioned was accompanied by a strong st > 
 of degradation, which made him anxious to escape their pr - 
 ence. Their treatment of him was full of tenderness, but it 
 was a kind of tenderness which showered humiliation on its 
 object, and should not have been continued more than one day. 
 If but one person had shown a cheerful confidence in him he 
 might have been encouraged and strengthened. But his old 
 friends stood aloof. True, they sometimes greeted him kindly , 
 but there was something e^en in that very kindness which 
 made him feel their knowledge of the taint that was on him. 
 Is it strange, that, without sympathy, without companionship 
 with the good, his pride daily wounded, and his self-respect 
 daily diminishing, Charley Hill should become reckless of con- 
 sequences, and indulge his socialness at the expense of higlier 
 qualities ? Certainly my old playmate was made no better 
 by being removed to Alderbrook. The vicious are every- 
 where, and Charley in his loneliness turned to them. Tliis 
 was the climax of his evil doing. He had been driven to it, 
 true, but he should not have yielded to the force which ev. n 
 the good had turned against him. If he had stood firm for a 
 couple of years, not merely unsupported, but against the ovcr- 
 poAvering weight of neglect which was thrown into the balance 
 on the side of wrong — if he had borne well the severest of 
 all severe trials for a sensitive nature, his first failure might 
 have been forgiven and he restored to his former position 
 among us. There are, doubtless, men who might have done 
 it; but alas, how few! Charley Hill struggled a little ; but. 
 when he reached up his hand from the gulf into which lie 
 was falling, there was no one to take it. There were enougli 
 that thought themselves ready to help him ; but they forgot 
 that he was a brother, and poor Charley remembered the past 
 and turned from them. 
 
 " It is a somewhat questionable experiment ; and your plan 
 you will find very difficult of execution." So spake a careful 
 mother, evincing a sensitive regard for the welfare of her " 
 own child ; the only thing that could blind an eye usually so • 
 
MV OLD PLAYMATE. 113 
 
 discriminating, or momentarily steel a heart so full of charity. 
 " You are but a young girl, my Fanny." 
 
 " I will talk only with young girls, then ; but Charley and 
 I were old friends, and he has a right to expect kindness of 
 me." 
 
 " Not a right, my child ; he has forfeited that." 
 
 I had some confused, indistinct notions of the peculiar 
 rights of the erring, the consideration and attention which we 
 Dwe each other on a sea so full of breakers, but I did not 
 jrenture on advancing them, lest I should injure the cause of 
 Charley Hill by opinions heterodox. 
 
 Days went by, and my old playmate had become a very 
 requent visiter at Underbill. He was received at Deacon 
 Palmer's, also, and at several other houses in the village ; 
 md the effect was soon visible in his altered appearance. 
 But all this was not done without opposition ; and there were 
 )eopIe in the village — good people — that had done much to 
 eform the vicious, arid were ready to do more — who bitterly 
 lenounced the course we were pursuing. It was not in 
 iccordance with their own plan. Charley Hill should have 
 leen obliged to give a pledge of reformation, and stand a 
 rial ; it was too much to receive him on trust. The most 
 ritical position which a man can occupy in this world, the 
 post dangerous, is when he stands balancing on the barrier 
 etween vice and virtue. Vice wooes, and virtue frowns. 
 ?he bad beckon, and smile, and promise ; while the good, 
 rho should have all the smiles and be able to present all the 
 ttractions that cluster so profusely around a life of purity, 
 peak their warnings with severity, stand aloof, as though 
 Ifraid of contamination, and scarce encourage a return. Not 
 [lat men are so unforgiving to the erring. The sympathj'- 
 p the self-degraded which has sprung up everywhere, proves 
 lat they are not. But it is a fashion of the day to encourage 
 rtremes. The lady who will take a drunkard from the gut- 
 sr, and clothe and feed him, will severely censure her sister 
 bilanthropist for using a more delicate and less apparent 
 ifluence to keep the thoughtles'i young wine-drinker from 
 10* 
 
114 MY OLD PLAYMATE. 
 
 falling into it. It matters but little whether smiles or tears 
 are employed, if the good be accomplished. We tried smiles 
 with Charley Hill. We scattered roses in his path, and won 
 him many a step back, and tried to keep him there, but — 
 
 As I have before intimated, many good people felt outraged 
 that Charley Hill should be treated as though he had never 
 erred, and be received in some families at Alderbrook as for- 
 merly. He should be punished ; he deserved a lesson ; he 
 ought to be taught that he could not sin without paying the 
 penalty. There was plausibility in much that they said, else, 
 alas ! their reasonings would have had less weight with us. 
 They contended that if society really had the power of re- 
 forming him, it was not such society. They intimated even 
 that parents were exposing their children to contamination 
 by this course. We were too young, they said, to do good 
 to our playmate. Too young ! Could those who were older 
 understand the case so well as we ; we who held the key to ' 
 Charley Hill's nature, and were almost as familiar with every 
 nook and cranny within his heart as our own ? Poor Char- - 
 ley! -vie could have saved him; but "public opinion "was 
 against us, and — we failed. 
 
 Door after door was shut against Charley Hill ; door after 
 door, till, alone again in the world, he turned from the happy 
 firesides which had for a while stayed him in his course, and 
 plunged headlong into the yawning vortex of dissipation. 
 Before, he had stepped cautiously and hesitatingly ; he had I 
 paused and looked behind him. and dallied with the flowers r, 
 which grew on the brink of the precipice. But now he gave J 
 one desperate leap, and was gone forever. As Charley Hill's 
 was not a gradual wandering away from the path of right, i 
 but a sudden mad plunge, so was his course short and his 
 end tragic. But we will leave him to his rest on the spot , 
 where he once sat, beneath the elm tree close in the corner '| 
 of the churchyard, to watch the burial of old Jake Gawsely. i 
 He dropped a tear there ; a tear of pity for the friendless old; 
 man, who was hustled into his grave by the hands of those- 
 he had injured. Perhaps' some watchful angel may have 
 
MY OLD PLAYMATE. 115 
 
 caught that tear, and borne it up before him to the throne of 
 the Eternal ; and the gentle tribute may ere this have been 
 laid back on his own earth-defiled spirit, to freshen and to 
 purify it. A dark, dark fate was thine, poor Charley ! woven 
 by thine own fingers, true, but lacking the white and golden 
 threads which those who once loved thee might have added ; 
 a dark, dark fate, which my pen refuses to record or my 
 thoughts to dwell upon. Many virtues were thine, my old 
 playmate ; there was much in thee to love, much to pity, 
 much to censure ; God forgive thee ! God forgive the mis- 
 taken philanthropists of Alderbrook ! 
 
116 
 
 OUR MAY. 
 
 " Our May," as everybody called May Loomis, was the ) 
 merriest, blithesomest, busiest little creature that you ever saw ' 
 — a perfect honey-gatherer without the sting — an April smile, , 
 with a cousin's face for the contrasting cloud. It seemed I 
 impossible to bring a shade of seriousness over that joyous > 
 face ; for although I have seen tears starting from her eyes. . 
 they were always checked by a smile, or if suffered to fall 1 
 upon her face, they were lost in a profusion of roguish dim- • 
 pies. 
 
 Our May had a cousin, the cloud above mentioned, who 
 rejoiced in the same appellation ; but although everybody 
 said that Miss May Loomis was a very excellent young lady, 
 no one ever thought of placing the possessive before her name. 
 Indeed, I do not think Miss May would have liked such a 
 partnership concern, for she had a high opinion of her own 
 dignity, and she thought it must be very painful to any 
 woYnan of delicacy to be hailed by all she met as though 
 under their especial protection. The good-natured laugh of 
 the old farmers shocked her nerves, and the cordial gi-asp of 
 their horny hands was quite too much for lady-endurance. 
 Miss May was very often annoyed, when walking with her ■ 
 cousin, by the exclamation, " There goes our May!" from: 
 the lips of some poor washerwoman, or errand-boy; and then.. 
 to see them fly across the street, as though on terms of the ' 
 greatest intimacy ! Why, it was preposterous. So presum 
 ing ! But Miss May was still more annoyed by the exces- • 
 sive vulgarity of her thoughtless little cousin, who wouW ' 
 often stop in the street to inquire after the health and pros- 
 perity of the offenders, and send some little message to thf> ' 
 children at home. On such occasions the Cloud usually 
 drew herself up to her utmost height, and to avoid the dis- 
 
1 OUR MAY. 117 
 
 grace of such improper conduct, walked home alone, in the 
 most dignified manner. But then Miss May's walk was 
 always dignified, if walking by rule and compass constitutes 
 dignity ; and she was never known to do an iviproper thing 
 m her life. She always carried her hands in one particular 
 position, except when, for the sake of variety, she changed 
 (hem to one other particular position ; and her pocket-hand- 
 Kerchief, which she held between the thumb and finger of 
 die left hand, was allowed to spread itself over the three 
 .[remaining fingers in a very becoming manner. Her neck 
 i| ribbon was always crossed upon her bosom, the two ends of 
 ^precisely the same length; and her collar never had in it a 
 wrinkle. Tliore were two or three plaits in the waist of her 
 dress, because somebody, that she considered undisputable 
 authority, had -^aid that plaits were graceful ; but she care- 
 fully eschewed all extravagance, in the quantity, if not the 
 quality, of the cloth she honored by wearing. Her hair 
 (this was the climax of the young lady's nicety) was so care- 
 fully brushed and pomatumed, that it seemed one glossy con- 
 \cx surface, surmounted by a braid of — no one could have 
 iiuiqined what, but for the pale blue ribband that relieved 
 lie brown, and gave the curious examiner the idea that it 
 niuht be of the same material as the head covering. 
 
 ]*>lisb May's nicety extended to everything about her. 
 ^er house-plan'^ were prim and perpendicular, trimmed of 
 n'cry redundant loaf; and she was often heard to lament an 
 )peiiing blossom, br.causs it would produce irregularity, by 
 lirowing the balance of ornament on one side of the plant. 
 riie Cloud was fond of exercising her skill in trimming trees 
 n the shape of cones and other figures, while her cousin fos- 
 ered luxuriance in their growth, and would rather hang on 
 (hem a wilder wreath, or twist a limb awry, than to see the 
 •rnaments of her uncle's garden standing out stark and stifF, 
 ike the spokes of a wagon wheel. Yet the cousins never 
 ;lashed ; for the regularity of Miss May extended to her dis- 
 
 fiition and heart ; and, having her own excellent rule of 
 titude, she would as soon have been caught laughing 
 
118 OUR MAY. 
 
 aloud, or romping in the court yard, or wearing a rumpled i 
 dress, as swerving from it in the least degree. On the othei I 
 hand, our May was too careless and too light-hearted to bt 
 annoyed by her nice cousin's trifling peculiarities ; and she 
 never opposed her tastes, nor interrupted her in anything 
 except a lecture on propriety. Miss May never spoke but ir 
 che gentlest voice, and the most unexceptionable words ; bui 
 then she often felt it to be her duty to admonish her wild 
 cousin of the folly of her doings, which admonitions oui 
 active little Hebe found peculiarly irksome. She, however 
 soon invented a way of warding off these avalanches of gooc 
 advice, quite worthy of her wit. When Miss May would 
 enter the parlor with a grave look of reproof, and commence 
 v.'ith the ominous words, " My dear cousin, I feel it my dut} 
 to expostulate — " the offender would interrupt her. 
 
 " Oh, wait a minute. May, deary, I have something to 'j! 
 
 you. Mr. Melroy " 
 
 This sentence was sometimes finished irt one way, anc 
 sometimes in another ; but Mr. Melroy was the magic word 
 and after making her fair monitress blush crimson, the littk 
 tormenter Avould glide out of the room and express her self- 
 gratulalion by a laugh as long and loud as it was musical. 
 
 Mr. Melroy was our village clergyman ; a young bach(?loi 
 of twenty-eight, and a general favorite with all classes of 
 men. He was friendly and courteous with all, for he loolcct 
 upon the whole human family as his kindred; and his her.r 
 never refused to the meanest beggar, the appellation of 
 brother. His voice was full and melodious, but some whir 
 solemn; his countenance exhibited a dash of melancholy 
 though so modified by Christian benevolence as to be pecu- 
 liarly interesting ; and his manner was correct and gentle- 
 manly. The two cousins were members of Mr. Melroy'si 
 church ; and their uncle, 'Squire Loomis, was his personal 
 friend ; so it was not at all to be wondered at that he became 
 their frequent visiter. Neither is it a matter of wonder that 
 our May, light-hearted, smiling, blithesome May, contrasted 
 as she was with her grave companion, should almost escape 
 
OUR MAY. 119 
 
 the young pastor's notice. Our May saw that Mr Melroy's 
 Attention was all directed to the Cloud ; but she was not sorry, 
 for it gave her an opportunity to watch his fine eyes, as they 
 lighted up with the enthusiasm of his subject, and to catch 
 ihe variety of expression which genius can throw upon the 
 most serious face. Our May liked merriment, but she liked 
 Mr. Melroy better ; and she never ventured to breathe a word 
 mtil she was sure he had quite finished. Then she would 
 noake some remark, so comical, that Mr. Melroy would be 
 obliged to waste a smile upon her in spite of himself; and 
 Miss May would quite forget the half hour's profitable con- 
 versation in planning a reproof. 
 
 Sometimes Mr. Melroy would walk with the young ladies, 
 )r rather, with the Cloud, for our May was constantly bound- 
 ng from the path to pluck a flower or chase a butterfly. And 
 ret she somehow never lost any part of the young clergyman's 
 ffofitable conversation, for when they were alone she would 
 .ease her sedate cousin by distorting his beautiful sentiments 
 md sadly misapplying his comparisons ; and then she would 
 Ileal away to poor blind Becky and glad her pious heart by a 
 'epetition of his pure teachings. Our May was certainly not 
 without faults; but her young heart was a living, feeling, 
 icting thing ; and she had happily given it all, even its vola- 
 ility, to the guidance of a safe Hand. 
 
 Both of the cousins had a class in the village Sabbath 
 school, and Miss May was the secretary of two or three be- 
 levolent societies, of which our May was only a quiet, unob- 
 rusive member. Some people wondered that the relative, 
 md constant companion of such a pattern-lady as Miss May 
 Lioomis, should choose such a questionable way of exhibiting 
 let charity, as to visit the poor in person, and administer to 
 heir wants, even when it called her away from the meetings 
 if the society ; but others fearlessly advocated their favorite's 
 ;ause; while the sober-faced young clergyman said nothing. 
 before old Mr. Thompson left. Miss May used to tell the 
 
 Flinquent that she knew Mr. Thompson disapproved of such 
 
120 OUR MAY. 
 
 was a signal which our May failed not to answer with au , . 
 exceeding gay volley. The truth was, everybody said lhat!|f: 
 Mr. Melroy did not call so often at 'Squire Loomis' for noth- '"' 
 ing and as Miss May was very far from being nothing, she 
 wai very naturally concluded to be the something that so 
 atfacted. When anybody asked home questions about this 
 matter, our May laughed, and looked very knowing, while . 
 her cousin blushed, and looked very dignified. Thus matters'ij* 
 went on for a long time, and thus they might have gone on, '■ 
 in spite of several old ladies, who endeavored to introduce 
 variety by prophesying it, but for an occurrence in which our 
 May most sadly overstepped the bounds of propriety. 
 
 It was on a fine afternoon, in the beginning of August, that . 
 the young pastor was seen leading the fair cousins beyond the 
 little clump of houses which we dignified by the title of vil- 
 lage. Miss May's step was as precise as ever ; but our bright;!;!; 
 lady of the possessive pronoun, walked more as though shei|»i; 
 thought she could guide herself, and was seeking an oppor-| ' 
 tunity to drop the gentleman's arm. Their walk was as! I; 
 usual, delightful to all ; for Miss May was treated with theil| 
 most scrupulous attention — Mr. Melroy found the air refresh-j 
 ing and the scenery beautiful, to say nothing of the valued! 
 society of the Cloud, and our May Avas always pleased. On 
 this day she was even more frolicsome than usual; and, hav-, 
 ing accidentally broken a wreath of frail, beautiful flowers, 
 which she had been weaving, Mr. Melroy so far unbent him- 
 self as to say he wished she had never linked a more enduring 
 chain. 
 
 " What can he mean ? " thought laughing May ; but at 
 that moment her attention was arrested by a field of haymak- 
 ers, among whom she recognized familiar faces. The recog- 
 nition was mutual ; for instantly a young man called out 
 " There 's our May!" and the giddy girl, turning about with U 
 an arch smile, and shaking her finger at her companions, 
 sprang lightly over the fence, and was soon in the midst of |ir 
 the haymakers. The young man, who at first recognized her, 
 seized one of her hands, while a woman in a blue frock and) J, 
 
OUR MAY. 121 
 
 i^alico bonnet appropriated the other ; and the whole party, 
 imen, women and children, gathered around the pretty hoyden, 
 with a familiarity, which to Miss May was perfectly astound- 
 'ing. Our May stood but a moment in the centre of the 
 igToup, when a dozen voices, pitched on every imaginable key, 
 roared forth a boisterous laugh, not, however, quite drowning 
 her own clear, ringing tones ; and then, with a sort of mock 
 'courtesy, she was bounding away, when the young man again 
 stopped her. Our May paused a moment as though unde- 
 cided, while the 3'oung man stood before her, and by hs 
 parnest gestures seemed urging some affair of importance. 
 Then a little girl was seen to leave the circle, and run until 
 she came within hearing of the waiting couple, Avhen she 
 tailed out — 
 
 ' "Our May — Miss Loomis, I mean — says if you will 
 'excuse her, she will walk home alone, as she is n't quite ready 
 inow." 
 
 I Mr. Melroy looked at ]\Iiss May, and Miss May looked at 
 iMr. Melroy, and then both looked at the offending cousin. 
 'She had gone a little aside from the haymakers, and was 
 ■talking with the young man, and from their manner, it was 
 evident that the conversation was intended for no other ear. 
 ■ " We ought not to leave her," said Mr. Melroy. 
 1 " We ought to leave her," said Miss May, in a decided 
 tone, and the gentleman complied. 
 
 It would be labor lost to follow home the astounded couple, 
 [as, for some reason, neither spoke until they entered Mr, 
 Loomis' parlor ; nor even then, for Miss ]\Iay betook herself to 
 her embroidery, and Mr. Melroy to the newspaper. 
 
 If our sober readers have not already shut the book, we 
 yould like to have them follow our May, our darling, bright, 
 ■frolicsome, generous-hearted May ; and learn the whole truth 
 'before they condemn her. 
 
 Joshua Miller, the owner of the hay-field, was a plain old 
 
 'farmer, that May had often seen in her uncle's store, and for 
 
 whom, indeed, 'Squire Loomis entertained a very great respect. 
 
 fin leaving the store one day, he accidentally dropped his staff, 
 
 11 
 
122 
 
 I 
 
 and our May, with the lightness of a sylph, sprang before 
 him, picked it up, and respectfully, yet with one of her mos'i 
 sparkling glances and winning smiles, placed it in the olc' 
 man's hand. Nothing can be more flattering to age that,; 
 unexpected attention paid them by the young and happy; andi 
 father Miller never forgot the pretty, bright-faced girl, whc: 
 " did not laugh at him because he was lame." When he 
 came to the store afterwards, he always brought some fragranl;. 
 delicious offering from the gardener the fields — fruits andi 
 flowers of his own gathering, and finally our May found il 
 very pleasant to extend her walks to father Miller's farm- 
 house, drink of the new milk, admire the cheese, talk of 
 economy with the old man's children, and engage in a frolic 
 with his grand-children. Her condescension pleased the good; 
 people, while her mingled mirthfulness, sweetness and good 
 sense charmed them. 
 
 These were the haymakers she had seemed so happy to 
 meet ; and the young. man who had urged her stay was Mr. 
 Day, father Miller's son-in-law. But this was not an invita- 
 tion to the farm-house. A family of Irish laborers had, with- 
 in a few days, begged to be admitted into an old log building- 
 that stood on father Miller's farm, and the good old man,i 
 thinking that he might assist them by giving them employ- 
 ment, had readily consented. But the O'Neils had travelled, 
 a long, weary way, and been obliged sometimes to sleep upon 
 the damp ground ; so that they were scarcely settled before 
 the mother and two of the children were seized with a vio- 
 lent fever. Mr. Day was anxious that our May should justi 
 look in upon the sufferers; and she, with that excessive 
 sensitiveness which often accompanies true benevolence, chose 
 rather to incur censure for foolish waywardness than to ex- 
 plain her conduct. It is often found that those who seem to 
 possess the lightest and gayest hearts, have the warmest love 
 nestling down among the flowers. These beautiful charac- 
 ters pass through the world unostentatiously, seldom recognized 
 but by the eye of Omniscience, loved by the angels, and 
 sometimes making themselves dear to some holy-hearted saint . 
 
■ OUR MAY. 123 
 
 near enough to heaven to see clearly the internal loveliness 
 of the spirit. 
 
 Our May had still another motive for silence. She knew 
 that if her cousin became aware of the situation of the fami- 
 ly, she would call a meeting of the society, and the subject 
 would be debated till assistance would come too late ; and she 
 thought that advice and sympathy, Avith the products of father 
 Miller's farm, and the physician whom the contents of her 
 own purse might place at her command, would be quite as 
 useful to the O'Neils as the Society's money. And then 
 another feeling (it could scarce be called a motive) influenced 
 our May, when she so unceremoniously sent home her com- 
 panions wondering at her eccentricity. Mr. Melroy had 
 always seemed to consider her a thoughtless, giddy child ; 
 and when any benevolent plan was broached, he invariably 
 turned to her cousin, as though he never dreamedrof consult- 
 ing her, or supposed it possible that she could be interested ; 
 and she felt a kind of pleasure in concealing from him that 
 *' lower depth," where dwelt the sacred qualities which too 
 often but bubble on the surface. In saying that our May 
 was influenced by these considerations, I do not mean to say 
 that she thought them over, or that she would have been able 
 to present them intelligibly ; she acted from a momentary 
 impulse, but the impelling principle was unconsciously made 
 up of these motives. 
 
 " No," thought the sunny-hearted May, as she went trip- 
 ping lightly homeward, after seeing the O'Neils compara- 
 tively comfortable, " No ; however lightly he may esteem me, 
 he shall never think that I parade my goodness before his eyes 
 for the sake of attracting his admiration." Then our pretty 
 May began to wonder what the sober Mr. Melroy meant about 
 her " linking a stronger chain ;" and she wondered on so 
 absorbingly that she insensibly slackened her pace and almost 
 forgot to enter when she reached her uncle's door. 
 
 The young clergyman was still in the parlor ; and although 
 Miss May commenced the usual " My dear cousin, I feel it 
 my duty to expostulate — " and although the expostulation 
 
124 OUR MAY. 
 
 was no pleasanter than ever to our May, she did not avail her* ij 
 self of the usual "Mr. Melroy — " but sat dumb, with a 
 roguishly demure expression, unparalleled by anything lat 
 the sometimes exceedingly wise air of a mischievous kitten. 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Melroy, endeavoring to smile, after 
 Miss May had three several times appealed to him for his 
 opinion, " I think that Miss Loomis (he had never called her 
 Miss Loomis before) must be allowed to be the exclusive 
 judge of her own actions, since she chooses to conceal her 
 motives from her friends." 
 
 " Some people act without motive," interrupted Miss May. ] 
 Mr. Melroy shook his head rather dissentingly. i 
 
 " Light minds are guided by impulse," pursued Miss May. i 
 ]\Ir. Melroy looked more determinedly and severely than ever, ' 
 but made no reply. 
 
 " Impulse," observed Miss May, with a wondrously wise [ 
 look, " is a very dangerous guide — don't you think so, Mr. 
 Melroy ? " 
 
 " The impulse of a bad heart." 
 
 " All hearts are depraved," continued Miss May, meekly 
 folding her white hands, and turning her eyes to the carpet. 
 
 " All happy hearts," interposed our May. 
 
 The young clergyman nodded assent ; but it was evident 
 that his thoughts were elsewhere. 
 
 " If cousin May would be but a little more sober-minded ! " 
 pursued the Cloud, after a proper pause. 
 
 Mr. Melroy glanced at the blushing, half-trembling May, 
 and appeared disconcerted. 
 
 " I know she means no harm — she is so thoughtless — but 
 don't you really think her exceedingly indiscreet, Mr. Mel- 
 roy ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, Miss Loomis," said the young clergyman, 
 with a manner of excessive embarrassment. "I — I have no 
 right to question the young lady's discretion: and if I at- 
 tempted an opinion I might speak too unguardedly." 
 
 " So then you are obliged to put a guard upon your tongue, 
 lest I should learn that you consider me a giddy, thoughtless. 
 
OUR MAY. 125 
 
 imprudent, heartless girl ; " said our May, with hasty ear- 
 nestness ; " but it is unnecessary, Mr. Melroy ; I knew your 
 opinion of me long ago." 
 
 "Then you know — "began the young pastor, and he 
 ooked still more confused. 
 
 " Then why not improve?" asked Miss May, in her very 
 kindest tone. 
 
 •>•' Because," answered May, the incorrigible, half recover- 
 ing her gayety, " because my most excellent cousin has good- 
 ness and discretion enough for both of us ; or," she added 
 glancing upward, with a sweetly sobered expression of coun- 
 tenance, " because my Father gave me a happy heart and too 
 many causes for gratitude to admit of its learning the lesson 
 of sadness." 
 
 Mr. Melroy was about to answer, but he was interrupted, 
 by a knock at the door ; and our village phj'sician entered in 
 great haste. 
 
 " I come," said he to our May, " from O'Neil's — the poor 
 woman is worse, and I am afraid she will not hold out much 
 longer. I advised them to send for a clergj^man ; but she 
 says no one can pray for her like the sweet young lady, who 
 visited her to-night. So, my dear, if you will just jump into 
 my carriage your face will do more good than my medicine." 
 
 Our May snatched her bonnet, without speaking a word, 
 or glancing at the astonished faces beside her ; and she was 
 half way to O'Neil's, before she knew that Mr. Melroy was 
 by her side, and still held the hand by which he had assisted 
 her into the carriage. For some reason, though a tremor 
 crept from the heart into that pretty prisoned hand, our May 
 cid not think proper to withdraw it ; and soon all selfish 
 thoughts were dissipated by the scene of misery upon which 
 they entered. Mrs. O'Neil was already dead ; and the Mil- 
 lers, in whose hands the kind-hearted physician had left her, 
 were endeavoring to silence the clamors of the children, and 
 striving all they could to comfort O'Neil, who, with true Irish 
 eloquence, was pouring out his lamentations over the corpse 
 of his wife. 
 
 11* 
 
126 OUR MAY. 
 
 " An' there 's the swate leddy who spake the kind word to 
 me," said one of the noisy group, springing towards our May; 
 " my milher said she was heaven's own angel, sure." 
 
 " "Well, come to me," said our May, " and I will speak to 
 you more kind words ; poor things ! you need them sorely." 
 
 The children gathered around the fair young girl, noisily 
 at first ; but, as she gradually gained their attention, their 
 clamors ceased ; and she at last made them consent to accom- 
 pany father Miller to the farm-house where it was thought 
 best for them to remain until after the funeral of their poor 
 mother. 
 
 " And you will be very good and quiet," said our May, as 
 the noisy troop were preparing to leave the hut. 
 
 " Sure an' we will," answered a bright boy, " if it be only 
 for the sake of ye'r own beautiful face, Miss." 
 
 Mr. Melroy had succeeded in administering comfort to 
 O'Neil, who at last consented to lie down and rest ; and our 
 May bent like the ministering angel that she was, over the 
 sick couch of the two children, smoothing their pillows and 
 bathing their temples. 
 
 " This is a wretched family," observed Mr. Melroy, turning 
 to Mr. Day. 
 
 " Ay, but it would have been more wretched still, if it 
 had n't been for our May. She came as willingly as the like 
 of her would walk into her uncle's parlor, the minute I made 
 her know how much she was needed ; and all these little 
 comforts are of her ordering. She sent, too, for Dr. Hough- 
 ton, and left her purse with me to pay him ; but Dr. Hough- 
 ton says he can't take money from such an angel." 
 
 " Is she always so ? " asked Melroy, in a low tone. 
 
 " Always so ! Bless your heart, don't you know she '3 
 always so, and you the minister ! Why, she is doing good 
 all the time ; she 's kind to everybody ; and no one can help 
 loving her." 
 
 " No one can help it," answered Melroy, involuntarily, and 
 glancing at our May, who was supporting the head of the 
 
OUR MAT. 127 
 
 little sufferer on her hand, while she was directing Mrs. Day- 
 how to prepare the medicine. 
 
 After the sick children had been cared for, and it was as- 
 certained that Mr. and ]\Irs. Day, with one of her sisters, 
 would remain at O'Neil's during the night. Dr. Houghton, 
 with Mr. Melroy and our May, took leave. The drive home 
 was performed in silence ; and young parson Melroy, after 
 conducting our May to her uncle's door, pressed her hand, 
 with a whispered " God bless you ! " and turned away. 
 
 In less than a twelvemonth from the death of poor Mrs. 
 O'Neil, very ominous preparations were going forward in the 
 family mansion of 'Squire Loomis. They were ended, at 
 last, by the introduction of our May to the pretty parsonage ; 
 ;and, although years have sobered her but slightly, though 
 her happy heart has still " too many causes for gratitude to 
 admit of its learning the lesson of sadness," and she still pre- 
 fers to do good privately, her husband's is far from being the 
 only heart or the only tongue to pronounce the " God bless 
 you ! " 
 
128 
 
 THE WEAVER. 
 
 A WEAVER sat before his loom, 
 
 The shuttle flinging fast, 
 And to his web a thread of doom 
 
 Was added at each cast. 
 
 His warp had been by angels spun ; 
 
 Bright was his weft and new, 
 Unbraided from life's morning sun, 
 
 Gemmed with life's morning dew. 
 
 And fresh-lipped, beautiful young flowers 
 
 In tissue rich were spread. 
 While the weaver told the joy-sped hours 
 
 By his pulse's bounding tread. 
 
 But o'er his brow a shadow crept, 
 
 And on the fabric lay ; 
 The shuttle faltered as it swept 
 
 Along its darkened way. 
 
 Gray was the faded thread it bore, 
 Dimmed by the touch of thought ; 
 
 And tear-like stains were sprinkled o'er 
 The richest broideries wrought. 
 
 Still kept the weaver weaving on, 
 Though he wove a texture gray. 
 
 Its tissued brilliance all had gone, 
 The gold threads cankered lay. 
 
 And still, with gathering mildew, grew 
 
 Yet duller every thread, 
 And mingled some of coal-black hue, 
 
 And some of bloody red. 
 
THE \\rEAVER. 129 
 
 For things most strange were woven in, 
 
 Corroding griefs and fears, — 
 And broken was the web and thin, 
 
 And it dripped with briny tears. 
 
 He longed to fling his toil aside. 
 
 But knew 't would be a sin ; 
 So the ceaseless shuttle still he plied, 
 
 Those life-cords weaving in. 
 
 And as he wove, and wept, and wove. 
 
 Fair tempters, stealing nigh, 
 With glozing words, to win him strove. 
 
 But he turned away his eye ; 
 
 He turned his aching eye to heaven. 
 
 And wearily wove on, 
 Till life's last faltering cast was given. 
 
 The fabric strange was done. 
 
 He flung it round his shoulders bowed, 
 
 And o'er his grizzled head, 
 And gathering close his trailing shrouo 
 
 Lay down among the dead. 
 
 And next I marked his robe's wide folc* 
 
 As they swept the fields of air, 
 Bright as the arc the sunlight moulds. 
 
 As angel pinions fair. 
 
 And there inwrought was each bright flower. 
 
 As when at first it spmng ; 
 The fairy work of morning's hour 
 
 In morning freshness hung. 
 
 And where a tear had left its stain 
 
 A snow-white lily lay, 
 And the leaden tracery of pain 
 
 Linked many a jewel's ray. 
 
130 
 
 THE WEAVER. 
 
 Wherever Grief's meek breath had swept 
 
 There dwelt a rich perfume, 
 And bathed in silvery moonlight slept 
 
 The sable work of gloom. 
 
 And then I prayed : — the strange web done. 
 
 To my frail fingers given, 
 Be Sorrow's stain the deepest one 
 
 To mar my robe in heaven. 
 
131 
 
 SAVE THE ERRING! 
 
 There was bustle in the little dressing-voom of young Ella 
 Lane ; a dodging about of lights, a constant tramping of a fat, 
 good-natured serving-maid, a flitting of curious, smiling little 
 girls, and a disarranging of drapery and furniture, not very 
 often occurring in this quiet, tasteful corner. An arch-looking 
 miss of twelve was standing before a basket of flowers, se- 
 lecting the choicest, and studying carefully their arrangement, 
 with parted lips and eyes demurely downcast ; as though 
 thinking of the time when the little fairy watching so intently 
 by her side, would perform the same service for her. On the 
 bed lay a light, fleecy dress of white, with silver cords and 
 slusters of silver leaves, and sashes of a pale blue, and others 
 of a still paler pink, and here and there a little wreath of 
 flowers, or a small bunch of marabouts — in short, ornaments 
 enough to crush one person, had their weight been at all pro- 
 portioned to their bulk. Immediately opposite a small pier- 
 glass, sat a girl of seventeen, in half undress, her full, round 
 arms shaded only by a fold of linen at the shoulder, and her 
 2ye resting very complacently on the little foot placed some- 
 what ostentatiously upon an ottoman before her. And, indeed, 
 that foot was a very dainty-looking thing, in its close-fitting 
 sHpper, altogether unequalled by anything but the finely 
 curved and tapered ankle so fully revealed above it. Imme- 
 diately behind the chair of the young lady, stood a fair, mild- 
 looking matron ; her slender fingers carefully thridding the 
 masses of hair mantling the ivory neck and shoulders of her 
 eldest daughter, preparatory to platting it into those long 
 braids so well calculated to display the contour of a fine head. 
 There was a smile upon the mother's lip, not like that dim- 
 pling at the corners of the mouth of the little bouquet-maker, 
 but a pleased, gratified smile, and yet half-shadowed over by 
 
132 SAVE THE ERRING. 
 
 a Strange anxiety, that she seemed striving to conceal from 
 her happy children. Sometimes her fingers paused in theii 
 graceful employment, and her eye rested vacantly wherevej 
 it chanced to fall ; and then, with an effort, the listlessnesf 
 passed, and the smile came back, though manifestly temperec 
 by some heaviness clinging to the heart. 
 
 At last the young girl M^as arrayed ; each braid in its place 
 and a wreath of purple buds falling behind the ear ; her sim 
 pie dress floating about her slight figure like an airy cloud 
 every fold arranged by a mother's careful fingers; her whit( 
 kid gloves drawn upon her hands, and fan, bouquet and ker 
 chief, all in readiness. The large, warm shawl had beer 
 carefully laid upon her shoulders, the mother's kiss was oi 
 her bright cheek, and a " don't stay late, dear," in her ear 
 she had shaken her fan at the saucy Nelly, and pinchet 
 the cheek of Rosa, and was now toying with little Susy'i 
 fingers, when the head of the serving-maid was again thrus 
 in at the door, to hasten the arrangements. Ella tripped gaih.^ 
 down stairs, but when she reached the bottom, she paused. 
 
 " I am sorry to go without you, mamma." 
 
 " I am sorry that you must, dear ; but I hope you will find 
 it very pleasant." 
 
 " It will be pleasant, I have no doubt; but, mamma, I am 
 afraid that you are not quite well, or, perhaps," she whis 
 pered, " you have something to trouble you ; if so, I shouk 
 like very much to stay with you." 
 
 " No, dear; I am well, quite well, and — " Mrs. Lane d'u 
 not say happy, for the falsehood died on her lip ; but sh( 
 smiled so cheerily, and her eye looked so clear ar.d bright a-. 
 it met her daughter's, that Ella took it for a negative. 
 
 '" Ah ! I see how it is, mamma ; you are afraid my nei? 
 frock is prettier than any of yours ; and you don't mean to bl 
 outshone by little people. Do you know, I shall tell Mrs 
 Witman all about it ? " 
 
 " I will let you tell anything that you choose, so that yot 
 do not show too much vanity ; but don't stay late. Goodi 
 night, darling." 
 
SAVE THE ERh.NG. 133 
 
 " Good-night, till sleeping-time, mamma." And, with a 
 light laugh, Ella Lane left her mother's side and sprang into 
 the carriage. 
 
 When Mrs. Lane turned from the door, the smile had en- 
 ' tirely disappeared, and an expression of anxious solicitude 
 occupied its place. While the joyous children went bound- 
 ing on before her, she paused beneath the hall lamp, and 
 
 • pulling a scrap of paper from her bosom, read — 
 
 I "Do not go out to-night, dear mother; I must see you. 
 
 i He will not come in before eleven — I will be with you at 
 
 lien." 
 
 I It was written in a hurried, irregular hand, and was with- 
 
 'out signature; but it needed none. 
 
 ! " My poor, poor boy ! " murmured the now almost weeping 
 
 i mother, as she crushed the paper in her hand and laid it 
 back upon her heart. " It may be wrong to deceive him so : 
 
 ' but how can a mother refuse to see the son she has carried 
 
 I in her arms and nursed upon her bosom ? Poor Robert ! " 
 
 ; Ay, poor Robert, indeed ! the only son of one of the proud- 
 est and wealthiest citizens of New York, and yet without a 
 
 I shelter for his head ! 
 
 Mr. Lane had lived a bachelor until the age of forty-two, 
 
 • when he married a beautiful girl of eighteen; the mother 
 : whom we have already introduced to our readers. She was 
 'gentle and complying; hence, the rigid sternness of his char- 
 acter, which so many years of loneliness had by no means 
 
 'tended to soften, seldom had an opportunity to exhibit itself. 
 
 ' But the iron was all there, though buried for a time in the 
 flowers which love had nursed into bloom above it. Thq 
 eldest of their children was a boy ; a frank, heartsome, merry 
 fellow — a lamb to those who would condescend to lead him 
 by love; but exhibiting, even in infancy, an indomitable will, 
 
 ■that occasioned the young mother many an anxious foreboding. 
 But as the boy grew toward manhood, a new and deeper 
 
 ' cause for anxiety began to appear. To Robert's gayety were 
 
 'added other qualities that made him a fascinating companion ; 
 his society was constantly sought, first by the families in 
 12 
 
134 SAVE THE ERRING. 
 
 which his parents were on terms of intimacy, and then by 
 others, and still others, till Mrs. Lane began to tremble lest 
 among her son's associates might be found some of excep- 
 tionable character. By degrees he spent fewer evenings at 
 home, went out with her less frequently, and accounted for 
 his absence less satisfactorily. Then she spoke to him upon 
 the subject, and received his assurance that all was well, that 
 she need not be troubled about his falling into bad company. 
 
 But she teas troubled. 
 
 There was at evening a wild sparkle in the boy's eye, and 
 an unnatural glow upon his cheek, that told of unhealthy 
 excitement ; but in the morning it was all gone, and his gay- 
 ety, sometimes his cheerfulness, fled with it. Oh ! what sick- 
 ness of heart can compare with that indefinable fear, that 
 foreshadowing of evil, which will sometimes creep in betweem 
 our trust and our love ; while we dare not show to the object 
 of it, much less to others, anything but a smiling lip and a. 
 serene brow. Mrs. Lane was anxious, but she confined her 
 anxiety to her own bosom ; not even whispering it to her 
 husband, lest he should ridicule it on the one hand, or, on 
 the other, exercise a severity which should lead to a collision. 
 But matters grew worse and worse constantly"; Robert was 
 now seldom home till late at night, and then he came heated 
 and flurried, and hastened away to bed, as though his moth- 
 er's loving eye were a monitor he could not meet. She 
 sought opportunities to warn him, as she had formerly done, 
 but he feared and evaded them ; and so several more weeks 
 passed by — weeks of more importance than many a life-time. 
 Finally Mrs. Lane became seriously alarmed, and consulted 
 her husband. 
 
 " I have business with you to-night, Robert," said Mr.- 
 Lane, pointedly, as the boy was going out after dinner, " and 
 will see you in the library at nine o'clock." 
 
 "I — I — have — an engagement, sir. If some other 
 hour — " 
 
 " No other hour will do. You have no engagement that 
 will be allowed to interfere with those I make for you," 
 
SAVE THE ERRING. 135 
 
 Kobert was about to answer — perhaps angrily — when he 
 caught a glimpse of his mother. Her face was of an ashy- 
 hue, and a large tear was trembling in her eye. Ho turned 
 hastily away and hurried along the hall ; but before he 
 reached the street door, her hand was upon his arm, and she 
 whispered in his ear, " Meet your father at nine, as he has 
 bidden you, Robert; and do not — for my sake, for your 
 mother's sake, dear Robert — do not say anything to exas- 
 perate him." 
 
 '• Do not fear, mother," he answered, in a subdued tone ; 
 iIkmi, as the door closed behind him, he muttered, " he will 
 If exasperated enough with little saying, if his business is 
 what I suspect. What a fool I have been — mad — mad ! 
 1 wish I had told him at first, without waiting to be driven to 
 it; but now — well, I will make one more attempt — desperate 
 it must be — and then, if the worst comes, he will only pun- 
 ish 9?ie ; that I can bear patiently, for I deserve it; but it 
 w luld kill my poor mother — oh ! he must not tell her ! " 
 
 -*Irs. Lane started nervously at every ring of the door-bill 
 tlr.it evening; and when at nine she heard it, she could not 
 i'i<rhcar stepping into the hall to see who was admitted. It 
 was her husband; and only waiting to inquire of the girl if 
 ]Mr. Robert had yet come in, he passed on to "the library. 
 jMrs. Lane found it more difficult than ever to sustain coii- 
 vi'isation; she became abstracted, nervous; and when, at last, 
 liL'r few evening visiters departed, she was so manifestly re- 
 lieved, that Ella inquired, in surprise, if anything had beon 
 said or done to annoy her. It was past ten, and Robert had 
 not j^et appeared. Finally the bell was pulled violently, and 
 she hastened to the door herself. With livid lip and blood- 
 shot eye, her son stepped to the threshold ; and, starting at 
 sight of her, he hurried away to the library, without giving 
 her another glance. How slowly passed the moments to the 
 waiting mother ! How she longed to catch but a tone of those 
 voiees, both so loved ; that she might know whether they 
 sounded in confidence or anger ! What Robert's course had 
 been she could not guess ; but she knew that he would be 
 
136 
 
 SAVE THE ERRING. 
 
 required to give a strict account of himself; and she dreaded 
 the effect of her husband's well-known severity. A few min- 
 utes passed, (they seemed an age to her,) and then she heard 
 the door of the library thrown open ; and, a moment after, a 
 quick, light step sounded upon the stairs. It was Robert's. 
 " You are not going out again, my son ? " she inquired, 
 " Father will tell you why I go, dear mother," said the 
 boy, pausing, and pressing her hand affectionately. "I must 
 not wait to answer questions now." He passed on till he 
 reached the door, then turning back, whispered, " Be at Mrs. 
 Hinman's to-morrow evening, mother," and before she had 
 time to ask a question or utter an exclamation of surprise, he 
 had disappeared up the street. 
 
 But poor Mrs. Lane was soon made acquainted with the 
 truth. Mr. Lane was somewhat vexed with himself for not 
 perceiving his son's tendency to error before ; and, like many 
 another, he seemed resolved to make up in decision what he 
 had lost by blindness. It was this which had occasioned his 
 sharpness when he made the appointmentj and he considered 
 his dignity compromised when nine o'clock passed and his 
 son seemed resolved on acting in open disobedience to his 
 command. An hour's ruminating on the subject did not tend 
 to soften his feelings ; and when, at last, the-culprit appeared, 
 he was in a mood for anything but mercy. He demanded 
 peremptorily a full confession ; and Robert gave it. He did 
 not color, soften, nor extenuate ; but boldly — too boldly, per- 
 haps — declaring that he scorned falsehood, he told the w^hole. 
 He had fallen into gay society, then into vicious ; and he was 
 not the one to occupy a minor position anywhere. Wit and 
 wine seduced him ; and in an evil hour he sat down to the 
 gamnig-table. He had played at first for a trivial stake, ihen 
 more deeply, and to-night, in the hope of retrieving his bad 
 fortune, he had plunged in almost past extrication. At any 
 time Mr. Lane would have been shocked; now he was exas- 
 perated, and spoke bitterly. At first Robert did not retort, 
 for he had come in resolved on confession and reformation ; 
 but finally repentance was drowned in anger, and he answered 
 
SAVE THE ERR11»G. 137 
 
 as a son, particularly an erring son, should not. Then a few 
 more words ensued, unreasonable on both sides ; Mr. Lane 
 asserting that debts so contracted were dishonest ones, and 
 should not be paid ; and Robert declaring that they shoidd be 
 paid, if he gamed his lifelong to win the money ; till, finally, 
 the old man's rage became uncontrollable. It was in obedi- 
 ence to his father's command that Robert left his home that 
 night, with the order never to cross the threshold again. 
 
 For two or three weeks, Mrs. Lane, now and then, of an 
 evening, met her son at the houses of her friends ; and then 
 he disappeared almost entirely. While she could meet him, 
 and speak a few words, even in a gay party, and perceive 
 that he regarded her with as much affection as ever, she con- 
 tinued strong in the hope of final reformation and reconcilia- 
 tion ; but when, evening after evening, she carried a hoping 
 heart abroad, and dragged home a disappointed one, imagi- 
 nation busied itself with a thousand horrors. Her first-born, 
 her only son, the darling of her young heart, her pride in the 
 first years of wedded life, he whom she had loved so fondly, 
 and cherished so tenderly — to what vice, what suffering, 
 might not he be exposed ! Then she had no confidant, no 
 friend to sympathize with or encourage her. Since the first 
 disclosure, she had never mentioned Robert's name to her 
 husband, and Ella knew only that some angry words had 
 estranged her father and brother for a time ; she was enviably 
 ignorant of Robert's -guilt and danger. 
 
 The evening on which our story commences, Mrs. Lane 
 had intended to spend abroad with her daughter; but had 
 been prevented by the receipt of the note above mentioned. 
 Robert had never been home since he was commanded to 
 leave it ; and though anxious both about the cause and result, 
 she could not but he rejoiced at the thought of seeing him 
 again in her own private sitting-room. She had many things, 
 too, to learn. She wished to know where he lived, how he 
 supported himself, and what were his intentions for the future. 
 And she wished to expostulate with and advise him ; — in 
 \2* 
 
13S 
 
 SAVE THE BERING. 
 
 short, her mother's heart told her that everything could be 
 done in that one evening. I 
 
 While Mrs. Lane walked up and down her little sitting- i 
 room, wishing that ten o'clock would come, her son entered | 
 his small, scantily furnished apartment in a decent boarding- 
 house, and throwing himself upon the only chair within it, he ; 
 covered his face with his hands. For a long time he sat in ; 
 this position ; then he arose, and taking down a pocket-pistol, I 
 examined it carefully, primed it, and laid it beneath his pil- ' 
 low. Immediately, however, he took it out, charged it heav- |j 
 ily, and laying it on the table, folded his arms and gazed upon t 
 it, muttering, " It may be needed when I least expect it. I 
 have one friend, at least, while this is by." After pacing two 
 or three times across the narrow space between his bed-head 
 and the little window at the foot, he opened the door of a 
 small closet, and taking thence a cloak and muffler, carefully j 
 adjusted them ; then slouching a broad-brimmed hat over his 
 eyes, he hurried down the stairs into the street. Two or 
 three times Robert Lane paused and reasoned with himself, 
 before he reached his father's door ; and even when his hand 
 was extended to the bell-knob, he hesitated. 
 
 " I must see her, at any risk," he at last exclaimed, pulling 
 lightly upon the cord. 
 
 The girl started when she opened the door, but gave no 
 other token of recognition. Robert inquired for Mrs. Lane ; 
 and following after the girl, found himself in the back sitting- 
 room, remembered but too, too fondly for his composure. As 
 S0C1 as the door closed behind him, he cast off his mufflings, 
 and throwing himself upon a little ottoman at his mother's 
 feet, leaned his forehead on her knees. 
 
 " Is it any new trouble, Robert ? " she inquired, tenderly, ; 
 and laying her hand gently on his head, *' any new — guilt ? " 
 she whispered, bending her lips close to his ear, and placing 
 the other arm over his neck. 
 
 " Tell your mother, Robert — tell her everything — she 
 may help you — she will — oh, Robert ! you know she will 
 love you, and cling to you through it all ! " 
 
SAVE THE ERRING. 139 
 
 The boy raised his head, and now she saw, for the first 
 time, the change that had come over him. His face was 
 haggard, his eye sunk and bloodshot, that round, rosy cheek, 
 which her lip had loved to meet, had grown pale and thin, 
 and, in place of the gay, careless smile, had risen looks of 
 anxiety and bitterness. 
 
 " I shall break your heart, mother," he said, sorrowfully, 
 " and poor little Ella's, too. Oh ! it is a dreadful thing to 
 murder those one loves best. I never meant to do it — try 
 to believe that, dear mother, whatever comes." 
 
 " I do believe it, Robert." 
 
 " Ah! you know only a small part yet; but I could not go 
 away without seeing and telling you. I knew you would 
 learn it from others, and I wanted to hear you say you could 
 love me after all. I knew you would, but I wanted to hear 
 you say it." 
 
 " I will, Robert, I will ; but surely you have nothing worse 
 to tell than I know already ! " 
 
 The boy looked down ; his lip quivered, and the large 
 purple veins upon his forehead worked themselves into knots, 
 and rose and fell as though ready to burst at every throb. 
 
 She passed her hand soothingly over them. 
 
 " Whatever it is, Robert, you are not before a harsh judge 
 now. Tell it to your mother, my darling boy ; perhaps she 
 can assist, advise — she certainly can love you through all." 
 
 " Oh,. mother! you must not speak so, or I can never tell 
 you. If you talk like this — if you do not blame me, I shall 
 almost wish I had gone away without seeing you. Oh! if I 
 had only listened to you six months ago! but they flattered 
 me, and I was foolish, I was wicked. But I thought of you 
 all the time, mother — of you and Ella — and I promised 
 myself, every night when I went to my pillow, that I would 
 break away from the things that were entangling me, and 
 become all that you desired. I was not conscious then of 
 doing anything decidedly wrong ; but I knew that my com- 
 panions were not such as you would approve, and I knew — 
 I could but know — that I was too rauch intoxicated by their 
 
140 
 
 SAVE THE ERRING. 
 
 flatteries. At last I resorted to cards; I played very cau- 
 tiously at first, and only to do as others did, then for larger 
 sums, and again still larger ; till finally it became my sole 
 object to recover the moneys I had lost, and thus prevent the 
 necessity of applying to my father for more. I still lost, and 
 still went on, till finally the discovery, which, I believe, dear 
 mother, all in kindness, you brought about, was made. Per- 
 haps I was in the wrong, but, mother, it did seem to me dis- 
 honorable to refuse to pay those debts which — " 
 
 " Your father was angry, or he would not have refused. 
 You tried his patience, Robert, and then, I fear, you were 
 more bold than conciliatory." 
 
 " I made one more attempt to better my fortunes that even- 
 ing, and the time passed before I was aware of it ; I prom- 
 ised — I told them — those scoffers, mother — that it was my 
 last evening among them ; I promised myself so, and repeated 
 it to my father; and I would have kept my promise — I would. 
 But you know how it turned. Then I was desperate." 
 
 Mrs. Lane trembled, and passed her arm caressingly about 
 his neck, as though to reassure him. " I met you sev< 
 times after that, Robert, arti you did not seem so very > 
 happy." 
 
 " I was determined to have the money, mother, and I got ii ." 
 
 "How, Robert?" 
 
 " Not honestly." 
 
 The boy's voice was low and husky; and his hand, af' it 
 closed over his mother's while his forehead again rested on 
 her knees, was of a death-like chilliness. 
 
 A faintness came over her, a horrid feeling went curdling 
 round her heart, and she felt as though her breath was going ' 
 away from her. But the cold hand was freezing about hers, 
 the throbbing forehead rested on her knees, and every sob, as ^ 
 it burst forth uncontrolledly, fell like a crushing weight upon 
 her bosom. It was the mother's pitying heart, that, subduing ' 
 its own emotions, enabled her again to articulate, though in a 1 
 low whisper, " How, Robert ? " 
 
 " By forgery. No matter for the particulars — I could not 
 
SAVE THE ERRING. 14l 
 
 k 
 
 tell them now, and you could not hear. To-morrow all wiW 
 be discovered, and I must escape. Such fear, such agony — 
 oh, mother ! what have I not endured ? No punishment men 
 can inflict will ever be half so heavy. I deserve it, though 
 — all, and ten thousand times more. But I never meant it 
 should come to this, mother; believe me, I never did. I 
 meant to pay it before now, and I thought I could. I have 
 won some money, but not half — scarce a tithe of what I 
 ought to have, so there is nothing left but flight and disgrace. 
 You do not answer me, mother ; I knew I should break your 
 heart, I knew — " 
 
 Mrs. Lane made a strong effort, and murmured brokenly, 
 
 *' To-morrow — to-morrow ! Oh ! my poor, ruined boy I " 
 
 " I know that after deeds cannot compensate, mother ; but 
 if a life of rectitude, if — " Robert paused suddenly and 
 started to his feet. " I know that step, mother ! " 
 
 " Hush, my son, hush ! " Mrs. Lane had time for no more 
 before her husband entered the apartment. A cloud instantly 
 overspread his countenance. 
 
 " You here, sirrah ! What business brings you to the 
 home you have desecrated ? " * 
 
 " I came to see my mother, sir." 
 
 " Nay," interposed the lady, anticipating the storm that 
 seemed gathering on her husband's brow, " let the fault be 
 mine. He is my oa\ti child, and I must see him — a little 
 while — you cannot refuse to leave me a little while Mnth my 
 o\vn boy." 
 
 ' It is the last time, then," said Mr. Lane, sternly. 
 
 ' The last time ! " echoed Robert, in a tone of mocking 
 bitterness. 
 
 " The last time ! " whispered the white lips of the mother, 
 as though she had but that moment comprehended it ; and, as 
 the door closed upon the retreating form of her husband, she 
 slid to the floor, lightly and unresistingly. Robert did not 
 attempt to call for assistance ; but he raised her head to his 
 bosom, and covered her pale face with his boyish tears. 
 
 ** I have killed her ! my poor, poor mother ! " he sobbed. 
 
142 SAVE THE BERING. 
 
 " That / should be such a wretch ! I! her son ! — with all 
 her care and with all her love ! Oh ! if they had but given 
 me a coffin for a cradle ! A grave theri would have been a 
 blessed thing ; but it is too late now, too late I " 
 
 Mrs. Lane was awakened by the warm tears raining upon 
 her face ; and, starting up wildly, she entreated him to be 
 gone. ** Every moment is precious ! " she exclaimed, gasp- 
 ingly. " You may not make your escape if you do not go 
 now. Oh, Robert ! promise me — on your knees, before 
 your mother, and in the sight of your God, promise, my poor 
 boy, that you tvill forsake the ways of vice, that you will 
 become an honorable and a useful man — promise this, Rob- 
 ert, and then go ! Your mother, who has gloried, who has 
 doted on you, entreats you to be gone from her forever !" 
 
 " I cannot go to-night, mother. I waited to see you, and i 
 so lost the opportunity ; but there is no danger. It is too late 
 to take a boat now. I shall go to some of the landings above 
 when I leave here, and in the morning go aboard the first boat 
 that passes." 
 
 Again the mother required the promise of reformation 
 and it was given earnestly and solemnly. Then he again sat 
 down on the ottoman at her feet; and, with one hand laid- 
 lovingly upon his head, and the other clasped in both of his, 
 she spent an hour in soothing, counselling, and admonishing 
 him. So deeply were both engaged, that neither the merry J 
 voice of Ella in the door- way, nor her step along the hall,! 
 reached them. 
 
 " Has my mother retired ? " was her first inquiry. 
 
 " No, miss ; she is in the back sitting-room," and before' 
 the girl could add that she was engaged with a stranger, Ellai 
 had bounded to the door, and flung it wide open. 
 
 " Robert I — you here, Robert ! If I had only knoAvn it, I{ 
 should have been home long ago. So you are sorry you 
 quarrelled with papa, and you have come back to be a good 
 boy, and go out with me when I want a nice beau, and all 
 that ! Well, it does look natural to see you here." 
 
 As the young girl spoke she cast hood and shawl upon the' 
 
SAVE THE ERRING. 143 
 
 floor ; and, with one bared arm thrown carelessly over her 
 brother's shoulder, she crouched at her mother's feet, looking 
 into her eyes with an expression which seemed to say, " Now 
 tell me all about it. You must have had strange doings this 
 evening." 
 
 But neither Mrs. Lane nor Robert spoke. The boy only 
 strained his sister convulsively to his heart ; while the poor 
 mother covered her own face with her hands to hide the tears, 
 which, nevertheless, found their way between her jewelled 
 fingers. 
 
 The eyes of the fair girl turned from one to another in 
 amazement ; then, pressing her lips to the cheek of her 
 brother, she whispered, 
 
 " What is it, Robin ? Has papa refused to let you come 
 back ? I will ask him ; I will tell him you must come, and 
 then you will, for he never refused me anything. Don't cry, 
 mamma ; I will go up stairs now, and have it settled. Papa 
 cannot say no to me, of course, for I have on the very dress 
 he selected himself, and he said I should be irresistible in it. 
 I will remind him of that." 
 
 ' Alas! my poor Ella!" sobbed Mrs. Lane, " this trouble 
 is too great for you to settle. Our Robert has come home 
 now for the last time — we part from him to-night forever." 
 
 ' Forever ! " and Ella's cheek turned as pale as the white 
 glove which she raised to push back the curls from her fore- 
 head. 
 
 ' Yes, forever" answered Robert, calmly, " I will tell you 
 all about it, Ella. You seem not to know that it was some- 
 thing worse than a quarrel which lost me my home. I had 
 contracted debts — improperly, wickedly — and my father 
 refused to pay them. I obtained the money for the purpose, 
 and now, Ella, I must escape or — or — " 
 
 " How did you get the money, Robert ? " 
 
 The boy answered in a whisper. 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed Ella, springing to her feet and speak- 
 ing almost scornfully ; " you, Robert Lane ! wy brother ! Is 
 it so, mamma ? is my brother a villain, a forger, is he — " 
 
144 SAVE THE ERRING. 
 
 " Hush, Ella, hush ! " interrupted Mrs. Lane. " It is foi 
 those who have hard hearts to condemn — not for thee, my 
 daughter. There will be insults enough heaped upon lii; 
 poor head to-morrow — let him at least have love and pitj 
 here." 
 
 " Pity ! Whom did he pity or love when he deliberately — ' 
 
 " Ella ! Ella ! " again interposed Mrs. Lane, almost sternly 
 
 " Nay, mother," said the boy, in a tone of touching mourii' 
 fulness, " do not blame poor Ella. She does right to despise 
 me. I have outraged her feelings, and disgraced her name 
 She deserves pity, and she will need it, when people point a 
 her and say what her brother is. I have forfeited all claiir.i 
 even to that. Oh, mother! why did you not let me die ir j 
 that last sickness ? it would have saved a world of woe." I 
 
 Ella stood for a moment, her head erect, and her lip whitf ' 
 and tremulous, while tears came crowding to her eyes, an(3 
 her face worked with emotion ; the next she threw herself 
 into the arms of her brother. ^ 
 
 " Forgive me, Robin ! my own dear, darling brother ! I di^ 
 pity you ! I do love you, and will forever ! But, oh ! it is s; 
 horrible thing to be a forger's sister ! I cannot forget that 
 Robert, and I vi%cst say it, if it break your heart to hear mej 
 it is horrible ! horrible ! " 
 
 " It is horrible, Ella ; I never thought to bring it upon yom 
 but — " 
 
 " Why are you here, Robert ? Will they not find you, and 
 drag you — oh, mamma ! where shall we hide him ? — whai 
 can we do ? " i 
 
 It was several minutes before Ella could be made to com-' 
 prehend the absence of immediate danger; and then she 
 insisted on hearing all the particulars of the crime, evet.j^, 
 though poor Robert appeared to be on the rack while giving.., 
 them. She loved her brother dearly, and was distressed fot ;, 
 him ; but she thought too of herself, and the disgrace of heiL 
 family; hers was not a mother's meek, affectionate heart; aj;, 
 mother's all-enduring, self-sacrificing nature. At last she 
 started up eagerly. 
 
SAVE THE ERRING. 145 
 
 " The disgrace may be avoid 3d ; papa will of course shield 
 his own name ; I will go to hini directly." 
 
 " But the sin, my child, the conscious degradation ? " in- 
 quired Mrs. Lane, with reproof in her mild eye. " What 
 will you do with that, Ella ?" 
 
 " Poor Robert ! " whispered the girl, again folding her 
 white arms about him ; " he is sorry for what he has done ; 
 and our kind Heavenly Father is more ready to forgive than 
 we. You will never do such a wicked thing again, dear 
 Robin, will you?" 
 
 Robert answered only by convulsive sobs, and Ella, too, 
 sobbed for a few moments in company ; then, suddenly break- 
 ing away from him, she hurried up the stairs. Along the 
 hall she went, as fast as her trembling feet could carry her, 
 and past the room in which she had been so happy while wil- 
 ling hands decorated her pretty person ; but when she reached 
 her father's door, she paused in dread. She could hear his 
 hea^y, monotonous tramp as he Avalked up and down the 
 room ; and, remembering his almost repulsive sternness, she 
 dreaded meeting him. " If I had only knowm it before," 
 thought Ella, " all might have been avoided ; but now it is 
 almost too much to ask." A fresh burst of tears had no ten- 
 dency to calm her ; and she could scarce support her trembling 
 'frame, when, repeating to herself, " he must be saved ! " she 
 gathered courage to open the door. The old man paused in 
 'his promenade, and fixed his troubled eye sternly on the in- 
 ftruder, while Ella rushed forward, and, twining her arms 
 labout him, buried her face in his bosom. 
 ' " Oh I I am so wretched ! " she exclaimed, all her courage 
 iforsaking her on the instant ; and then she sobbed, as Mr. 
 I Lane had never supposed his daughter could. But he did 
 flot attempt to quiet her ; he only drew her closer to him, as 
 "though he would thus have shielded her from the wretched- 
 ness that was bursting her young heart. At last Ella broke 
 forth, " Come down and see Robert, papa ; come and save 
 him. They will drag him away to prison for forgery, and 
 l^cu will be the father of a coudemmed criminal, and I hia 
 13 
 
146 SAVE TIYE ERRING. 
 
 sister. Oh ! do not let him go away from us so, papa — 
 come down and see him, and you will pity him — you can- 
 not help it." 
 
 " Forgery, Ella ! he has not — " 
 
 " He has! and you must save him, papa, for your own sake 
 for all our sakes." 
 
 " Do you know this, Ella ? It is not true — it is a misera- 
 ble subterfuge to wheedle money from his mother — money 
 O squander amor.g the vile wretches whom he has preferred 
 to us. No, send him back to his dissolute — " 
 
 "Is that the way to make him better, papa?" inquired 
 Ella, raising her head and fixing her sparkling eye upon him 
 resolutely. " You sent him back to them before ; you shut 
 him away from yourself and from mamma — you closed the 
 door upon my only brother — there was none by to say, ' take 
 care, Robin,' none to give him a smile but those who were 
 leading him to ruin ; and no wonder that they have mado 
 him what he is. Be careful, papa. Robert has committed a 
 crime, a dreadful crime ; but it was when you, who should 
 have prevented it, had shut your heart against him, when we, 
 who might have prevented it, were obliged to go abroad to 
 see him, and then could give him no more than a few stolen 
 words. It was not just to keep me in ignorance so long, for 
 he is my own brother, and only one little year older than I ; 
 but I know all about it nowj and if Robert is put in prison, 1 
 had almost as lief be in his place as yours." 
 
 " Ella ! Ella ! " 
 
 " I should, papa. I know that one like you cannot do 
 \VTong without feeling remorse ; and when you reflect that poor 
 Robert might have been saved, if you had only had more 
 patience with him, you will never sleep peacefully again." 
 
 " Ella, my child," said the old man, cowering in spite of 
 himself, " what has come over you ? Who has set you up 
 to talk in this way to your father ? I suppose I am to be 
 answerable for this impertinence, too." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! you know this is not impertinence. I have a 
 right to say it, for the love I bear my only brother ; you know 
 
SAVE THE ERKING. 147 
 
 that my own heart is all which has set me up lo it, and yoiu 
 heart, dear papa, is saying- the same thing. You vmst forgive 
 Robert, and you mmt save him and us the disgrace of an 
 exposure." 
 
 " I will avert the disgrace while I have the power, Ella, but 
 that will not be long, if he goes on at this rate. Do you 
 Ivnow t He amount of money he asks ? " 
 
 " He asks none — I ask for him the sum that you refused 
 before." 
 
 " Ah ! he has gained the victory, then. Well, tell him to 
 enjoy his villanous triumph. Give him that, and say to him, 
 that if he has any decency left he will drop a name which 
 has never been stained but by him, and leave us to the little 
 peace we may glean, after he has trampled our best feelings 
 under foot." 
 
 " Thank you, papa ; and may I not tell him you for^ve 
 him ?" 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " That you pity him ?" 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " May I not say that when he is reformed he may come 
 back to us, and be received with open arms and hearts ? " 
 
 " Say nothing but what I bid you, and go ! " 
 
 Ella turned away with a sigh. She had scarcely closed 
 the door when a deep, heavy groan broke upon her ear, and 
 sne paused. Anothej and another followed, so heart-rending, 
 so agonized, that she grew faint with fear. For a moment 
 her hand trembled upon the latch ; and then she raised it, 
 and, gliding up to her father, folded her arms about him, and 
 pressed her lips to his. 
 
 " Forgive me, dear papa, forgive your own Ella her first 
 unkind words. I was thinking only of poor Robert, and did 
 not well know what I said. I am sorry — very sorry — can- 
 not you forgive me, papa ? " 
 
 " Yes, child, yes. Good-night, darling! — there, go !" 
 
 "And Robert?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
148 SAVE THE ERRING. 
 
 " You will feel better if you see him, papa." 
 
 "Go! go!" 
 
 Again Ella turned from the door and hurried down the 
 stairs. Still the boy sat with his face in his mother's lap, and 
 his arms twined about her waist. Both started at sight of her 
 slight figure, dressed, as it was, for a different scene from this. 
 The pale, anxious face, looking out from the rich masses of 
 curls now disarranged and half drawn back behind her ear, 
 appeared as though long years had passed over it in that one 
 half hour. Poor Ella ! it was a fearful ordeal for glad, buoy 
 ant seventeen. 
 
 " There is the money, Robert," she said, flinging the purse 
 upon the table, " and now you must go back with me and say 
 to our father that you are sorry you have made him mis- 
 erable." 
 
 " He will turn me from the door, Ella." 
 
 " And do you not deserve it ? " 
 
 " Ella ! " interposed the tender mother. 
 
 " I do ; that and more. But perhaps he will think I come 
 to mock him." 
 
 " Your manner and words will tell him. for what you come. 
 You have very nearly killed our poor father, Robert. I have 
 seen his grey hairs to-night almost as low as the gi'ave will 
 lay them. I have seen him in such agony as none of us are 
 capable of enduring. You ought to go to him, Robert — go 
 on your knees, and, whatever he says to you, you will have j 
 no right to complain." 
 
 Ella, child ! Ella ! " exclaimed Mrs. Lane. " You have 
 too much of your father's spirit — that is, too much for a 
 woman. Beware how you 'break the bruised reed.' " 
 
 " Ella is right, mother," said the boy, rising. " I will go 
 to him — I will tell him how wretched I have made myself; 
 how I wish that I could take the whole load of wretchedness, 
 and relieve those I love. I will promise him to look out some 
 humble corner of the earth and hide myself in it, away from 
 his sight forever. Perhaps he will bid me earn his confidence 
 by years of rectitude — perhaps he will, but, if he does not, 
 
SAVE THE ERRING. 149 
 
 Ella is right — whatever he says to nic, if he curse me, I 
 shall have no right to complain." 
 
 " But / will complain, Robin ! " exclaimed the girl, with a 
 fresh burst of tears ; " and wherever you go, I will go with 
 you. Poor, dear papa ! But he shall not separate us — we, 
 who have sat upon his knee at the same time — his own dar- 
 .ing children ! I will never stay here while you are without a 
 home, Robin." 
 
 The excited girl clasped both hands over her brother's arm 
 and led the way up stairs ; while the trembling mother fol- 
 lowed, praying in her heart that the interview might termi- 
 nate more favorably than her fears promised. 
 
 When they entered Mr. Lane's room, the old man sat in 
 his armed chair, leaning over a table, and resting his fore- 
 head upon his clasped hands. Books were scattered around, 
 but they had evidently not been used that evening; there was 
 1 glass of water standing beside him, and his neck-cloth was 
 ncd as though from faintness. Had his hair become 
 r, and his vigorous frame bended within a few days? 
 I <• rtainly seemed so; and the heart of the erring boy was 
 stricken at the sight. The sorrow that he had brought upon 
 lis mother and sister had been duly weighed ; but his stern 
 ather had never been reckoned among the sufferers. 
 
 A loud, convulsive sob burst from his bosom, and he threw 
 limself, without a word, at the old man's feet. The mother 
 Irew near and joined her son ; meanwhile, raising her pale 
 "ace pleadingly to her husband's ; and Ella, first kissing her 
 'ather's hand, and bathing it with a shower of warm tears 
 )laced it on Robert's head. 
 
 " You forgive him, papa — you forgive poor Robin? He 
 hall never act wickedly again ; and he is your only son." 
 
 The old man strove to speak, but the words died in his 
 hroat ; again he made a strong effort, but emotion overmas- 
 ered him ; and, sliding from his chair into the midst of the 
 roup, he extended his arms, enclosing all of them, and, bow- 
 ag his head to the shoulder of his son, wept aloud. 
 
 " Stay with us, Robert ! " he at last said ; " we can none of 
 12* 
 
150 SIVE THE ERRING. 
 
 US live without you. Stay, and make yourself worthy of the 
 love that forgives so much ! " 
 
 Men never knew by what a very hair had once hung Rob- 
 ert Lane's welfare ; that a mere breath alone had stood be- 
 tween him and ignominy. Years after, when he was an hon- 
 ored and respected citizen, adorning his brilliant talents by 
 virtues as rare as they were ennobling, no one knew why he 
 should turn ever to the erring with encouraging words. The 
 key-stone of his generous forbearance was buried in the hearts 
 of three, and they all loved him. It was buried ; but yet a 
 white-haired old man, who watched his course with an eagle- 
 eye, and followed his footsteps dotingly, receiving always the 
 most refined and deferential attention, might often have been 
 heard muttering to himself, with proud and wondering affec- 
 tion, " ' This my son was dead and is alive again ; he was lost 
 and is found.' " 
 
161 
 
 MY UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 •' I WOULD n't take the liberty to say it, but that I like 
 you, Doctor," said Squire Boulter to my Uncle Stilling, " I 
 would n't say it, but that I like you ; but, really, to see a man 
 of your talent wasting life in this way is enough to make the 
 very stones cry out." 
 
 " I am never idle. Squire." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but you do such useless things, and so 
 much for other people. A man ought to think a little of his 
 own flesh and blood, now and then." 
 
 " I look well to the wants of my family, I am sure." 
 
 Squire Boulter shook his head. 
 
 *' They never go hungry." 
 
 " Oh, of course not." 
 
 " Nor cold." 
 
 " I have n't charged you with being an unfeeling man, 
 Doctor ; I know you provide for your family comfortably — 
 comfortably in one sense — though I think something beside 
 food and clothing necessary to comfort ; but remember the 
 rainy day ' — the ' rainy day,' Doctor." 
 
 " That will be quite sufficient when it comes. ' The mor- 
 row will take thought for the things of itself,' says the Scrip- 
 ture ; and I do not wish to hasten, by premature care, the evil 
 day." 
 
 " Ah, but Doctor, that is the sluggard's creed." 
 
 " The text I have given you ? " 
 
 " Your application of it. Just use a little common sense, 
 sharpened by your own observation. Supposing you should 
 be taken dangerously ill — say to-morrow ? " 
 
 ** I have plenty of medicine." 
 
 " And be for six months helpless ? ' 
 
 " Mistress Stilling is an admirable nurse ; as I believe you 
 have had occasion to know." 
 
152 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 There is a melancholy pleasure in turning over the records 
 of genius, and familiarizing ourselves with the secret workings 
 of those minds that have, from time to time, made memorable 
 the ages in which they lived, and ennobled the several na- 
 tions which gave them birth. But it is not the indulgence of 
 this feeling which makes such a study peculiarly profitable to 
 us : from these records we may learn much of the philosophy 
 of the human ' mind in its most luxurious developments. 
 Genius seems to be confined to no soil, no government, no 
 age or nation, and no rank in society. When men lived in 
 wandering tribes, and could boast no literature, the bright 
 flame burned among them, although wild and often deadly its 
 ray ; and the foot of oppression, which crushes all else, has 
 failed to extinguish it. Hence it has rashly been inferred 
 that this peculiar gift, possessed by the favored few, may be 
 perfected without any exertion on their part, and is subject to 
 none of the rules which in all other cases govern intellect ; 
 but that, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, it must burst forth 
 when and where it will, and be burned up in the blaze of its 
 own glory, leaving but the halo of its former brightness 
 upon the historic page. This inference, however, is alike 
 erroneous and dangerous. Though genius be an unsought 
 gift, a peculiar emanation from the Divine Mind, it was not 
 originally intended as a glorious curse, to crush the spirit 
 which it elevates. Perchance the pent-up stream within the 
 soul must find an avenue ; but he who bears the gift may 
 choose that avenue, — may direct, control and divert; he may 
 scatter the living waters on a thousand objects, or pour their 
 whole force upon one ; he may calm and purify them, by this 
 means rendering them none the less deep, or he may allow 
 
GENIUS. 153 
 
 them to clash and foam until, however they sparkle, the dark 
 sediments of vice and misery thus made to mingle, may be 
 found in every gem. 
 
 Let us turn to the oft-quoted names of Byron and Burns 
 — names that can scarcely be mentioned by the admirers of 
 genius without a thrill of pain. To the poor ploughman on 
 the banks of the Doon was sent the glorious talisman, and 
 with it he unlocked the portals of nature, and read truths even 
 in the flower overturned by his ploughshare, unseen by corn- 
 men eyes. But mark his veering course ; think of his (com- 
 paratively) wasted energies. He could love the wild flowers 
 in the braes and the sunlight on the banks of his " bonny 
 Doon ;" he could, at least at one time, smile at his lowly lot ; 
 and he ever contended against fortune with a strong and 
 fearless hand. But while the polished society of Edinburgh 
 owned his po\*er, and he swayed the hearts of lads and lass- 
 es of his own degree at will, he could not control himself; 
 and many of those light songs, which are now on gladsome 
 lips, might, could we enter into the secrets of the poor bard, 
 be but the sad way-marks of the aching heart, as it grew each 
 day heavier till it sank into the grave. Burns, the light- 
 hearted lover of his " Highland Mary," and Burns, the care- 
 worn exciseman, were very difierent persons ; but neither 
 outward circumstances nor the genius that characterized both 
 alike, was the cause. The world has been blamed in his case ; 
 but the world, after it first noticed, could have done nothing 
 to save. The poet, had he known his moral strength and 
 cared to exert it, could have saved himself, as his superiority 
 to many of the foibles and prejudices of human nature and 
 his manly independence on many occasions evinced. 
 
 Byron, like his own archangel ruined guiding a fallen son 
 of clay in his search after mysteries, has delved among hidden 
 treasures and spread before us the richest gems of Helicon ; 
 but scarce one of these but is dark in its glory, and, although 
 burning with all the fire of heaven-born poesy, sends forth a 
 mingled and dangerous ray. But had a mother whispered 
 her pious counsels in his ear in boyhood ; had a friendly finger 
 
154 MY UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 " To poor Miller ? " 
 
 " To ymi." 
 
 " Well, he wants the farm, and I don't." 
 
 " You might get a tenant ; and the profits, without any 
 trouble to yourself, would take Harry through college." 
 
 " And Miier ? " 
 
 " He must look out for himself. Every man for himself, 
 and success to the sharpest." 
 
 " Success to the truest and the neediest, say I." 
 
 " Well, with your two boys, I don't see but you need the 
 farm about as much as Miller ; and though, to be sure, you 
 don't like to be praised, I wonder where 's the neighbor who 
 would speak his name in the same day with yours, for good- 
 ness." 
 
 "I should be a villain, though, to deprive him of his 
 rights." 
 
 " Well, that depends upon the way you view the matter 
 
 " There is but one way I should care to view it — a straight- 
 forward, honest way." 
 
 " I hope you don't think I would recommend anything dis- 
 honest. Doctor ?" 
 
 " Um ! there are different notions about things." 
 
 " And your notions, let me tell you, are not business 
 notions, at all." , 
 
 " But they would lead me to do as I would be done by." 
 
 " Now, in this case, your squeamishness really leads you 
 to do a wrong to your children. Miller's farm is in fact your 
 own property. You have the law on your side, and if you 
 should carry your account into any court of justice — " 
 
 " Then I will go home and burn my accounts. God forbid 
 that I should keep anything under my roof possessing the 
 power to deprive an unfortunate man of his just rights." 
 
 " There are but few men like you. Doctor." 
 
 " There are not many who would act differently in this 
 case, I trust." 
 
 " Ah, well-a-day ! If the world were all so — but it is n t 
 — it is n't, my dear Doctor ; and such men as you fare hard 
 in it." 1 
 
MY UNCLE STILLING. 155 
 
 " Doctor Stilling is a fool," said Squire Boulter to nis gay 
 lady wife, about an hour afterwards. 
 
 " I have always thought so," was the quiet response. 
 
 " Mad ! stark mad ! " 
 
 " And yet you have worried me to death about calling on 
 his dowdy wife, and — " 
 
 " They are strange people, I acknowledge it; and yet I 
 can't help liking them. If he would exercise a little common 
 sense I " 
 
 " If there is a man on earth whom I perfectly detest, Mag- 
 gy, it is Squire Boulter," said my Uncle Stilling, settling 
 himself comfortably in his leather-cushioned chair, with a 
 volume of Seneca in his hand, and a pipe between his lips. 
 
 " Detest ! Why, I thought that you and the Squire were 
 great friends. You always stand up for him, I am sure, 
 when I just happen to mention any of his faults." 
 
 ' Ay, Maggy ; the Squire is a good neighbor — a very 
 good neighbor — I will say that for him, any day; and a 
 kind man, too, he is — sometimes; but his knavish spirit I do 
 detest." 
 
 " Then you do think he is knavish," said my aunt, her 
 bright little black eyes twinkling with a rather naughty kind 
 of satisfaction. "When I said it, the day Mrs. Boulter flour- 
 ished her elegant new cashmere, you thought I went quite 
 too far, and laid it all to envy." 
 
 " Ah, Maggy, dear ! and did n't I name the cause aright ? 
 But I will give thee a better one now. If a sight of Madam 
 Boulter's finery could stir thee up to say severe things of her 
 husband, what wouldst thou think, Maggy, of an attempt to 
 make me just such another unprincipled villain ? " 
 
 My aunt seemed much less shocked at the mention of the 
 liabolical scheme than her good lord had anticipated; her 
 jnly reply being, " Pretty hard names for a neighbor to make 
 jse of, Walter Stilling." 
 
 " Ay, they are hard names, Maggy ; and really I must 
 earn to think more before I speak ; but still I am not sura 
 
156 MY UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 that they are undeserved. We all have our faults thougl 
 and — well — yes — I am glad you checked me, Maggj 
 The Squire may be no worse than the rest of us, after all." 
 
 " He is a very grasping man, though." 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " What does he Avant you to do ? " '^ I 
 
 " Collect all that my patients owe me." 
 
 •' A very sensible thing," remarked my Aunt Stilling. 
 
 " Well, there are the Shepards — " 
 
 " Oh, the Shepards are poor — they can't pay." 
 
 " I might take the cow." 
 
 " The cow ! the cow ! How came such a villanous ide; 
 as that to enter your head, Walter Stilling?'' 
 
 " Squire Boulter put it there." 
 
 " Oh ! ah — yes, I dare say; that is the way his wife floui 
 ishes in so much finery, by distressing the poor. Thanl' 
 Heaven, somebody that I could name, has n't her conscienci 
 to keep her awake o' nights." 
 
 " Then I hope somebody that I could name, finds a com 
 for table woollen shawl a very comely thing, dear Maggy." 
 
 " There are more people than the Shepards who owe you,' 
 'said my Aunt Stilling, emphatically. 
 
 " Yes, little Amelia Strong." 
 
 " Pooh, Doctor ! you are only making fun now. Squirti 
 Boulter himself would n't be mean enough to take a friend- 
 less school-mistress' wages away from her, because, poo); 
 thing, she chanced to fall sick." 
 
 " She managed to swallow an immense quantity of mjfi 
 costliest kind of medicine." 
 
 " Pooh ! " 
 
 •' And we had to get an extra help on her account." 
 
 " Oh, Betsey Loud needed the wages, and I was glad to 
 find work for her." 
 
 " Then you fell sick watching over her, and had that long 
 severe fever." 
 
 " I might have had it any way. But I hope you don't 
 expect. Doctor, that poor Amelia Strong's money can pay for 
 my sickness." 
 
MV UNCLE STILLING. 157 
 
 " Well, then, there are the Lambs." 
 
 " Oh, darling little EfTie died ; all your medicine could n't 
 save her, and they are broken-hearted about it." 
 " They are well able to pay." 
 
 " Yes, but somehow folks never think of paying you. I 
 do wonder some at the Lambs, though. I should suppose 
 they would say something about it — you were with them so 
 night and day." 
 
 " I might send in my bill." 
 
 " I would n't do it. Doctor ; no, no, better lose it a dozen 
 times over. The poor child is dead, and never will cost 
 pioney or trouble more. Let the Lambs pay, if they choose ; 
 but I never would ask them — never." 
 Well, there arc the Derbyshires." 
 
 Ah, they have a hard enough task to get along, without 
 5ur making it worse." 
 ' And the Jilsons." 
 
 ' A family of poor helpless women, all the time sick. We 
 should be kind to the ' widows and fatherless,' Walter." 
 
 " Then there are the Millers ; I have heavy demands on 
 them. I bought a couple of notes, to prevent some hard- 
 hearted people from distressing them, when they were all 
 down with the epidemic ; and these, with my own bills, aided 
 by a little politic manoeuvring, give me such an advantage, 
 that I might possess myself of a deed of their little farm, 
 wiiliout difficulty." 
 
 " Ah, but you never had a thought of doing it, I am sure, 
 Walter ; and Kitty in a consumption, and Allan such a crip- 
 ple ? No, no ; you never would touch the farm of the Millers, 
 not you." 
 
 ' Squire Boulter thinks I am a fool for not doing it." 
 ' Squire Boulter is a scoundrel, then." 
 ' Who uses hard names now, Maggy ? " 
 ' He is a scoundrel ; and his ill-gotten wealth will come to 
 no good, I am sure. I would walk the streets barefoot, before 
 [ would flaunt out as Mrs. Boulter docs." 
 
 ' And your bare feet would look quite as well as hei 
 14 
 
158 MY UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 French kid slippers on this muddy morning," said my Uncle 
 Stilling, throwing a glance through the window, as the veri- 
 table lady was passing. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! there she goes ! See how she minces and — " 
 
 " Ah, Maggy, Maggy ! think of that matter of a conscience 
 thou hast mentioned. And after thou hast proved thyself the 
 happier woman of the two, think how wicked it is to rail 
 against the unfortunate." 
 
 " But her airs are provoking — as though her finery and 
 grand house should set her up above her neighbors ! " 
 
 '■ Do her airs make her more agreeable to her friends ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " 
 
 " To anybody ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! " ji 
 
 " Then thou shouldst pity her, my good Maggy; for she i: 
 labors very hard for nought." 
 
 " She has more enemies than any woman I know." 
 
 " Ah, then she is doubly unfortunate — enemies Avithout 
 and enemies within. Poor Mistress Boulter ! ". 
 
 " You would wish her great fiery eye anywhere but on i|iii 
 you, if she should hear you say, ' Poor Mrs. Boulter ! ' It n 
 would be full enough of wrath to burn your eyelashes." 
 
 " Then she shall not hear me say it ; but I will pity her, , . 
 notwithstanding. Go we back to my bills, Maggy. What j ii 
 say you to the Remmingtons ? " ■ i' 
 
 " Pshaw ! you are fooling. Doctor " 
 
 " And the Bells ? " 
 
 " Our own cousins." 
 
 " Second cousins." 
 
 " Well, we will go to them when we have cooked our last ii>] 
 potato." i' 
 
 " Bravo, Meg ! you are almost a philosopher. I like to 
 near you talk so bravely of the last potato. But here is one 
 more family on my list — the Wilsons." 
 
 " Throw your old account-book into the fire, Doctor. I • - 
 verily believe there is not a family in all Cedarville so ab»e |c 
 to pay as we are to lose it." 'i 
 
MY UNCLE STILLING. 359 
 
 " Right, right, iny girl ! and not a family in all the state, 
 in the whole country, happier than we in our plain, homely 
 independence. Why, we alway.s have enough; our house 
 is better than a palace, since our doors are strong enough to 
 shut contentment in; and then our brave beautiful boys — 
 who so rich as we, Maggy ? " 
 
 The sparkling eyes of my Aunt Stilling became strangely 
 soft and dewy ; and there was a grateful expression on her 
 placid face, which convinced her husband that the demon of 
 envy was expelled, at least for a season. 
 
 I think a jury of twelve honest, world-wise men, selected 
 from any rank or class in the land, would have coincided with 
 the opinion of Squire Boulter, that my Uncle Stilling was a 
 great spendthrift of that inner wealth called talent. He was 
 1 wise man, and ingenious in many things, and deeply versed 
 30th in books and men ; yet he never had made himself rich 
 In tliis world's goods, and had now no higher honors than the 
 learts of all the people about Cedarville. My Uncle Stilling 
 oved well enough the pleasant things that brighten men's 
 Dathways ; but he loved honor and truth and kindness and 
 iToodness better. His heart warmed toward every human 
 peing; every man was his brother. The poor, a young 
 brother whom he was bound to Avatch over, soothe, aid and 
 protect. But my Uncle Stilling did not confine his kindness 
 
 any single class. The poor and unfortunate were more 
 )eculiarly his friends — these called forth all the deep-seated 
 enderness of his nature ; but the rich, too, the gay and glad- 
 some, had their share of the gentle, fresh -hearted old man's 
 ympathy. The young were his companions ; and not a child 
 ii all the country round but sprang to his arms as to those of 
 
 1 beloved parent. 
 
 My Uncle Stilling was not indolent, and yet he was usu- 
 illy considered a great time-waster. No matter how urgent 
 lis business or how great a matter was at stake if it con- 
 lemed himself only, the sick claimed always his most assid- 
 lous attention. If his hand could best administer the cool- 
 
160 MY UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 ing draught, this was the nearest, the immediate duty ; if his 
 kind voice had a soothing or cheering power, it belonged to 
 his patients as much as his medicine did ; and the opposite 
 scale, with the loss or gain of a few dollars thrown into it, 
 kicked the beam. It would have done so with the estate of a 
 millionaire. In truth, though all loved the good Doctor, and 
 were scarce willing to believe he had a fault, there were many 
 who used to say with Squire Boulter, that it was a great pity 
 he should know so little of the worth of money. Sometimes 
 my aunt thought it a pity, too ; for, though she shared deeply 
 in his kindness of heart, she had bat a small portion of his 
 philosophical indifference to the fruits of an indulgence in it. 
 The fine dress and fine furniture of her neighbors dazzled her 
 benevolent eyes ; and she could scarce see why she must deny , 
 herself of luxuries Avhich, according to universal consent, were 
 within her reach. So my aunt would think the matter over, 
 (a very dangerous practice, by the way, when the thinking ia 
 all on one side of the question,) and, as she thought, grow 
 dignified, then stern, then awfully severe ; and, fully clad in 
 such dark mental clouds, step into the presence of her good 
 easy spouse to pour the concentrated storm on his devoted 
 head. But my aunt was really a charitable personage ; and, 
 though she wanted to "have her pie and eat it" both at once, 
 though she wanted to "buy the hobby-horse and keep the 
 money," she was always duly horrified at the idea of indulg- 
 ing her vanity at the expense of her benevolence. And very 
 well did my Uncle Stilling know the love-moulded key which 
 unlocked her sympathetic heart. When she began with a 
 biting word, (known to be caustic only by the emphatically 
 dignified " Walter Stilling") she usually ended with a tear 
 of sympathy for some sufferer, or a glow of gratitude on ac- 
 count of her own blessings. 
 
 My uncle had yet other ways of wasting his time than over 
 his patients. He was a great naturalist ; not a shell or pebble 
 escaped his notice ; not a plant could spring up in the field 
 but my Uncle Stilling's eye watched it with a parental inter- 
 est. The different bird-notes which made the woodland glad 
 
MY UNCLE STILLING. 161 
 
 were all as familiar to him as the voices of his children ; he 
 knew the little green blade which peeped earliest from the 
 mould in the spring time, and the leaves which latest yielded 
 to the kiss of the ice-lipped frost-spirit ; and he knew the pat- 
 tern and material of every little nest which was hidden away 
 
 ' beneath the summer foliage. Whole days would he spend 
 (waste, his neighbors said) wandering over field or wood- 
 land ; returning at dew-fall with a fresh outlay of dew upon 
 
 ' his own heart, and calling his little family about him to rejoice 
 over the prize he had discovered. And suck a prize ! A 
 handful of weeds — a pocket-handkerchief of mosses — b\jf- 
 a-dozen petrifactions — a forsaken bird's nest — all these were 
 precious things in the eyes of my Uncle Stilling. Roger 
 Acton's wondrous pot of money, even when the eager eyes 
 
 [ of the half-crazed expectant first lighted on it, was incapable 
 of producing such a joyous heart-bound as the discovery of a 
 new floral treasure communicated to my good uncle. It was 
 an electricity passing up through the mysteriously linked 
 chain of God's works, from the beautiful in matter to the 
 beautiful in spirit. My uncle's nature was like the woodland 
 flower, with the dew and perfume as fresh upon it as when 
 its unfolding petals first looked out upon the sunlight. And 
 when the pure blooming counterpart was found, his feet 
 moved almost as blithely as those of wild Harry himself; 
 and Harry, and little Will, and pretty Susy, soon caught the 
 infection; knowing first by my uncle's eyes, and afterwards 
 by putting his own estimate on his treasures, when to be glad. 
 As for my Aunt Stilling, she could not exactly see the use of 
 bringing all these things in to litter up the house, but she did 
 not really like to say as much ; for, kind, gentle soul that she 
 was, it did her heart good to see her husband and children 
 happy. Not that it was a rare sight by any means ; but my 
 Aunt Stilling knew, by peeping into other houses what a 
 comfortless guest she might introduce at her fire-side. 
 
 Still another way of wasting time had my Uncle Stilling. 
 He knew very well that he was neither poet nor painter ; but 
 here was scarce a pretty eye in the country round that he 
 ]4# 
 
162 MY UNCLt STILLING. 
 
 had not written verses to, and scarce a house but could show 
 some specimen of his handiwork Avith the pencil. His verses 
 praised the bright eye and the handsome lip right gallantly; 
 but they always reminded the fair possessor of those charms 
 of more enduring and still lovelier beauties. His verses were 
 pure and vigorous, rich with good sense, though sometimes 
 rather deficient in poetic fancies ; and each bore to the partic- 
 ular individual which had called out the effusion an esfiecial 
 and pointed heart-lesson. Had any of his young friends been 
 g lilty of a wrong, my Uncle Stilling administered his gentle 
 rep. oof in rhyme ; and thus gilded over, the bitter pill, which 
 might otherwise have been cast away, became quite palatable. 
 His paintings were usually holyday presents. When Christ- 
 mas came he was the Santa Claus of at least five square 
 miles ; and on New Year's day his capacious and well 
 crammed saddle-bags were quite innocent of physic. More- 
 over, he knew the precise age of every young person in the 
 neighborhood ; and he never neglected to honor in his simple 
 way the anniversary of a birth-day. His pictures were like 
 his verses — illustrations of some every-day truth which 
 young people are apt to forget ; and always carefully adapted 
 to the taste and character of those to whom they were pre- 
 sented. My uncle knew that there was now and then a per- 
 son of his parish (Parson Adams was not half as much the 
 shepherd of his flock as was the pious, simple-souled Doctor) 
 who did not set a very high value on either his verses or his 
 pictures, and for these he had other and more acceptable gifts. 
 Bouquets of flowers, with a slip of paper around each, telling 
 the language ; books carefully marked by his pencil ; and, on 
 great occasions, glass cases of birds, stuffed and arranged by 
 his own fingers. There is even now a singularly pure moral 
 atmosphere pervading Cedarville ; and it is not diflicult to 
 believe that the heart-warm breath of my Uncle Stilling still 
 animates the natures which were early moulded by his sim- 
 ple, plain, but high-minded, precepts, aided by acts quite as 
 guileless and unselfish. Blessings on the single-hearted and 
 the good ! A high intellect is a gift from God — a pure heart 
 is his dwelling place. 
 
MY UNCLE STILLING. 163 
 
 Twenty years had passed, not without leaving some traces; 
 for however noiseless the tread of the grey-beard, his foot- 
 steps are always discernible on our frail sands. He had, 
 however, trodden very lightly over Cedarville, and had been 
 particularly gentle with my Uncle Stilling. The old man 
 still lived in his little white cottage with the green blinds and 
 latticed portico ; and his good dame, as good and benevolent 
 and careful of his comfort as ever, was still by his side. The 
 grape-vine porch was rather more luxuriantly covered with 
 the dark, rich foliage, but otherwise it looked the same as 
 twenty years before. The white rose-bushes climbed to the 
 eaves as they had done in former times ; the lilacs bordered 
 the path from the gate to the door- way ; and the holly-hocks 
 and purple mallows bloomed in neat rows along the garden 
 patch. The squash-vines still crept about among the hills of 
 sweet corn ; the peas and beans budded and blossomed and 
 yielded up their produce down by the meadow fence ; the 
 melon-patch had not moved an inch from its old place in the 
 corner ; and the long, narrow beds of beets, carrots, parsnips 
 and onions, still exhibited their even, carefully weeded rows, 
 in the foreground. Directly beneath my Aunt Stilling's win- 
 dow were the self-same treasures that had occupied that dis- 
 tinguished position twenty years previous — the sage, ihjTne, 
 rue, camomile, worm-wood, celery, caraway, and various other 
 trifles, cultivated by her own hand. The currant-bushes, too, 
 were the same ; and ,if those two cherry-trees adorning tlic 
 grass-plot, where my aunt still spread her linen to bleach, 
 were not the identical ones to which wild Harry owed so 
 many tumbles in his babyhood, they were strangely like them. 
 But wild Harry was now a man, with a frolicsome counter- 
 I part of himself to tumble from cherry-trees and keep grand- 
 1 mama tremulous with alarms, which had gathered peculiar 
 i strength with the dignity of a new title. My Uncle Stilling 
 I was no richer than ever ; but he was just as comfortable, and 
 I just as contented, and just as happy. His wishes with regard 
 to his children were all gratified, and particularly so in the 
 case of his darling Willy ; who, according to universal con- 
 
164 MY UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 sent, was a "bright aud shining light" in Cedarville. The 
 young clergyman had taken the place of Parson Adams, on 
 his demise ; and his flock lost nothing by having the virtues 
 of my Uncle Stilling — gentleness, simplicity, contentment, 
 benevolence, trust and love — engrafted on the piety which i 
 looks to be of doubtful origin when these are kept in the 
 backgi'ound. If pride be a sin, then was my Uncle Stilling ' 
 more sinful with his white hairs on than he had been in all. 
 his life before. He was proud, indeed, of his noble, high- 
 minded, half-sainted boy. Did any one speak kindly of him 
 — and that was an every-day thing — the old man's still 
 sunny eyes began to draw up moisture from the heart ; and ! 
 Avords of warm praise were always rewarded by a gush of 
 grateful tears. Every Sabbath, when he walked down the 
 church aisle and saw the faces of the congregation kindling 
 with love as they gathered around the sacred desk to greet 
 their young pastor, his heart and eyes overflowed together, 
 and he was wont to say in the words of one as guileless and 
 as enthusiastic as himself, " Lord, now lettest thou thy servant 
 depart in peace." My Uncle Stilling was proud of his eldest 
 son, too ; but it was a different kind of pride. Harry had 1 
 gone abroad from him and had made separate interests, (al- 
 though the love-link between them was still stronger than in 
 most hearts,) and won much applause among men. The old ' 
 man was not indifferent to these honors, for he knew that they 
 were the reward of his son's virtues ; but he valued the vir- 
 tues themselves much higher. The sight of Harry and his 
 young wife and their beautiful children, (a snow-drop and an 
 oak in miniature,) made my uncle's heart swell with proud 
 coftness ; but it was on Willy that the more than womanly 
 tenderness of his strangely gifted nature was lavished most 
 unsparingly. Nor must sweet Susy be forgotten, for she was 
 my Aunt Stilling's "staff and comfort." Susy could not, of 
 course, be spared from the village, though the little white cot- 
 tage was scarce grand enough for the wife of its greatest law- 
 yer. So there was a handsome house built at the farther end 
 of the garden ; and when young Mrs. Eastman did not dine 
 
MY UNCLE STILLING. 165 
 
 with mamma Stilling, why, dear mamma must make one, 
 and the good Doctor another, and darling brother Willy 
 another, at the board of the lawyer's lady. Few men are so 
 blessed in age as my Uncle Stilling, for very few have so 
 spent their prime. He was now reaping the harvest that he 
 had sown in other days, and it was truly a golden one to his 
 heart. 
 
 Directly opposite the little white cottage was a large, showy 
 mansion, erected by Squire Boulter when his coffers were 
 fullest. The fine garden was now all overrun with weeds, 
 and the pleasant summer-house had quite gone to decay. 
 Only a few flowers of the most enduring kind remained, and 
 they were fast yielding to the rank weeds. The choice fruit 
 trees stood dead and blackened, their leafless limbs all covered 
 with mould ; and the shrubbery was broken down and ne- 
 glected. A pitiful sight was that once handsome garden, and 
 no less pitiful the neglected house. The wide gravel-walk 
 leading to it had grown into a narrow foot-path ; the shade- 
 trees were unpruned, and long dead vines clung to their 
 trunks and swung to and fro in the air ; the marble door-stone 
 was broken and mossed over on the outer edges; and the 
 shutters above hung in shattered remnants, some on a single 
 hinge. Here, all alone, dwelt Squire Boulter. His wife had 
 long since gone to her final rest; and his son, whose future 
 welfare had been the one engrossing thought of other days, 
 had strangely repaid his care. Edmund Boulter had been 
 the playmate of Harry Stilling, and was then esteemed a 
 bright, active lad, who would, in all probability, take some 
 decided part in the world, either for good or evil. Every 
 indulgence of a certain character had been shown him in his 
 childhood, but it was not the kind of indulgence which .leaves 
 a soft impress. Squire Boulter had believed that nothing 
 could be done without money ; and his son adopted a still 
 more dangerous faith — no pleasure was worth enjoying that 
 money did not purchase. The effect of this belief need not 
 now be traced out ; it requires but a look to the right or left 
 to see it all ; for Edmund Boulter's was no untrodden path. 
 
166 My UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 He was an only child ; and, of course, knew before he had 
 counted a dozen summers, that he was heir to wealth consid- 
 ered in Cedarville immeasurable. And so, slowly and by 
 degrees, as the years went by, came the old story of ruined 
 intellect and ruined heart — a godlike image desecrated. By 
 the time Edmund Boulter was a man, more tears had been 
 shed over him than ever wetted the pillow of the dead; and 
 he had become to the Squire a constant living heart-ache. 
 And now the old man endeavored to teach, by severity, les- 
 sons which should have been melted into the pliant heart 
 before selfishness had spread above it the impenetrable crust 
 that now shut it firmly in. Alternate sternness and lavish 
 indulgence only increased the evil ; and finally, the unhappy 
 father resolved to try a desperate experiment, and shake off 
 his son entirely for the present. 
 
 " You are a strong, able-bodied man," said Squire Boulter, 
 " and you have a good profession ; this," putting a paper into 
 his hand, " is all I shall give you. You are henceforth to 
 depend entirely on your own resources." 
 
 Edmund did not for a moment believe his'father in earnest, 
 so he accepted the check, laughingly, and launched out into 
 new extravagances. But he soon learned his mistake. Then 
 he pleaded and threatened by turns ; but the old man was 
 inexorable. 
 
 " After all that I have done for you ! " he would say, bitterly. 
 " If I had been the careless father that Doctor Stilling has, 
 
 it might better be borne ; but now out of my presence, 
 
 ingrate ! " 
 
 Edmund Boulter went away, and for years was not heard 
 of, except perhaps by his father. What his life was during 
 this time may be guessed ; for the old man's eye gtew every 
 day heavier, and the furrows in his cheek deeper ; but he did 
 not relent. 
 
 Early one bright morning, just as the first heaven-messen- 
 gers were giving their color to the gems which clustered about 
 every leaf and grass-blade, my Uncle Stilling sat by the win- 
 
MY UNCLE STILLING. 167 
 
 dow, carefully conning a book which had been brought home 
 the evening before by his darling Willy. As he raised his 
 eyes from the page, they fell upon something without, which 
 at once riveted his attention. He looked earnestly for a 
 while; pulled off his spectacles, and then looked again; took 
 another pair from his pocket, carefully wiped the glasses ; 
 adjusted them as carefully, and then leaned out of the win- 
 dow with unusual interest. Suddenly his head was drawn 
 back. 
 
 " Maggj' ! Maggy ! " My uncle's cheek was pale, and his 
 voice husky. " Maggy ! — quick ! — here ! " 
 
 My aunt came — an old, old woman, quite gray, a wrinkle 
 on her forehead, the most placid of smiles cm her lip, her form 
 slightly bended, but with the step of a girl. 
 
 " What is that, Maggy ? " 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " There, in — in — " 
 
 " I don't see." 
 
 " Bless your heart! in the Squire's yard, on — on the big 
 horse-chestnut." 
 
 My aunt looked a moment, and a strange, alarmed ex- 
 pression came over her face. 
 
 " What is it, Maggy ? " 
 
 " I — I don't — know, Walter." 
 
 The words were gasped out rather than spoken. 
 
 "Do you think — tkere, don't be frightened — don't be 
 frightened, child — perhaps — perhaps it 's nothing. I 'II just 
 step over — " 
 
 " No, no, Walter ! you're an old man — let Willy go — 
 such sights — " 
 
 My aunt was interrupted by a violent ringing at the door, 
 and a cry of alarm from the street. 
 
 No, no ! Such sights were not befitting eyes like thine, 
 my dear, old, gentle-hearted uncle ! Suspended by the neck 
 from the horse-chestnut, dead, quite dead, hung the daring, 
 dissolute Edmund Boulter; and prostrate beside his own 
 door-stone, his white hairs flecked with the blood which was 
 
168 MY UNCLE STILLING. 
 
 oozing from his lips and nostrils, lay the inanimate form of 
 the stricken father. 
 
 " He has murdered the old man, and then hung himself," 
 was the first exclamation. 
 
 But this was a hasty judgment. Edmund Boulter was not 
 guilty of parricide by violent means, whatever a nicer judge 
 might decide with regard to invisible weapons. 
 
 A wondering, awe-stricken multitude followed the suicide 
 to his grave ; while my good Uncle Stilling strove to quiet 
 the ravings of the miserable parent. The son had returned 
 to the village the evening before, and endeavored to gain ad- 
 mittance at the door of his father ; but he was peremptorily 
 refused. 
 
 " I will haunt you forever, for this ! " were the last words 
 that Squire Boulter heard, accompanied by an oath which 
 made him shudder. They had troubled his dreams in the 
 night-time, and once he thought he heard them again. He 
 listened. There was a noise as of strangulation, accompanied 
 by a wild, horrid laugh, that was yet mere a yell of anguish. 
 He threw up the sash, and for a moment thought there was 
 an unusual commotion among the leaves of the horse-chestnut. 
 Then all was still. The moon looked down peacefully, the 
 stars shone out in sweetness, and not a footstep or a feathered 
 thing was astir. Squire Boulter went back again to his pil- 
 low, but his stern resolution began to melt. In the morning 
 he rose early, and went out to seek his son, resolving to try 
 once more the effect of kindness. It was too late. The 
 wretched man had seized recklessly upon Eternity, and Time 
 had receded from him. 
 
 " It is of no use — no use. Doctor," said Squire Boulter 
 in one of his lucid moments, " my son is carried to a dishon^ 
 ored grave, while yours stands up in the desk and points the 
 moral. Is that the Almighty's justice ? " 
 
 " God has a clearer eye than we have," was the soft re- 
 sponse of my uncle. 
 
 " If I had been as neglectful as you. Doctor — if I had beer 
 
MY UNCLE STILLING. 169 
 
 such a father as you have — but I would have bartered my 
 soul to Satan, for that boy's good." 
 
 " Better have bent the knee to God, my poor neighbor," 
 murmured my Uncle Stilling, softly. 
 
 There was a reproach in the words, but not in the tone or 
 manner ; for my uncle's sympathetic nature was all melted 
 into tears. He was not the avenging angel to wound even 
 by truth an already bruised and bleeding heart. Squire 
 Boulter had walked blindfold all his life ; and the light now 
 would have been a "consuming fire to him." My Uncle 
 Stilling had endeavored to remove the bandage when all 
 were happy ; but now his Avhole study was to ease the rack- 
 ing pain of a woe-laden heart. And he partially succeeded 
 — only partially. The wound was incurable, and the barbed 
 arrow rankled and cankered in the old man's bosom, till 
 another grave was opened, and the gentle young pastor 
 prayed above it ; and the sod lay upon the breast of Squire 
 Boulter. 
 
 15 
 
170 
 
 ;'NICKIE BEN." 
 
 We have a lawyer at Alderbrook — three of them, indeed 
 — but one we have worth talking about, one who has been 
 talked about — one who has been blown upon, if not by " the 
 breath of fame," by that gossiping approach to it which is 
 fame's stage-coach — one, in short, who deserves a historian. 
 Now, do not " think you see him," dear reader, before I be- 
 gin ; and so place before your mind's eye a little, spare, cun- 
 ning, smooth-tongued fox of an attorney, whom it will be my 
 bounden duty to demolish. 
 
 " A face like a wedge, made to force its -way through the 
 world, eyes like black beans a-boiling in milk, and a step like 
 a cat's — " 
 
 Not a bit of it. Oh, no ! you do not see our lawyer. 
 
 Benjamin Nichols, or "Nickie Ben," as he has been irrev- 
 erently re-christened by some wag, with the consent, of every- 
 body, has a voice — oh, such a voice ! the north wind is an 
 infant's whisper to it — stands very nearly six feet in his 
 stockings, and is of dimensions never scoffed at. In good 
 sooth, that brawny arm might have wielded the genuine old 
 Scottish claymore by the side of Robert Bruce, and other 
 worthies of the times that were, and never have been ashamed 
 of the muscles in it. Nickie Ben, however, was reserved for 
 more elegant diversions than hewing off men's heads, and 
 slicing down their shoulders ; and he rewarded fate for her 
 flattering favors to himself by entering Avith great zest into 
 the spirit which governs the modem world. In place of such 
 boisterous cries as " A Bruce ! A Bruce ! " "A Richard ! A 
 Richard ! " or " Beau-seant ! " he slipped his fingers quietly 
 to the bottom of his eel-skin purse, laid his thumb against the 
 pillars, and his forefinger against the kingly head upon the 
 
NICKIE BEN. 171 
 
 sixpences there; while his eye twinkled, and his features 
 worked in a way fully to prove his loyalty to that little piece 
 of coin, and his determination to die, if need be, in the ser- 
 vice of the favxily. 
 
 Nickie Ben's boyhood was none of the easiest. He never 
 laid his head on a pillow of down, poor boy ! nor had a softer 
 covering than a heavy patch- work quilt, stuffed with cotton ; 
 indeed, it used to be shrewdly suspected by some inquisitive 
 neighbors, that even the quilt was sometimes lacking, and that 
 young Nickie might have rolled up his day-wearables to rest 
 his head upon. However that might be, the Widow Nichols 
 managed to keep up appearances to the level of humble re- 
 spectability ; and, though she and her daughter Betsy and 
 her son Ben might all have breakfasted on a smaller allow- 
 ance than would have served Squire Risdel for lunch, not an 
 intimation to that effect ever crossed the lips of one of the 
 family. Nothing about them bespoke the meagre fare, except 
 the meagre frame ; the preponderance of bone and sinew 
 over flesh and quick blood. If you would see the really suf- 
 fering poor, do not go to the wretched hovel where famine 
 dwells confessedly, and poverty draws the outlines of its own 
 gaunt figure on lintel and casement ; but turn to those who 
 are ashamed to say they want ; whose brows knit while their 
 lips smile ; who, wearing the pinched look, find their cares 
 increased by laboring always for its concealment. There is 
 poverty unmitigated — unmitigated by the hope of human 
 sympathy ; a thing, however, which galls oftener than it 
 soothes. 
 
 I do not know that the Widow Nichols belonged entirely 
 lo the above mentioned class — indeed, I rather think that if 
 she did, she maintained the character on a particularly small 
 scale ; she was seldom pinched in her allowance of eatables 
 more than enough to give her a good appetite, and never laid 
 claim to anything higher than respectable, industrious inde- 
 pendence. The good widow was a genuine worker; and, as 
 industrious, clever women usually have some little foible, she 
 could not be expected to be exempt. It was, accordingly 
 
172 NICKIE BEN. 
 
 reported at Alderbrook, that, during the lifetime of the elder 
 Benny, (who, by the way, was a remarkably " shiftless man ") 
 this " crown to her husband " was, to all intents and purposes, 
 the head of the family ; and, in her love of rule, not uufre- 
 quently drove from the door with such weapons as the broom 
 and poker, the head which she should have graced. But old 
 Benny was " gathered to his fathers," and the sceptre remained 
 undisputed in the hands of the widow. And now, indeed, 
 she wielded it to good purpose. 
 
 Betsy was older than young Ben, old enough, indeed, to 
 "do a deal of work;" and it was soon decided in the mind 
 of the widow that the daughter should sacrifice herself to the i 
 son's advancement. To be sure, Betsy was a girl after | 
 the mother's own heart, industrious and pains-taking ; and I 
 Ben was rather inclined to saunter in his father's footsteps ; ! 
 but the widow was of the opinion that the bent twig might be i 
 braced and straightened ; and, after all, it must be owned that ' 
 a son may be " the making of a family," while the daughter 
 only holds the candle to him. Ben's education was the thing 
 to be accomplished; and Betsy and Betsy's mother heeded 
 neither aching eyes nor aching fingers while earning, stitch by 1 
 stitch, the scanty pittance which was to make the son and ! 
 brother great. Ben was indolent, but he was grQieixA-ish ; \ 
 and when he thought of the two busy needles, the scanty ' 
 board and hard bed at Alderbrook, he would have had more 
 than human selfishness to neglect his studies and waste his ' 
 time. Ben did not, however, believe that gratitude precluded 
 yawning, and as the difference between skimming over a book 
 and diving into it had never been made quite clear to his 
 perceptions, he may be forgiven for preferring the first method, 
 which, I have been told, is much in vogue now, since accom- 
 plished scholars are no longer the fashion. Ben skimmea 
 successfully at college ; and brought away a degree and the 
 pre-nomen of Nickie. By this time there was one needle 
 less at Alberbrook. Poor Betsy had finished her work, worn 
 herself out with labor ; and the widow was alone. 
 
 It is doubtful whether Nickie Ben would have made much 
 
NICKIE BEN. 173 
 
 nse of his lore but for the pushing that was still kept up by 
 the widow ; but with her own single hand she put him in the 
 way of a profession, and pushed him through into the very 
 bar. I say she did it, and I say correctly; for, although 
 Nickie Ben was beginning to imitate her shrewdness and 
 energy, he never would have performed the feat of his own 
 accord. Of Nickie Ben's legal knowledge I say nothing; 
 for what can women know of such things ? but I have heard 
 that he was not very long in obtaining practice. He had a 
 peculiar gift at pettifogging, (a very essential qualification in 
 such out-o'-the-way places as Alderbrook,) and great profes- 
 sional acumen, for he snuffed a case in every fresh breeze that 
 visited him ; and kindly pointed out to his neighbors insults 
 and abuses which they would never have seen but by the help 
 of his superior discernment. No quarrel was so small but 
 he found room to thrust in a finger ; no matter so contempti- 
 ble but the salt of the law, applied by Nickie Ben, preserved 
 and dignified it into something, to stay on men's memories ; 
 and no coin was so trifling but our lawyer esteemed it worth 
 a full hour's bickering. His pillow was now as hard, and his 
 dinner as light as in boyhood ; but it was no longer from 
 necessity. Ben was economical. Some said he was mean, 
 penurious ; men spoke of him with a curling lip, and not a 
 single woman knew him. But what was all this to Nickie 
 Ben ? He was effectually aroused from his boyish indolence, 
 and he was determined to be rich — rich — kich ! The word 
 had been dinned in his ear by his mother until he knew all 
 the changes that could possibly be rung upon it ; and no slav- 
 ery was too abject to be made a stepping-stone to the golden 
 throne which he saw in the far-off future. Not that Ben 
 Nichols " sold his soul to Mammon ;" he sacrificed his man- 
 liness and independence to — public opinion. You do not 
 see how it is, dear reader. I will show you. 
 
 Years went by, and our lawyer became "Auld Nickie 
 
 Ben ;" though his head had a less Aveight of time upon it 
 
 than his appearance indicated. But he was as plodding, as 
 
 careful, as penurious as ever. Everybody said that he was a 
 
 15* 
 
174 NICKIE BEN. 
 
 confirmed bachelor ; and everybody sneered at him as a des- 
 testable miser. Yet do not think for a moment that Nick« 
 was a thin, cadaverous man, with a face the color of his gold 
 and shoulders graced with a consumptive curve — he was 
 anything but that. I think, however, I have before mentione( 
 his physical capabilities. 
 
 Every morning before the sun was up, in summer and win' 
 ter, rain and sunshine, our lawyer might have been seen, bj 
 any early riser, out taking his habitual exercise. He always 
 walked up a green lane, about a mile west of the village 
 whence he proceeded along the border of the woods, ove: 
 the top of Strawberry Hill, and down into the ravine beyond 
 until he reached the toll-gate at the foot of the hill on the 
 east. The remainder of his walk was on the side of the roao 
 back to Alderbrook. By this means Nickie Ben made him 
 self visible in the course of the morning to all the villager, 
 who chose to look at him ; and many were the impertinen 
 little misses whose giddy eyes took the measure of his short 
 waisted coat, and feasted their love of fun on his heavy boots 
 with their clumsy shape, and the iron nails in their heels, anc 
 mimicked his gait, and talked mockingly of the piles of pen- 
 nies in his coffers. Everybody despised Ben Nichols ; and 
 yet he had never, like many an honorable man, defrauded the 
 widow of her dues, or been a canker on the orphan's birth- 
 right ; he had never taken a penny that was not justly his 
 own ; but he had never given away, or wasted or bartered 
 without due consideration, even the hundredth part of the 
 smallest coin current. 
 
 The little brown cottage occupied by the widow and hei 
 son was never visited by the villagers ; for the old lady had 
 no interests in common with them ; her "boy" was the centre; 
 of all her thoughts, wishes and affections, and his doings their 
 circumference. But she did not dote as other mothers do. 
 She did not offer his head a resting place when he came home 
 wearied, and endeavor, by presetiting pleasant subjects, to 
 divert his mind from the toils and cares of the day ; but she 
 inquired after his clients, what business had come to him since 
 
NICKIE BEN. 
 
 175 
 
 the morning, how tlie matters of yesterday were adjusted, 
 and how much money they had brought him. Sometimes 
 a vague suspicion entered the mind of poor Nickie Ben that 
 he was not living to the best purpose ; that there was some- 
 thing other men enjoyed which he did not; sometimes he 
 even felt the dog-like treatment which he received at the 
 hands of his fellows ; but then, with a hard drawn breath, he 
 would repeat to himself, " hereafter — hereafter ! " and go on 
 ,bis way perseveriugly. Thus, year in, year out, Benjamin 
 Nichols breathed his proportion of air, and filled his propor- 
 tion of space, until he reached " life's meridian height," and 
 travelled the distance of five years on the downward slope ; 
 and then, all of a sudden, " a change came o'er the spirit of 
 hi^ " selfishness. The widow was alarmed, and interposed 
 lior maternal authority — then reasoning — then entreaty; 
 bill it was useless. The sceptre had passed from her hand 
 — her reign was at an end. 
 
 One day the village Avas thrown into great amazement by 
 the report that Mrs. Nichols and her- son had taken seats in 
 ithe eastern stage-coach ; for the old lady had not been out of 
 , Alderbrook within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, and 
 1 the lawyer never moved but at a business call. The matter 
 , ;was a nine days' wonder, and scarcely grew stale afterward. 
 Two, three, and four w^eeks passed, and, finally, late of a 
 . Saturday night, the stage brought back the unusual travellers. 
 1 The news soon spread through the' village, coupled with ru- 
 , mors of a wondrous metamorphose. Indeed, it was reported 
 that the widow and her son could scarcely be recognized by 
 , those who had been accustomed to seeing them every day. 
 J. All Sunday morning, not an eye in church but was prone 
 J to wander to the pew where sat the Nicholses — they could 
 ■not help it ; who could blame them ? The enormous bonnet, 
 of a rusty black, that the old lady had worn ever since the 
 , day of her daughter's funeral ; the scant, old-fashioned gown, 
 , with its gored skirt, waist of a finger's length, and sleeves 
 nearly meeting in the back ; and the thin shawl, embroidered 
 all over with darns, and always bearing the print of the 
 
176 NICKIE BEN. 
 
 smoothing-iron, were displaced by articles richer than any 
 shopkeeper in Alderbrook would venture to purchase. Every- 
 body was amazed ; almost everybody felt inclined to smile ; 
 a great many touched their neighbors on the arm, and indi- 
 cated by some slight gesture the direction that the eye should 
 take ; and a few of the least reverent in the congregation 
 whispered, " Bless me ! how young the "Widow Nichols 
 looks ! " And they had reason, for the old lady seemed to 
 have taken a new lease of life. Brussels laces and fashion- 
 able bonnets loill meddle with Time's pencil, though they 
 cannot stay his scythe. But the widow attracted a very 
 small share of attention in comparison with her son. Every- 
 thing about him was new. The cut of his coat had changed 
 hio figure completely, and the inward hilarity consequent 
 upon emancipation from the slavery of penny counting, had 
 changed his face so that he was really handsome. But there 
 was another thing which aided the transformation of the face 
 not a little. The short, coarse hair, standing out from his 
 head like the quills of a porcupine, had been turned by some 
 magic into luxuriant curls, smooth and glossy and black as 
 the wing of a raven, straying back from his forehead as 
 though too much at home there to think of a better resting 
 place. Those beautiful curls ! Why, there was not a young 
 beau in the village who would have ventured to show his head 
 beside them. And, really, Nickie Ben was a fine-looking man 
 — quite the gentleman — with nothing exceptionable about 
 him, from kid gloves to French boots — even the tie of his 
 cravat was comme ilfaut. We watched him — Ada Palmer 
 and I — after the services were over, as he tucked his mother 
 under his arm, not very gently, and strode, with even more 
 than his usual swing, down the street. 
 
 " He has not been to a walking school," whispered Ada. 
 
 The gait was pretty much all that was left to prove Nickie 
 Ben's identity. 
 
 " They stop at the ' Sheaf and Sickle,' " continued Ada, 
 still looking after them. " It would be wonderful if they 
 have gone into the extravagance of taking rooms there." 
 
NICKIE BEN. 177 
 
 Wonderful, indeed, but it was none the less true. The 
 .ittle brown house was quite too small for the metamorphosed 
 lawyer ; and though the old lady groaned a little, and talked 
 of ruin, she submitted with a much better grace than could 
 have been expected. And now it somehow happened that 
 two or three neighbors looked in upon her ; and, though the 
 widow talked a great deal of her son, and seemed to forget 
 that there was anyb)dy else worth caring for in the world, 
 they bore with the foible very patiently. As for the son him- 
 self, he began to evince a strong tendency to socialness, and 
 even managed to obtain an introduction to several ladies of 
 the village, persons who had grown up around him entirely 
 unobserved before. 
 
 One bright morning Ada Palmer and I were out with our 
 baskets, despite the little night jewellers that had left a siring 
 of diamonds on every grass blade ; and it chanced to be pre- 
 cisely the hour that the lawyer was in the habit of crossing 
 Strawberry Hill. I will not assert that we were ignorant of 
 this peculiar habit of his, nor that our glances were all di- 
 rected to the knoll spotted over with crimson, while he passed 
 along the edge of the woods ; these are irrelevant matters. 
 But it chanced that the bachelor lawyer, after walking over 
 the top of the fence, like an emperor, came, with his swinging 
 arms and swinging person, and long, hasty strides, to the very 
 part of the hill where we were demurely engaged in picking 
 berries, like two sensible, industrious girls, and — Did you evor 
 see a glowing sunlight bursting from the edges of a black storm 
 cloud ? Then you may have some faint notion of the magical 
 eTect of a smile on such a face as Nickie Ben's. Who could 
 resist it? Not Ada Palmer or her friend Fanny. I much 
 doubt if the lawyer had ever been smiled upon before, or had 
 ever heard a voice softer than his mother's, for his face was 
 full of a pleased, bashful wonder. We had supposed, when 
 placing ourselves in Nickie Ben's path, that if his new humor 
 should lead him to look at us, he would consider us little chil- 
 dren, with whom he might frolic if he chose, and for a frolic 
 we were fully prepared. But not so — what had he to do 
 
178 NICKIE BEN. j 
 
 with ch:ldren's play ? — that is, real, genuine care-for-n ought I 
 play. Life had been a sober, earnest term to him thus far ; 
 and now he was as sober and earnest in looking for pleasure 
 as he ever had been in looking for money. Now he was a 
 rich man, he could pay for his enjoyments ; and should he 
 stoop to pick up those which the beggar might possess ? Of 
 course all these thoughts did not pass through the lawyer's 
 mind while crossing Strawberry Hill. They did not pass 
 through, because they remained there all the time ; they had 
 resolved themselves into ever-present /eeZire^s; and he had 
 no disposition to be anything but in earnest. We did not 
 altogether understand this, however; and when the lawyer 
 doffed his hat, and smiled, and in his best tones bade us a 
 good-morning, though we smiled in return, and bowed, and 
 said " good morning," too, the embarrassment was all on our 
 side, 
 
 " How stupid ! " exclaimed Ada, as soon as he was out of 
 hearing. 
 
 "Who? we or Nickie Ben?" 
 
 " Both, I think. Here we have lost a morning nap, got 
 our dresses draggled with dew, and turned the laugh of every- 
 body ag'ainst us, ^for nobody will ever believe we came for 
 strawberries,) just for the sake of hearing a stupid old Jew 
 of a fellow, who ought to have had that new wig of his when 
 we were in our cradles, remind us that we are young ladies. 
 Come, Fan, we may as well go home and take a dish A cof- 
 fee upon it." 
 
 " With a dozen berries each?" 
 
 " We will hide the baskets in the grass, and say we came 
 out for the benefit of the dew to brighten our complexions. 
 But I will never laugh again about Nickie Ben, not even his 
 walk and his bow. We are the simpletons." 
 
 Ada and I did not go to Strawberry Hill again in the 
 morning; and in a few days, I began to observe that her 
 belle-ship took a deal of extra pains to avoid, without down- 
 right incivility, meeting the lawyer in the street. Next, it 
 was rumored throughout the village that Nickie Ben had 
 
NICKIE BEN. 1?9 
 
 called at Deacon Palmer's ; next, that he was in the habit of 
 calling frequently; and, finally, that he, as often as twice a 
 week, spent an entire evening there. But I chanced to be in 
 possession of a secret of which the villagers Avere ignorant, 
 I suppose it is a well-known fact that country people cannot 
 be " not at home," with impunity, like dwellers in the town ; 
 so Nickie Ben's tremendous knock was always a signal for 
 Ada's slipping through the back door, and bounding across 
 the clover-field to Underbill . It was a disagreeable state of 
 things, very ; and Ada declared that she would never return 
 a bachelor's smile again, till she had first asked his intentions. 
 But the lawyer was on the shady side of forty, and he had 
 now no time to lose in chasing the butterfly caprices of a 
 spoiled belle ; so he decided on a single bold stroke. 
 
 The two evenings formerly spent with good Deacon Palmer 
 (and very often whole days and nights) were now devoted to 
 the study of architecture ; and he could talk of nothing (Nickie 
 Ben had really become a conversationist) but Grecian cottages, 
 beautiful country residences, and such like subjects to make 
 rustics stare, from morning to dew-fall. And Nickie Ben 
 was not one to talk in vain. A fine meadow on the west of 
 Alderbrook, without a stone upon it, and so smooth and even 
 that a Yankee would have invented a machine for mowing it 
 at a single slice without grazing earth, was finally selected 
 and purchased of its .owner. And now came parlies of work- 
 men and loads of lumber, and the beautiful meadow was turned 
 into a scene of wild confusion. But it was a confusion that 
 had the elements of- order in it ; for soon there arose in the 
 centre of the green a most graceful structure, which hands a 
 plenty were employed in adorning. No fault could be found 
 with it; it was simple and convenient and exquisitely beauti- 
 ful ; and well it might be, for Nickie Ben's purse had paid 
 for the taste which planned, as well as the labor which reared 
 it. And the lawyer rubbed his hands right gleefully when 
 people praised his cottage, and blessed — himself that he was 
 rich. The cottage was finally finished, and then more than 
 one head was employed in furnishing it. Marble, and rose- 
 
180 NICKIE BEN. 
 
 wood, and mahogany, and Brussels, and Turkey, and crim 
 son damask, and chandeliers, and other words belonging to 
 the vocabulary of luxury, were now very common on the lips 
 of Nickie Ben ; and, after talking for a proper time, he set 
 out, with a paid friend at his elbow, for New York. By this 
 lime gossiping neighbors began to measure, mentally and with 
 their tongues, the depth of his purse, venturing surmises con- 
 cerning its exhaustion ; but they had forgotten the quiet little 
 streams which keep the ocean full, and the lawyer had good 
 reason to smile at their surmises. Nickie Ben's next extrav- 
 agance was a carriage — a " splendid affair" — with all the 
 belongings necessary and unnecessary, by no means omitting 
 the " gentleman " to hold the ribbons. This last was a mas- 
 ter stroke of policy ; and, by the way, O ye half-despairing, 
 half-hoping lovers, take the advice of one who has a right to 
 know the heel of Achilles in a woman's heart, and, when 
 everything else fails, set up a carriage. It was really pro- 
 voking to see the lawyer whirl through the streets, his fine 
 blood-horses prancing, his harness glittering, and his carriage 
 sweeping the air with such conscious, indisputable superiority, 
 with nobody younger and fairer than the widow by his side ; 
 it was tantalizing, and many a pretty belle -was heard to ac- 
 knowledge that if she were Ada Palmer it would be very 
 tempting. To be sure the fine carriage in our muddy uneven 
 streets looked a little like a Canary bird in a quagmire ; but 
 that was something that the elderly people could appreciate 
 better than we ; and the carriage gained the lawyer more re- 
 spect from those whose respect he valued just now most, than 
 even his rare cottage with its luxurious furniture. 
 
 Do you now see how Nickie Ben sacrificed his manliness 
 and independence to public opinion ? 
 
 And Ada ? 
 
 Oh ! Ada laughed, and jumped into her father's big hay 
 wagon, and rode wherever she chose ; and so the laugh of 
 the whole village was on her side. Alas ! poor Nickie Ben ! 
 — Alas ! — no, I recall the sympathy. AVTiat has a man with 
 plenty of money in his purse, and a head rife with plans for 
 
NICKIE BEN. 181 
 
 enjoying it, to do with sighing? The rich lawyer was not 
 discouraged ; he was only disappointed ; and his most painful 
 feeling was regret for the loss of time. He immediately in- 
 stalled the widow mistress of the new cottage ; procured an 
 array of servants, probably in order to gratify her love of 
 rule ; and then, stepping into his carriage, he turned his 
 horses' head eastward. In a few weeks he returned in high 
 spirits ; and, though he bowed to everybody, and smiled, and 
 appeared more social than ever, nobody, not even Ada Palmer, 
 crossed the street to avoid meeting him. 
 
 Spring came in trippingly, full of playful freaks and sweet 
 caprices ; and before many buds had opened, the lawyer's 
 carriage had whirled him away from Alderbrook. We were 
 on the qui vive. Who was to be mistress of the beautiful 
 cottage ? how looked she ? was she old or young ? pretty or 
 plain ? Of course she would be purse proud, for who would 
 marry Nickie Ben but for his money? — and she would be 
 vulgar and showy — and nobody would like her — that was 
 certain. But the satisfactory certainty did not silence curi- 
 osity. 
 
 It was Sunday morning, and every lid was up in Aider- 
 brook ; for the lawyer had returned with his bride. 
 
 " Now for velvets, and ribbons, and laces," whispered Ada 
 Palmer, though in a place where she should not have whis- 
 pered, as she caught a glimpse of Nickie Ben's carriage froi.i 
 the window. 
 
 The next muinent every eye in the church was turned to 
 the door, and the lawyer opened it and entered. That his 
 bride ! or had the little white violet nestled in the moss by 
 the brook-side, stolen a pulse from the grass, and a form from 
 the guardians that bend over it in the night-time ? Where 
 had Nickie Ben found that pure, living dew-drop? and how 
 came it in his possession ? The sweet bride opened her 
 innocent blue eyes as she entered; and then immediately the 
 long lashes drooped over them, and rested meekly on the 
 dainty pillow below, and, wi^h a startled, timid look, she 
 instinctively drew a little nearer her husband. It would have 
 16 
 
182 NICKIE BEN. 
 
 required an Amazon to meet the stare of that surprised con' 
 gregalion. And she was a simple, lovely creature, jus 
 emerged from childhood ; a yet unfolded bud, that the brcezf 
 had never kissed, nor the sun rifled of a single sweet. Hat 
 money bought this treasure ? It was hard to think it, auc 
 yet — we did. 
 
 The next day the whole village called upon the gentle gir 
 that our despised lawyer had given a home among us. Ii 
 was late in the day when Ada Palmer and myself followed 
 the fashion set us, and proceeded to the cottage. The bride 
 was evidently wearied with the tedious ceremonies to which 
 she had been subjected, and had flung herself on a sofa lo 
 rest. There was something like vexation, with a slight dash 
 of merriment in it, on her countenance, when more visiters 
 were announced ; and we saw it in a moment, and saw, too, 
 how infinitely amusing to one as young as ourselves, must 
 have been the day's grave formalities. I do not think we 
 smiled, at least more than was proper ; we certainly spoke as 
 the deacon himself might have spoken ; but somehow, (and I 
 shall always put implicit faith in Mesmerism therefor,) the 
 lady became aware of the presence of sympathy and appre- 
 ciation, and her pretty, childish face grew bright with its' 
 expression of frank pleasure. Not a word had been spoken 
 but strictly ceremonial ones; not a tell-tale muscle znoved;, 
 but there was a shining out of the heart upon the face, and \ 
 we all comprehended the delicate pantomime. So we drew ! 
 up our chairs, forming a close group, and — " where is ever 
 the use " of confining the tongue after one has used a more 
 expressive language ? — we were friends and confidants past i 
 
 recall, and we were children enough to trust each other as \ 
 
 1 
 wiser people never trust. We talked of Alderbrook, and the 
 
 people in it, and made plans for the summer, and laughed 
 
 and cliattered on till the twilight grew very gray ; and then ' 
 
 we begged of our new acquaintance not to send for lights, 
 
 and threatened to go away if she did, and spoke and acted in , 
 
 all respects like privileged friends. So she sat down by us ■ 
 
 iigain J and the pensiveness of the hour mellowed our gayety 
 
NICKIE BEN. 183 
 
 Into something no less happy, but a little holier. And then 
 sweet Mrs. Nichols told us something of herself. She was 
 an orphan, not yet out of mourning ; and that was why 
 she wore no bridal ornaments. She talked of her mother — 
 how she had faded day by day ; and how she had laid her 
 thin hand lovingly upon the forehead of her only child, and 
 talked to her of the dark, dark future, when there would be 
 a coffin and a heap of earth between them two ; and as she 
 'talked and wept, we wept, too, as though the loss had been 
 'our own. Then she told of a kind man who came to them, 
 'and how generously he acted, and how nobly promised ; and 
 how she had loved him from the first moment, though it was 
 a long time before she dreamed of becoming his wife. And 
 'then she smiled, and blushed, and looked half-frightened, as 
 'though doubting if she had not said too much. But we told 
 her we were glad that Mr. Nichols had been so kind ; and 
 that was touching the right chord. Oh ! so kind ! we could 
 know nothing about it. Her poor mother had blessed him 
 with her last breath, and had said that he was certainly sent 
 of God. She did not know that the world contained such good 
 people before ; he had done everything for her ; and now he 
 "bad brought her to such a sweet home — it was fit for a prin- 
 cess. She could never thank him enough, and (blushing 
 again) love him enough ; all she could do would be to watch 
 'carefully that no trouble came to him which she could charm 
 away, and to study his wishes always — but that Avould be 
 no return ; could we think of anything she could do more ? 
 There was a well-known step on the stair, and the face of the 
 pretty young wife lighted up with animation ; so we pressed 
 her bright lips, like old friends, and promising to " come again 
 to-morrow," turned away. 
 
 It was very late that night before Ada and I parted ; for the 
 gentle, guileless stranger had grown quite to our hearts, and 
 we talked over her prospects with doubt and trembling. But 
 there was no need. Love had been dew and sunshine to the 
 delicate plant ; and now the very consciousness on the part 
 of Benjamin Nichols that he could not understand nor fully 
 
1S4 NICKIE BEN. 
 
 appreciate her, only made him worship her the more. He 
 had sought her to please himself; he was interested by her 
 gentle sweetness, and her gratitude touched a chord in his 
 bosom that had never before been stirred ; it reached below 
 the encrusting selfishness of a life-time. He had never loved 
 anything before, and now his love became idolatry. All this 
 was so new and strange that he seemed to himself a fresh- 
 hearted boy, just beginning the world; just learning the al- 
 phabet of life, such as God intended we should have it; and 
 he turned to his unsuspecting teacher with new devotion 
 every hour. Ah ! what a feeling of self-respect came with 
 the certainty that she, at least, preferred himself to his riches ; 
 that, were he a beggar, she would be the same ; and how . 
 trivial appeared his possessions, in comparison with the pearl 
 that he had at first sought only to adorn them. 
 
 The moral ? Nay, reader mine, you had no promise of 
 that. It is scarcely fair to attempt to turn a lady's boudoir i 
 into a laboratory. I have a little garden — a very little one; 
 and I will gather you bouquets from it of such flowers as I 
 can cultivate, begging you kindly to fling aside the weeds, ■ 
 and forgive the oversight of their admission. But I am only 
 a florist, and have no skill in the arts of chemical analysis 
 and combination. Accept, then, my simple offering of flowers, 
 since these perishable things are all I have, and fling them 
 into your own alembic. Though their life pass with my own 
 summer, I would fain hope that some heart may thus extract 
 a perfume that will lie upon it when the florist and her h 
 ble labors are alike forgotten. 
 
1S5 
 
 WHERE ARE THE DEAD? 
 
 Oh, whither have they fled — 
 
 Those spirits kind and warn., 
 Which, numbered with the dead, 
 
 Have nobly braved the storm ; 
 And gained a port at last, 
 
 A port of peace and rest, 
 Where, earthly perils past, 
 
 Their happy souls are blest ? 
 
 In some bright-beaming star, 
 
 Do they weave the pencilled rays, 
 Which, streaming from afar. 
 
 Upon our vision blaze ? 
 Or is the flickering light, 
 
 Which the varying twilight brings, 
 As it glimmers on our sight, 
 
 But the waving of their wings ? 
 
 Perchance along the sky. 
 
 The far-oflf azure dome. 
 They wing them free and high. 
 
 In their lofty spirit-home ; 
 And the cooling zephyr's wing. 
 
 As it fans the brow of care, 
 In its voiceless whispering. 
 
 May a message from them bear. 
 
 I have read a page that tells, 
 Of a home beyo7id the sky ; 
 
 Where the ransomed spirit dwells. 
 With the God of love on high. 
 16* 
 
186 WHERE ARE THE DEAD? 
 
 There, their crowns of living light, 
 They cast down at his feet, 
 
 To seek this lower night, 
 
 And the child of sorrow greet. 
 
 Low, where dark shadows fall 
 
 On the heart and on the brain, 
 Where earthly pleasures pall. 
 
 And the bosom throbs with pain J 
 There, with kindly lingering stay, 
 
 On their ministry of love. 
 They smooth the thorny way, 
 
 And point to rest above. 
 
187 
 
 THE YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 Have you seen Miss Follansbe, the elegant I\Iiss Catha- 
 rine Follansbe, belle and beauty ? You must have met her 
 at some of the gay watering-places ; for she has frequented 
 the most fashionable during the season. A genuine star is 
 she, not of the first magnitude, perhaps, though requiring but 
 the reputation of being an heiress, and a little less personal 
 dignity and haughty reserve, to rank above the most brilliant. 
 She has shone at Washington, too, during two or three gay 
 winters ; and it has been whispered among the young lady's 
 most intimate friends, that more than one coronet has been at 
 her disposal, to say nothing of the honors of senators, and 
 purses of millionaires. How that may be I know not, bul I 
 do know all about Miss Follansbe's first lover. 
 
 Ten years ago the radiant belle was only little Katy Fol- 
 lansbe, or " Lily Katy," as she was generally called — I sup- 
 pose on account of the pure transparency of that white skin 
 of hers, and the slender gracefulness of her fragile little 
 figure, looking for all the world like a drooping osier branch, 
 or that most spiritual of flowering things, the lily of the val- 
 ley. You will not believe that the proud, queenly Miss Fol- 
 lansbe was ever such a pale, shy creature, all nature, all 
 simplicity and untaught grace ; and, indeed, there is but little, 
 save that sweet, childish moutlk, to prove Lily Katy and the 
 self-possessed belle identical. 
 
 Ten years ago Squire Follansbe was not, as now, " one of 
 the first families " in Peltonville, and Lily Katy bounded into 
 hei fourteenth summer singing cheerily, " My face is my for- 
 tune," and verily believing (if she thought anything about it) 
 that no other fortune was necessary. Foolish Katy ! Squire 
 Follansbe had a growing family to care for, and no means of 
 
188 THE YOUNG DREAM. ' 
 
 procuring the wherewithal for their maintenance, but his owr 
 fruitful brain, seconded by a most economical and matter-of- i 
 fact helpmate. The squire was one of those all-enduring 
 all-hoping beings, an office-seeker ; and while golden vision; ' 
 of futurity were knotting up his brain into strange devices, i 
 not unfrequently happened that his purse hugged its last six' 
 pence, and the bare walls of his empty larder sent a chill tc 
 the heart of his good lady. There were bills, too. Om , 
 bright spring morning Lily Katy crept away to her own room 
 with incomprehensible misgivings at seeing her school bi.' ' 
 presented. Thither the mother soon followed, and a long 
 confidential communication ensued. Lily Katy had nevei 
 felt so important in her life as on that morning, for she hac 
 been entrusted with weighty secrets; and, if she did not gro\^ 
 six inches taller, in those two hours, she was certainly a yeai 
 older. It is strange how lightly men will throw that shadow 
 called thoughtfulness on a young face, that, but for the spirit'; 
 joyance, would be a blank without ; for it changes the whole 
 current of life, and implants in the awakened heart the seec 
 of all its misery, and its sweetest bliss. And a word, a glance 
 will sometimes touch the hidden spring, which, being onc( 
 opened, will flow on forever. Lily Katy sprang from hei 
 couch that morning a child, a careless, buoyant, beautifu 
 child ; and she sat down at the dinner-table a woman ; a verj 
 little woman, it is true, and so girlish in her pretty ways, thasil 
 it would have required a close observer to note the change 
 but yet changed forever. Something, however, in her ap 
 pearance seemed to attract the attention of the squire ; for he 
 paused several times in the discussion of his cutlet, to look a' 
 her strangely serious face; a»d at last inquired if his pretty 
 darling was quite well. Little did he dream that the chile 
 had been diving her pretty head to the bottom of his affaira 
 deeper than he ever ventured to look himself, and had come 
 up with a care lodged in every dimple. 
 
 In a fortnight from that time Lily Katy was duly installed 
 sole sovereign of the sixteen square feet enclosed within the 
 walls of a district school-house, some three or four miles froro 
 
niE YOUNG DREAM. 1S9 
 
 Peltonville ; and, of course, she was no longer a child. She 
 was very small, and very young, and there were many wise 
 shakes of the head when she first assumed her responsibili- 
 ties ; but soon all acknowledged that she was so " pretty- 
 spoken," and so discreet withal, that she was fully competent 
 to take charge of her dozen and a half abecedarians. And 
 she was a miracle of a little teacher. The fat, shy ragamuf- 
 fins that gathered around her knee advanced surprisingly in 
 itheir primitive lore ; and Lily Katy soon became the pet of 
 the whole district. The Chifferings, living in the large, white 
 house, with three butternuts and a black cherry-tree in front ; 
 the Beltons, a more intellectual but less wealthy family, occu- 
 pying the low, brown house at the foot of the hill; and the 
 'Thompsons, a respectable family of widowed women-folks, on 
 'the cross road around the corner, all took her into especial 
 ifavor. It was at the Chifferings', however, that Katy made 
 !her home ; because they had a roomy house, roomy hearts, 
 land three bouncing, good-natured daughters, (the two sons, of 
 : course, had no influence in the case,) who would have served 
 !the little school-mistress on their knees, if a glance of her 
 : sweet blue eyes had but bidden them. 
 
 Before many weeks passed Katy had become a mighty 
 I queen, with every family within two miles o? her seat of gov- 
 ^ernment for dutiful subjects. But this was not all; her fame 
 had spread into the neighboring districts. 
 
 One night, on returning from school, Katy observed a horse 
 tied to one of the butternuts in front of Mr. Chiffering's, crop- 
 \ ping the fresh grass very lazily, as though it were no ne\\ 
 thing to him, and only resorted to by way of killing time. 
 •' So-ho ! " thought the little lady, " company ! " and then she 
 smoothed the folds of her dress, and peeped over her shoulder 
 to see that the flaxen ringlets were doing no discredit to their 
 dainty resting-place ; for there was something about the sleek 
 steed and his belongings that spoke well for his master. 
 " So-ho !" repeated the lady, with an arch smile, bending her 
 slight figure a very little, and peering away up among the 
 apple-trees. " So-ho ! master dandy ! you are not usually on 
 
190 THE YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 such intimate terms with the Chifferings, I dare say." And 
 there, sure enough, under the shadow of the old farmer's 
 favorite " graft," his heel kicking the turf most unmercifully, 
 stood a slender, girlish-looking youth, almost as white as her- 
 self, in earnest conference with the two broad-shouldered 
 young Chifferings. But Katy had no more time for observa- 
 tion. She had just become visible to the inmates of tlie 
 house, and she now found herself forcibly seized upon by her 
 three friends, and borne away to the privacy of an upper bed- 
 room ; while all together proceeded to unfold an exceedingly 
 rich budget of news. The pretty youth in the orchard was 
 Arthur Truesdail, son of old Farmer Truesdail, of Crow Hill ; 
 but his errand was the important matter. There was a beau- 
 tiful piece of woodland within his father's domain, and this 
 w.as destined to be the scene of a grand pic-nic, to which all 
 the young people for six miles round would be invited. Ar- 
 thur was a college boy, just come home to spend his summer 
 vacation, and, of course, (in spite of beaver and broadcloth.) 
 the belle of the neighborhood. And very belle-Yike, indeed, 
 looked the girlish youth, there beneath the apple-trees ; with 
 the bright curls peeping from beneath his cap of purple vel- 
 vet, and his white hand coquetting with Robert Chiffering's 
 awkward mastiff. There was a roguish twinkle in the eye 
 of Lily Katy, as she watched him from the window ; but it 
 was the only expression she gave to any opinion she might 
 have formed of the delicate youth on whom her friends were 
 expending their eloquence. 
 
 " And it is all got up for your sake," was the concluding 
 point of Miss Amanda Chiffering's discourse ; " they want to 
 get acquainted with you." 
 
 However bright Lily Katy's eyes might be, and however 
 freely she might use them, she was neither vanity nor amuse- 
 ment-proof; and while her little heart went pit-a-pat at 
 thought of the honor done her, her head was nearly turned 
 with its anticipatory delight. She, however, smoothed down 
 her features enough to go through the formality of an intro- 
 duction to the blue-eyed collegian, when Robert Chiffering 
 
THE YOUNG DREAM. 191 
 
 brought him in to tea ; but smiles were constantly gathering 
 on her face, and her little fingers were most grievously afflicted 
 vnin. a tremor, that seemed to have its origin in her dancing 
 eyes. 
 
 How happy was Lily Katy Avhen she went to her pillow 
 that night ! and how she wished that everybody could know 
 what a fine thing it is to be a school-mistress ! 
 
 The day for the pic-nic came at last, though never a dame 
 in Christendom watched " boiling pot " as those hours were 
 watched. The day came, and it was a glorious one — a tithe 
 too hot, may-be, but it would be only the more delightful in 
 the woods, with the breezes wandering about, cooling them- 
 selves on the fresh leaves, and the silver-voiced brook sending 
 up its healthful breath with its music, to add to the attractions 
 of the sylvan dining-room. 
 
 The "big team" — the springless wagon and span of fat 
 plough-horses — stood before Farmer Chiffering's door, and 
 Katy's foot was resting on the round of the old kitchen chair, 
 that was wont to perform the office of carriage-steps, when 
 Arthur Truesdail's huggy came whisking around the corner. 
 There was a short, embarrassed conference ; and then, not- 
 withstanding a deal of amusingly sly hesitation on her part, 
 Katy was transferred from the lumber-wagon to a more hon- 
 ored seat at the left hand of the fair-haired college youth. 
 
 Oh ! how Lily Katy was envied that morning ! how sim- 
 ple-hearted, blush-colored damsels longed for just wisdom 
 enough to be school-mistresses ! and how Arthur, and Arthur's 
 new frock coat, and 'Arthur's fine turn-out were admired and 
 reiidmired I But Katy was not the only object of envy, It 
 was certainly no small honor to sit at the right hand of .he 
 pretty school-mistress ; and there was a provoking conscious- 
 ness in the manner of young Truesdail, which invited rather 
 than deprecated envy. Ah ! Katy loas beautiful ! The folds 
 of jaconet hung about her lily-o'-the-valley figure like snow 
 wreaths ; and her small straw hat, with the bright cluster of 
 opening rose-buds resting against its crown, just peeped over 
 the flaxen curls enough to catch a glimpse of her sunny eyes; 
 
192 THE YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 Without overshadowing them in the least. And then that 
 most bewitchingly little hand, and the still more bewitchingly 
 little foot, neatly cased in glove and gaiter ! Arthur Trues- 
 dail had a very charming vision of a horseback ride every 
 time he ventured to look down at the little, bird-like looking 
 thing peeping from beneath the envious hem ; and all for the 
 sake of the half-minute that he might take that wicked brain- 
 turner of a foot into his palm, while lifting its owner to the 
 saddle. As the buggy rolled up to the front door of an im- 
 mense red farm-house, that, but for its size, Would certainly 
 have been lost in the luxurious wilderness of lilac-bushes, and 
 roses, and hollyhocks surrounding it, a young man broke from 
 a be\7^ of red-cheeked girls that stood smiling :n the doorway, 
 and hurried to the gate to Avelcome Lily Katy. 
 
 The school-mistress had only time to hear, " My brother 
 Philip," and to smile and shake her curls toward a very seri- 
 ous-looking face, before she was lifted to the ground and led 
 away to the group awaiting her; " my brother Philip " being 
 left to care for the horse, while the collegian devoted himself 
 to his pretty lady. 
 
 " I wonder what makes him so melancholy-like this gay 
 morning," thought Katy, as her eye turned for a momeiit on 
 Philip Truesdail ; and when he returned and joined the com- 
 pany that was to proceed across the fields to the woods, she 
 again looked into his serious face with wonder. It loas 
 strange ; and Katy, being too young to believe seriousness ^ 
 quite compatible Avith happiness, began to feel very khidly 
 toward him, and to shape her sentiments and fashion her 
 words with a glance of thought toward him, whatever direc- ■ 
 tion her eye might chance to take the while. And Philip ' 
 seemed to appreciate her efforts; for he began to smile, and I 
 his blue eye grew beautifully dark while looking forth an i 
 answer to her bright Avords. It may be that Arthur appre- 
 ciated them too, for he placed himself close beside her, and ' 
 devoted himself to her so exclusively as to appropriate every 
 word and glance. 
 
 '* You must distribute your attentions a little," Katy heard! 
 
THE YOUNG DREAM. 193 
 
 the elder brother whisper to her cavalier, " or you will offend 
 everybody." 
 
 " Confound everybody ! " was the answer; " I will speak 
 to those I like, and leave the distributing to you. You can 
 play the devoted to one as well as another, Phil; but this 
 little lady likes me, and I like her, and we shall have it all 
 our own way." 
 
 Saucy enough was the smile that flitted across Lily Katy's 
 face at the confident tone of the young collegian ; and a work 
 of arch malice sparkled in her eyes when they again fell 
 upon him. Arthur Truesdail paid dearly for that one speech; 
 but, as his complacency evaporated, his gayety rose ; and so 
 the party should have given Lily Katy a vote of thanks. 
 
 And " my brother Philip ? " AVhy, he very nearly forgot 
 his own cautionary advice, and scarcely lost sight of Katy 
 through the day. Once, the school-mistress found herself 
 beside him, away in the depths of the woods, with her feet 
 resting on a rich carpet of golden moss ; the flashy brook 
 singing and chattering about nothing close before them, and 
 the busy trees nodding and whispering above her head, as 
 though they knew a great deal more than they chose to tell. 
 She found herself there, but how she came there was the 
 question ; and why she stood, and stood so contentedly, 
 when she knew that her host should be " distributing his 
 attentions." 
 
 Philip Truesdail was nearly ten years older than his 
 brother, and no match for him in any respect, if the family 
 or family's friends, were allowed to be the judges. There 
 was a womanly tenderness in his large blue eyes, but they 
 received an entirely different expression from the coal-blacl: 
 fringes shading them ; so that only those on whom they had 
 rested in compassion or affection, read anything there but 
 good-natured indifference. His hair, too, was black ; and his 
 complexion, except a narrow strip belting the top of the fore- 
 head, was of a deep tan color, enriched by the healthful blood 
 that had been denied his brother's pale, girlish cheek. There 
 was something in the manner of the serious young farmer 
 17 
 
194 THE YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 SO Studiously watchful of her comfort and convenience, so 
 entirely unselfish in its devotion, that irresistibly attracted the 
 little lady; and his language seemed to her chosen from tlie 
 books vi^hich she read and loved the best. That was the rea- 
 son why she did not propose returning to the rest of the party, 
 when she found they had wandered so much farther than she 
 had intended, and that was the reason that, when she heard 
 approaching footsteps, she almost unconsciously led the way 
 farther on; for voices always assume a different tone when 
 they speak to more than one listener. Her quick eye, too, 
 had read at a glance enough to interest her sympathies irre- 
 vocably on the side of Philip. During the ten minutes that 
 she had spent in the house, she saw that his position in the 
 family was by no means commensurate with his merits ; and 
 this discovery performed almost as great wonders for the un- 
 pretending farmer, as the recital of his sufferings and " hair- 
 breadth 'scapes " did for the Moor, Othello. Then he was so 
 old, and so brotherly ! Alas for Lily Katy ! 
 
 The day went like a sweet dream to the simple-hearted 
 girl; and when night came, she had much, very much, to 
 ■^ememher , but only a little to tell. 
 
 Katy went early to her school-house the next morning, for 
 the noisy gayety of the Chifferings seemed of a sudden dis- 
 tasteful to her ; and she longed for the stillness of some kind 
 of solitude. She was half-way there, when a horse bounded 
 from before the door, and dashed up the hill at a furious rate. 
 Could Katy have been right ? or was there a vision of yester- 
 day yet i-n her eye ? She thought the rider was Philip 
 Truesdail. Wondering, and doubting, and guessing, and 
 asserting within her own mind, the little school-mistress 
 tripped onward, all the time watching the spot where the 
 horseman disappeared against the sky. She reached the 
 door, and laid her hand upon the latch, her eye still resting 
 upon the top of the hill, and there she stood, with her head 
 leaned against the door-post, and her hands crossed on her 
 bosom, until linsey-woolsey, bare feet, and dinner-baskets 
 peering in sight, reminded her that dreaming was not hel 
 
THE YOUNG DREAM. 195 
 
 whole business. Lily Katy's task, however, looked dull to 
 her that morning ; her little people missed their accustomed 
 smile ; and she dropped herself into her big chair, with a 
 half-formed determination of betaking herself, with her troop 
 of noisy tyroes, to green walls and blue roof — a second Plato. 
 But what was that lying upon her desk ? Surely none of her 
 embryo philosophers could make up such a bouquet ! There 
 were bright young rose-buds, the slender green arms in which 
 they had so long nestled still clasped about them, as though 
 loath to give them up to an untried world, or striving to shield 
 them from such robbers as the sun and the breezes ; and pan- 
 sies, with their purple eyes full of sweet, loving thought; and 
 the magic daisy, spreading abroad its tell-tale petals, as 
 though asking to be inquired of; — the dark, glossy green 
 of the myrtle threw into beautiful relief the snowy bells of 
 the lily, her own cognominal ; and many a delicate flowering 
 thing peeped from beneath a sheltering leaf, or sat in state 
 upon its own slender stem, like a queen upon her throne. 
 
 Lily Katy took up the beautiful mystery very carefully, and 
 turned it over in her hands, and thrust the tips of her taper 
 fingers beneath the leaves, to discover all they concealed, and 
 wondered and guessed within herself, her lips all the time 
 parted with a surprised smile, and a radiant light breaking 
 from her blue eyes and spreading itself over her face. But 
 why did her cheek crimson and her bosom palpitate ? She 
 was thinking over the Thompsons, and the Beltons, and her 
 other friends, but was it that she believed her gift came from 
 them ? Ah, no ! Lily Katy made a great wonder of the 
 matter, even to herself; but there was something whispering 
 her all the time the whole and exact truth. In peering 
 among the stems, she found a slip of paper, with the words 
 " For the lovely ' Lily ' " written upon it, in a round, fair 
 hand, that Katy would have been delighted to transfer to her 
 copy-books, and that she put carefully away between the 
 leaves of her little morocco-covered Testament. 
 
 " The lovely Lily " said not a word to the Chifferings ot 
 her mysterious bouquet ; but it could not have been because 
 
196 THE YOUNG DREAM. ( 
 
 she set too light a value on it; for never lingered life m 
 flowers so long as in those. 
 
 That pic-nic party w^as the beginning of a — friendship. 
 Days and weeks passed away, and Philip Truesdail and the i 
 pretty school-mistress, were to each other, as people said, " like 
 brother and sister." And they said, too, that it was very kind ' 
 of Phil to give so much of his time to Lily Katy, since his ; 
 more showy brother had taken such a violent fancy to romp- |j 
 ing Nell ChifFering; though, to be sure, he could not make \ 
 up for the loss of Arthur. 
 
 In large towns people are annoyed by conventionalism ; in 
 villages by gossip ; but if you would be entirely free, if you 
 would act on all occasions precisely as you please, leave ;ill 
 " settlements," and go out where it is at least a good half mile 
 from hearth-stone to hearlh-stone. Phil Truesdail drove ovci 
 to the school-house as often as he listed, and took Katy into 
 his buggy, and nobody said a word about it, except " what a 
 good young man is Phil." Sometimes he came on horse- 
 back, (the buggy being appropriated by his brother Arthur,) 
 and then they sat in the school-house together, and read vol- | 
 umes of poetry, and perhaps talked poetry, until the moon 
 came out; and then those moonlight walks! Nobody said a 
 word about them, however. Certainly it was very kind in 
 Philip Truesdail to devote himself so exclusively to Lily i| 
 Katy ; for his presence saved the poor school-mistress many ' 
 a wearisome hour. Oh, yes ! kind, very- — to himself. To ' 
 him, this was a strangely sweet intercourse ; he seemed to be 
 living and moving in one of those bewitching dreams that 
 had haunted him since boyhood. Perhaps there never was 
 a man who had reached his five-and-twentieth summer, pre- 
 serving the singleness of heart, the simplicity of character, 
 and the guileless purity that marked this friend of Lily Katy. 
 Born with an eye for seeing and a heart for feeling, he had '' 
 exercised both within the precincts of " Crow Hill ;" and so » 
 every plant was known and loved, every pebble had a familiar J 
 .ook to him, every ripple, every murmuring breeze, and every ^ 
 Bweet feathered thing, spoke a language that he could per-. 
 
 
THE YOUNG DREAM. 197 
 
 fectly understand. He gathered lessons of philosophy from 
 the field, and poetry from the woodland ; then he read of them 
 in books, his own heart being the crucible in which the melal 
 was tried, and appropriating only the pure gold. He found 
 his companions and friends where he guided the plough and 
 wielded the sickle ; and it was seldom that he mingled with 
 human beings, for there was something in their rude tones 
 that jarred upon the refined harmony of his spirit. But there 
 was no discord in the voice or sentiments of Lily Katy ; for 
 she had just begun life, and her nature was full of the ro- 
 mance of its morning. The chivalrous devotion of Philip 
 Truesdail had a witchery about it, that, young as she was, 
 she more than half suspected would one day be lost ; and it 
 was this single grain of worldly wisdom, mingling with the 
 enthusiasm of girlish fourteen, that induced Lily Katy to shut 
 her eyes resolutely upon everything lending to break the 
 charm. But yet, good and gentle as Katy was, there was a 
 single vein of coquetry (innocent, pleasing coquetry to any- 
 body but Philip Truesdail) about her, which originated many 
 a shadow. 
 
 Katy was in the garden at Crow Hill, (for old Farmer 
 Truesdail had daughters whom the school-mistress sometimes 
 visited,) and Philip, as usual, was beside her. He had plaited 
 a wreath, and she stood smilingly, like a pet lamb, while he 
 adjusted it among her light, silken curls ; but when he 
 picked, in a marked manner, a rose-bud, and, touching it to 
 his lips, was about adding it to the fragrant tiara, she shook 
 it gayly from her head and placed her foot upon it. 
 
 " Nay, nay, cousin Phil," (Katy always used the con- 
 venient prefix,) " you will spoil my head-dress with these 
 hea^y additions ; and I dare say you have made me look 
 like a fright now — hav'n't you ?" 
 
 Katy did not note the expression — half of chagrin, half 
 of involuntary pain — with which her companion turned to 
 another topic ; and neither did he note her hand soon after 
 creeping down among the grass, to recover the rejected sym- 
 bol of what had never been spoken 
 17* 
 
198 THE YOTTNCx DREAM. 
 
 Speedily passed the summer ; the mellow autumn opened, 
 and Philip Truesdail was no more the declared lover of his 
 Lily than on the first day they met. But his tongue could 
 have paid little in comparison with what the fair maiden had 
 been told a thousand times, in more eloquent language. And 
 she understood it all, and thought it then sufficient. What 
 need was there that Katy should grow wiser ? 
 
 They met for the last time on such terms — the pretty 
 school-mistress and her adopted cousin. 
 
 " And you will go back to your gay village, and forget this 
 place that you have made such a heaven to me, and perhaps 
 laugh at the rude farmer that has dared to — to call you ' 
 cousin, Katy." 
 
 Lily Katy shook her head. 
 
 " You will take the light from my heart, Katy, when you 
 go away ; and there will be no melodious sound for my ear, 
 because your voice will be making music for others ; and no 
 sight to charm my eye, because your eye will be away, and 
 cannot look on to give it its coloring. Oh, Katy ! I shall be 
 doubly lonely when you are gone ! " 
 
 There was a dewiness in the young girl's eye, as she 
 turned it upon the murmurer. 
 
 " You will have the woods, cousin Philip, and the brook 
 that we have sat beside, and the lilies that you planted in the ' 
 corner of the garden, because, you said, they were like me, ! 
 and the rose-bushes that I helped you to trim, and the room 
 where we have read so many beautiful things together, and 
 all the places where we have been — you will have them all. 
 You should not complain, cousin Philip." 
 
 " And would you take any of them from me — would you 
 have them yours, if you could, dear Katy ? " 
 
 "Perhaps — perhaps — um!"and Katy looked upas mis- 
 chievously as her quivering lip would let her. 
 
 " I would give you one for a remembrancer, if you could 
 take it away, but it would be a hard thing for me to spare 
 more." 
 
 "And I do not need the remembrancer, Cousin Philip; 
 
THE YOUNG DREAM. 199 
 
 my memory never requires jogging where my friends are 
 concerned. But let us change the subject, — we are getting 
 mopish." 
 
 " It is our last evening, dear Katy — I have never troubled 
 you by talking about myself much, but now — " 
 And do not now, Phil — pray don't." 
 
 " Is it such a very disagreeable subject, then ? " 
 
 " No, no ! it is too — I mean it is of course interesting, but 
 —there will be time for all that, cousin when you come to 
 Peltonville." 
 
 " And inay I come, Katy ? " inquired the young man with 
 a kindling eye, and holding back his breath to catch the an- 
 swer. 
 
 " May you ! " returned the little lady, laughing ; " you do 
 not suppose we are so inhospitable as to shut the door upon 
 our cousins. But maybe you will not wish to come, and in 
 that case I shall not urge you — eh, Cousin Phil?" 
 
 " God bless you, Katy ! If I could only know that we 
 shall meet as we part now ! " 
 
 A shadow passed over the clear young brow of Lily Katy ; 
 it must have been a foreboding of evil, for she replied almost 
 mournfully 
 
 " People never meet as they part, Philip ; and for one, I 
 wish there was no such thing as parting." 
 • The young man's eye brightened. 
 
 " And would you be content at — where you have spent the 
 summer, dear Katy ? " 
 
 " I could not find a better place." 
 
 " And in such company?" 
 
 " Company makes places — nay, Cousin Phil, do not thank 
 me too warmly I have had a variety of company, you 
 know." 
 
 The young man turned away with an air of disappointment. 
 
 " Come back, Philip, come back, and take that curl out of 
 your lip ; and, since you are bent on making me say silly 
 things first hear me. The company of my good cousin, 
 
200 THE YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 Philip Truesdail, is all that would keep me from Peltonville 
 Are you satisfied ? " 
 
 The young man seized the small hand that was raised to 
 urge his return, and pressed it hastily to his lips, then dropped 
 it by her side, and stood back a moment to look into her crim- 
 soned face ; finally, advancing resolutely, he bent his lips to 
 her ear, and whispered the few heart-warm words that came 
 to them involuntarily. 
 
 " I am a little girl, only a little girl — you must not talk to 
 me so, Cousin Phil," stammered Katy ; " when I am older — " 
 
 " Will you love me then, dear Katy ?" 
 
 "I — I do not know. Don't get angry again, Philip ! don't ! 
 I love you now — with all my heart — and will forever and 
 ever. Now make the most of that, and let go my hand, for 
 I must go into the house this very minute." 
 
 Young Truesdail would have been better pleased had the 
 little lady spoken less pettishly ; and he resigned the hand, 
 and turned homeward, with an air that made Lily Katy ex- 
 ceedingly sorry for what she began now to consider her folly. 
 She looked it all in her sweet, childish face, as she placed her 
 hand gently within his, and whispered, -' I will stay as long 
 as you wish, Philip," 
 
 The face of the young farmer lighted up with joy ; for the 
 first time, he drew the simple girl to his heart ; for the first 
 time, their lips met, and then they sat down on the mossed 
 bank together, and spent two golden hours as hours were 
 never spent by them before. When the moon went down, 
 hand in hand they proceeded homeward, and parted on .the 
 door-stone of the Chifferings, with vows of everlasting change- 
 lessness. 
 
 Lily Katy awoke next morning with a confused recollection 
 of mingled pleasure and mortification, for which she could 
 not at first account. But in the next moment a crimson blush 
 overspread her face ; and she nestled down, and closed her 
 eyes feigning sleep, for the sake of being left to her own 
 thoughts. That she was happy could not be denied ; but 
 with her sense of happiness came the mortifying suspicior^ 
 
THE YOUNG DREAM. 201 
 
 i that she had been won too easily. So there she lay, her 
 pretty face half buried in the pillow, and the other half 
 covered by her small hand, and revolved in her mind every 
 word that had been uttered on the previous evening, until she 
 satisfied herself that she had acted a very unmaidenly part ; 
 and, moreover, that Philip Truesdail ought to be punished 
 for leading her into such folly. How dignified she would be 
 when she next met him ! 
 
 During this summer, so important to Lily Katy, Mr. Fol- 
 lansbe's devotion to his country had been rewarded by the 
 gift of the office of county clerk; and it was thought that bis 
 salary, united with his lady's economy, would be sufficient for 
 the support of his family. But the accession of tJie needful 
 was nothing in comparison with the accession of consequence. 
 Now the FoUansbes were invited everywhere, and everybody 
 was proud of their acquaintance ; and Lily Katy was too 
 beautiful not to receive a due share of this newly awakened 
 homage. But did the little belle forget her farmer lover ? 
 Not she. Not a buggy-wagon stopped at her father's door 
 but her heart fluttered like a newly caged bird ; but it was a 
 fortnight, a long, long fortnight, before the- right buggy made 
 its appearance. Katy saw it from an upper window, and 
 clapped her little hands with delight. In a moment she was 
 called down, but she must needs wait to dissipate the tell-tale 
 blushes, and send the smiles back t''rom her face to her heart ; 
 and she must not tremble, not in the least, for she had resolved 
 on oehavino with a great deal of propriety this time. 
 
 While Katy stood before her glass smoothing down her 
 features to a proper degree of demureness, Philip Truesdail 
 sat bolt upright in the room below, almost dreading to hear 
 the well-known sound of her foot ; wondering how he could 
 have been so foolish as to stake his happiness on such a des- 
 perate throw, and resolving to tell the child at once that he 
 considered her in no wise bound by words which her gener- 
 osity might have prompted her to utter at a moment when she 
 had no time for thought. 
 
 "With such reflections on either side, is it strange that they 
 
202 THE YOUNG DKEAM. 
 
 met coldly ? that misunderstanding followed misunderstand 
 ing? that Katy was unreasonably exacting, though every 
 Avord she uttered warred against her heart ? and that Philip 
 Truesdail was generous and self-denying, as he had always 
 been, and disdained to follow up any advantage which he 
 might have gained on that memorable moonlight evening ? 
 Five minutes of entire confidence on both sides would have 
 set all right ; but a word unspoken often causes a life-es- 
 trangement. And so, is it strange that Philip Truesdail and 
 Lily Katy parted that night forever ? 
 
 "Forever — forever !" sobbed the poor girl, as she flung 
 herself on the sofa, even before the echo of her light, merry 
 laugh had died on the air. 
 
 It was years before that mocking laugh died in the ears of 
 Philip Truesdail. 
 
 "Forever — forever!" repeated Lily Katy, and then she 
 promised herself that it would not be so ; he would come 
 back — she knew Philip Truesdail too well to believe he 
 would leave her to such misery — he was so kind, so con- 
 siderate, so true-hearted, and so forgiving — then a fresh burst 
 of tears interrupted her comforting reflections. 
 
 The next morning, Lily Katy could not forbear telling her 
 mother how miserable she was ; but all the consolation she 
 received was commendation for the good sense both evinced 
 in parting so amicably And so Katy had her trials to bear 
 all alone. How she watched for that little buggy till the 
 snow came ! and then, how she sat by the window, and 
 looked along the road, and wondered if she should know 
 Philip Truesdail from the top of the hill in his winter dress. 
 But no Philip Truesdail came, and spring found Lily Katy 
 still watching. By this time, the fragile child had shot up 
 into a tall, womanly looking maiden, and there were but few 
 that called her Lily Katy now. It would have required a 
 very superb lily to bear any resemblance to the bloommg, 
 beautiful Catharine Follansbe. But the lady's heart went 
 back, like the dove to its resting place ; and, though fast en- 
 tering on her belle-ship, she would have given worlds, had 
 
THE YOUNG DREAM. 203 
 
 worlds been in her gift, to have lived over again her four- 
 teenth summer. Still, however, she be'ieved that Philip 
 Truesdail would return; but return he never did. 
 
 Years passed, and Mr. FoUansbe rose from a county office- 
 holder to the state legislature, and from a legislator to a repre- 
 sentative ; and simple Lily Kaly was merged in the elegant 
 and fashionable Miss Follansbe. And was Philip Truesdail 
 remembered still ? Perhaps. Those soft blue eyes flashed 
 now with pride and spirit, the delicate lip curled sometimes 
 with scorn, and the beautifully curved neck arched itself like 
 that of a tropical bird conscious of its own matchless charms ; 
 even the voice, with its smooth, measured cadences, sounded 
 not like the low, warbling tones of Lily Katy ; and, in place 
 of simplicity and artless sentiment, came words of wit and 
 sometimes of wisdom. Did this elegant creature, delicate 
 and fastidious as she was, ever give a thought to the sober- 
 faced farmer jogging after his plough behind the red farm- 
 house on Crow Hill ? and was that the reason why she turned 
 so coldly from her crowd of suitors, and called herself still 
 heart-whole ? No. She never thought of the rude farmer, 
 earning his bread by the sweat of his brow ; but there was 
 away in her heart of hearts an ideal image that always stole 
 away the point from any arrow that the winged god might 
 send thither. This image was originally that of Philip 
 Truesdail; but she had so renewed and moulded it over, that 
 it now bore no resemblance to its former self. Who could 
 have believed that the gay, heartless Miss Follansbe Avas 
 cherishing a deathless affection ? Who would believe that 
 half the world are doing so, even while they laugh at truth 
 and faith ? 
 
 Miss Follansbe was entering on her four-?nd-twentielh 
 spring when she went to spend the green season at her old 
 home of Peltonville. Her smile was eagerly courted, and a 
 nod, even, was considered worth a deal of Scrambling; but 
 still people had their remarks to make. The milliner, the 
 grocer, and the tavern-keeper's wife, all said she had grown 
 shamefully aristocratic ; and old Mrs. Hudson winked her 
 
204 
 
 THE YOUNG DREAM 
 
 liltle black eyes very meaningly, as she intimated to every- 
 body that she had seen the time when the Follansbes were 
 no better than their neighbors. But the proud lady minded 
 none of these things. The deeper the murmurs, the more 
 cause she gave for murmuring. She had been at Peltonville 
 but a few weeks, when she began to feel an earnest desire to 
 visit the scene of her first and only school-teaching. She 
 had not seen it since the bright autumn day on which she left 
 — and why? She could have told why; but no one else 
 would have dreamed it. Now she would see if the little 
 sacred spots she had cherished in memory were the same ; 
 and so she went. She recollected perfectly well that the old 
 school-house was small and dirty, and of a weather-painted 
 brown ; but she could scarce believe it could have been so 
 small, and so dirty, and so brown, ten years before. As for 
 the children, she was confident that she had never Avatched 
 over and loved such ill-looking ragamuffins as they were. 
 And certainly there could have been no resemblance between 
 the awkward, narrow-browed, square-shouldered country girl, 
 with the shrill tenor voice, that occupied the chair, and her 
 former self. But the dingle behind the school-house ! the 
 dear old woods that pictured themselves on her inward eye 
 just as she had left them! — ah! change had been there. 
 Not a tree was standing. Was it a tear that trembled on the 
 dark lashes of Miss Follansbe ? If so, it stood there but a 
 moment, though she did not smile till she had left the school- 
 house behind the hill. The young Chifferings were married, 
 and the old people lived with their eldest son ; the Beltons 
 nad moved away, and the Thompsons were dead, except an 
 o'lu woTian that went out sewing by the day. Miss Follans- 
 be went on, and without any settled purpose she directed the 
 driver to Cro\'' Hill. Perhaps she would go past — perhaps 
 she would call. She had heard that the old people were 
 dead, and the place was in the possession of Philip Truesdail 
 and one unmarked sister. The lady's heart beat most un- 
 mercifully agaiht her boddice, as the red farm-house hove in 
 sight; and she\allowed her carriage to go a quarter of a mile 
 beyofid before sfie could muster courage to give the necessary 
 
 / 
 
THE YOUNG DllEAM. 205 
 
 order. Then the horses' heads were turned, and, in a moment 
 she alighted at the door where she had first seen Philip Trues- 
 dail. But little change had been there ; and slowly she walked 
 up the narrow path between the rose-bushes, and tried to im- 
 agine herself Lily Katy, in the first freshness of beautiful 
 girlhood. Lightly, and almost timidly, she tapped at the 
 door, then more heavily, and then she substituted her parasol 
 for her knuckles ; but no answer came. Raising the latch, 
 she stepped over the threshold, and found herself in the well- 
 remembered parlor. There, nothing was changed, not even 
 the position of a chair. The mantel-clock was ticking as of 
 yore, and the old-fashioned vases stood on either side of it 
 with- just such flowers in them as she had first received from 
 Philip Truesdail. He had, of course, arranged them that 
 morning, and Miss Follansbe blushed to find herself appropri- 
 ating one of the prettiest; but with a tremor in her fingers, she 
 fastened it in her boddice. She took a book from the table. 
 It was the same she had read with him many a time, and 
 there were traces of her own pencil on it, and, between the 
 leaves, for a mark, a bit of riband that she recollected clipping 
 one evening from her breast-knot. What would not the ele- 
 gant lady have given to be simple Lily Katy once more. Oh, 
 how many a heart-ache is wrapped up in the refinements of 
 fashionable society, and the flippant follies of worldly wisdom t 
 Satisfied that no one was in the house. Miss Follansbe pro- 
 ceeded to the garden. How came back every word that had 
 been spoken there !-^ every look, every light pressure of the 
 hand ; much that she did not rightly receive at the time, and 
 much more that she did not rightly comprehend. And Miss 
 Follansbe \vished that she had been born in that neighborhood, 
 and never " looked beyond the visual line that girt it round." 
 But still her lip remained firm and her eye unmoistened till 
 she came to the little cluster of lilies, carefully Aveeded and 
 that morning watered, that Philip Truesdail had planted there 
 because they looked like her, while she stood by, and laugh- 
 ingly tried to lift the spade that seemed such a toy in his 
 hands. Then her calmness gave way, her dignity, all was 
 18 
 
206 THE YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 gone ; and Miss Follansbe leaned against the cherry-tree, by 
 which she stood, and wept as she had scarce done since 
 childhood, A rustUng of the leaves startled her, and she 
 wiped the traces of tears from her face, and turned with her 
 usual self-possessed air to the intruder. A dark-complexioned 
 woman, with her hair blown over her face, and a basket of 
 cowslips on her arm, stood among the shrubbery, shading her 
 eyes with her large, bony hand, and peering earnestly down 
 into the garden. This should not have been the sister of 
 Philip Truesdail, but Miss Follansbe recognized her as such 
 immediately, and half of her touching recollections were dis- 
 sipated. The lady introduced herself at once, and then suck: 
 chattering, and such wondering! Miss Truesdail insisted on>. 
 blowing the horn to call her brother from the field; and,] 
 though the lady said nay, she said it so faintly that the signal j 
 was given. It would be saying too much for Miss Follansbe's' 
 self-control not to own that her heart bounded, and her color 
 went and came like a bashful school-girl's at the prospect of, 
 meeting her early lover, face to face, after the- lapse of ten 
 years. And when Miss Truesdail exclaimed, "There he 
 comes I " it was some minutes before she ventured to turn her 
 eyes in the direction designated. But when she did ! Miss 
 Follansbe could scarce credit the evidence of her senses ; she 
 could not suppress a smile. With a.n old torn straw hat in 
 one hand, and the other supporting a hoe upon the shoulder 
 of his striped frock, his figure stooping, and his eye fixed 
 upon the ground, walked the man that Miss Truesdail had 
 called her brother. He might have been mistaken for her 
 father, and she was anything but youthful. Miss Follansbe 
 thought of the flowers in the parlor, and the carefully trimmed 
 shrubbery, and tried to argue herself into receiving her old 
 lover as what he really was, rather than as what he appeared. 
 He started when he heard the lady's name, and a quick flush 
 passed over his face ; but it was gone in a moment, and he 
 sat down at a respectful distance, and conversed calmly and 
 sensibly, without apparently once remembering that they had 
 ever met before. And a stranger would have thought they 
 never had, till Miss Truesdail made mention of the fact. 
 
THE yOUNG DREAM. 207 
 
 ' You wouldn't have known Miss Follansbe, Philip?" 
 
 The man looked up. 
 
 " She is very much changed." 
 
 " There is n't much left like Lily Katy," pursued the spin- 
 Bter, unconscious of the recollections she was awakening. 
 
 Her auditors were both silent. 
 
 '•"But Philip is quite the same — some people never do 
 change — I don't see as he is altered in the least from what 
 he was ten years ago — do you, Miss Follansbe?" 
 
 •' Not in the least," echoed Miss Follansbe, with a demure 
 look, which might be attributed either to the command she 
 had obtained over the muscles of her face, or to a strange 
 absence of mind. 
 
 There was a proud flash in Philip Truesdail's eye, as he 
 turned it for the first tim.e full on the metamorphosed school- 
 mistress. 
 
 " Nay, lady," he answered, " even your system, the rules 
 that govern you in the gay world, require not this sacrifice of 
 truth. Say that I am changed. Why should I not be, as 
 well as yourself? My shoulders are bent, my hair is grizzled, 
 my features are sharp, and there are wrinkles on my fore- 
 head ; but that is not all — I am changed more than that, and 
 from this hour more than ever. But these are trifling things 
 to you, Miss Follansbe." 
 
 It was strange with what ease Philip Truesdail turned to 
 other subjects, and with what fluency he conversed, prevent- 
 ing the possibility of his sister's introducing topics more per- 
 sonal. In a half hour Miss Follansbe was handed into her 
 carriage by the bachelor farmer ; and, while she leaned her 
 bead on her hand, and mused over the strange inconsistency 
 of her own character, Philip Truesdail went whistling back 
 to his labor. Neither was happy and neither was sad ; both 
 were in a state of discomfort. They had been awakened from 
 a long cherished dream, and the last spark of romance was 
 extinguished in the bosoms of both. 
 
 And so Miss Follansbe went back to the world again ; and 
 Philip Truesdail to his plough and his flowers, and his sim- 
 plicity. 
 
208 
 
 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 " A PINK barege, with tucks — or a flounce — no ! I like 
 tu:ks better; let me think — how many ? Half a dozen 4ittle- 
 ones look fixed up ; one deep one, doubling the whole skirt,: 
 is very suitable for mamma, but it would be rather too heavy, 
 too dignified for me ; then two of moderate size — oh ! they 
 are so common! Never mind! Madam Dufraneau shall 
 decide that matter. But I will have the dress, at any rate, 
 and it shall be pink — just the palest and most delicate in the 
 world — but pink it shall be, because of my dark eyes and 
 hair, and fair complexion." 
 
 So soliloquized pretty Rosa Warner, a good-natured, 
 thoughtless miss, of some thirteen summers, whose only 
 troublous reflection was occasioned by the distance of bright 
 sixteen, when her mother had promised she should be allowed 
 to abolish short dresses, and gather up her jetty curls into a 
 comb. And this would, indeed, be quite an era in the life 
 of the little lady; — for she had no small pretensions to beauty, 
 and was, moreover, the only child of a very wealthy father 
 and a very fashionable mother. Oh ! what visions she had : 
 of the future ! 
 
 " Yes, I will have the pink barege," repeated Miss Rosa; 
 and taking another peep at the mirror, to see that her dress 
 would fully bear the scrutiny of her mother's critical eye, she 
 tripped gayly down stairs, reached the landing with a light 
 bound, and then, smoothing her features and her hair at the 
 same time, placed her hand very demurely on the knob of 
 the breakfast-room doer. Her mother was there before her, 
 and Rosa heard her say, as she entered, *' I have no occa- 
 sion for employing a stranger." 
 
 These words were addressed to a pale, thin girl, who stood 
 just inside the door, with her head bent down, and the fingers 
 of her ungloved hand trembling on the back of a chair before 
 her. 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 209 
 
 Perhaps," returned the girl, half hesitatingly, " perhaps 
 you employ need work less than I." 
 
 " 1 doubt it," returned Mrs. Warner ; " a seamstress always 
 needs work, and those whom I have tried, and know to be 
 deserving, I esteem it my duty to give the preference to. 
 There is sewing enough to be done, and no one who can use 
 the needle skilfully need long go begging for work." 
 
 A sensation as of choking seemed struggling in the throat 
 of the girl, and her fingers now clutched convulsively at the 
 chair. 
 
 " I hope you may succeed in obtaining employment," ob- 
 served Mrs. Warner, consolingly ; " but really — " 
 
 " If you would but try me, lady !" sobbed the girl. " We 
 are very poor — God knows if we shall starve!" she mur- 
 mured, "and my poor, poor mother!" 
 
 Mrs. Warner did not hear the last words, for Rosa, not- 
 wilhstanding her habitual fear of her mother, had glided up 
 to her, and whispered " that Mary Jones could not come for 
 a week, at least, and Alice Weaver was really to be married 
 in a fortnight." This information induced Mrs. Warner to 
 look again at the girl who stood trembling before her. 
 
 " Your name I think you gave as Ellen Vaughn ? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " And you live on S street ? " 
 
 "We live there now." 
 
 " Can you make dresses ?" 
 
 "Not well; I should not like to try." 
 
 " What can you do ? " 
 
 "Almost every kind of needle-work — fancy and plain." 
 
 "Embroidery?" asked Mrs. Warner, with an incredulous 
 smile. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " And can you do nothing with dresses ? " 
 
 "Not nice ones." 
 
 " Could you put together a morning govm after it was 
 fitted?" 
 
 "Oh yes!" 
 
 18* 
 
210 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 " And make school-dresses for my daughter ?" 
 
 " I have done it for others." 
 
 " For whom have you worked ?" 
 
 "For no one in INew York, lady. We left a country vil- 
 lage, a few weeks ago, thinking we should do better here ; 
 but it was all a mistake. There is a great deal of work in 
 the city, I dare say, but there are so many hands to do it. 
 Oh ! I am very sorry we came ! " sighed Ellen Vaughn, shak- 
 ing her head slowly. 
 
 "It is a common mistake," observed Mrs. Warner; "peo- 
 ple seldom ' let well alone.' " 
 
 The girl opened her lips as though to reply, but was 
 checked by a "second thought." Mrs. Warner seemed con- 
 sidering the subject a moment, and finally she decided. " I 
 will employ you to-day, at least. Eosa, show Miss Vaughn 
 to the back sitting-room, and give her the skirt of your mus- 
 lin dress ; I will see her before that is done." 
 
 Rosa obeyed; and the girl, turning back and hesitating for 
 a moment, as though there had been something more she 
 would have asked if she dared, slowly followed. 
 
 Mrs. Warner, as we have before said, was a very fashion- 
 able lady ; yet she possessed more real feeling, more heart 
 and soul, if one could only find the way to it, than would 
 serve a whole clique of the ordinary stamp of fashionables. 
 But there was one marked peculiarity about Mrs. Warner's 
 feeling ; it was not only capricious, but it would not be led. 
 She was quick and ardent if left to her own impulses, but 
 where others felt the most deeply, she manifested a strange 
 obtuS'3ness ; and when she had reason to believe that people 
 thought she ought to be affected, she was cold and calm as a 
 winter moonlight. Yet but few persons could have had the 
 hardihood to say that Mrs. Warner was whimsical. She 
 was so evidently governed, even in her eccentricities, by high 
 moral principle ; there was so much that was noble and gen- 
 erous in her nature ; and her personal presence was so im- 
 posing, that, between her pride and her finer qualities, she 
 was generally too much feared and loved to be considered 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 211 
 
 a proper subject for the dissecting knife of gossips. Mrs 
 "Warner owed her entire amount of peculiarities to a strong 
 I will that had never been checked, and a full consciousness of 
 [ her own powers, both natural and social, slightly modified by 
 I conventionalism, and rendered fitful by occasional visitations 
 ' of worldly wisdom. A more impulsive creature than she Avas 
 in childhood never existed ; but, on mingling with the world, 
 it had been her misfortune to meet with imposition oftener 
 than gratitude. It was thus that she had learned a kind of 
 suspicion, which frequently made her unjust ; and it was not 
 unusual for her to say and do things worthy of the most iron- 
 hearted. In her family she was kind, but authoritative ; and 
 neither Rosa, nor the two cousins dwelling under the roof 
 with her, thought it by any means a minor matter to encoun- 
 i. ter her frown. And, if truth must be told, it was no pleasant 
 L thought to Mr. Warner that he had incurred his lady's dis- 
 |! pleasure. To be sure she was no virago ; she never raised 
 [i her voice high, nor did she ever murmur or chide him. 
 r. These are the resorts of weakness. But there was something 
 I in the fiery flash of that big black eye, in the curl of the short 
 !• upper lip, in the deliberate straightening up of the fine Gre- 
 I cian figure — and the biting sarcasm of the single sentence, (she 
 I' never deigned to utter more,) dropping with such bitterness 
 from lips that could smile most sweetly, which any man would 
 gladly avoid. 
 
 Rosa Warner accompanied the seamstress to the room des- 
 I' ignated, without speaking a word ; for her gayety felt itself 
 rebuked in the presence of sorrow, and the easy, merry- 
 hearted child grew timid and thoughtful. She took with a very 
 gentle hand the girl's bonnet, and selected the easiest chair, 
 and brought an ottoman for her feet ; and then she adjusted 
 the shutters with unusual care, and looked about to see that 
 the room was pleasant as well as comfortable, before she 
 brought the work as directed by her mother. 
 
 " You will find the sewing very light, Miss Vaughn," she 
 said, kindly, on presenting it, " and you need make no haste ; 
 it will be a good many days before I need the dress." And, 
 
212 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 without waiting a reply, she slipped out of the room, and 
 made her way down to the breakfast table. 
 
 " Poor girl ! " thought Rosa Warner, as she went, " she 
 must be very unhappy. Her eyes look as though she had 
 cried a week. I never could bear tears, they make a simple- 1 
 ton of me. Dear! dear! how I should hate to be a sewing 
 girl, particularly for mamma; her eyes would scare me into 
 doing everything wrong. What fine eyes mamma hasJ 
 though ! I hope mine will be like them; they are almost as; 
 dark now, but they cannot flash so. I think mamma would 
 make a better queen than Victoria. Cousin Will called her' 
 a complete Zenobia. That I should let Will know what a' 
 fool I am ! I declare, there is no use at all in studying his- 
 tory at school — one never knows anything about it." 
 
 Rosa had proceeded so far in her soliloquy, when thef 
 thought of the pink barege entered her giddy little head, and 
 immediately every other thought left it. She even forgot to 
 say good morning to her father and cousins ; a neglect of 
 proper etiquette for which she was duly reproved. 
 
 Mrs. Warner was not in a very good humor this morning ; 
 a state of feeling to which the information that had induced 
 her to engage the seamstress contributed not a little ; for it 
 annoyed her exceedingly to find that Mary Jones and Alice i 
 Weaver had presumed to exhibit so much independence. 
 What right had Mary Jones to engage work of other people 
 until quite sure that Mrs. Warner did not want her, when she i 
 owed the ability to obtain work at all, to that lady's influence? ' 
 And what right had Alice Weaver to be married, just as she 
 had learned to support herself handsomely ? She would 
 without doubt, tie herself to some miserable fellow who could 
 not take care of himself, and then would come the old story 
 of a suffering family. It was vexatious that people whom ; 
 Mrs. Warner had obliged, would not submit themselves en- 
 tirely to her guidance ; consent to become automata in her 
 hands, and find their happiness in the pursuits which she 
 decided ought to make them happy. It was this perverse- 
 ness, which would now and then exhibit itself, in spite of the 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 213 
 
 general empire enjoyed by Mrs. Wamer, that had this morn- 
 ing vexed and annoyed her; and a great share of this vexa- 
 tion was likely to fall on the head of the new seamstress, for 
 the reason that the old ones had, in the lady's view of the 
 subject, exhibited a strange lack of gratitude. In short, Mrs. 
 Warner had donned a new fit of worldly wisdom, and poor 
 Ellen Vaughn, would, probably, suffer from it. 
 
 Full of the pink barege, as soon as breakfast was over, 
 Rosa had a long, and confidential communication with her 
 father. He was not difficult of persuasion ; and, though he 
 rallied her a little on her extravagance, and platjed off for the 
 sake of listening to her pretty arguments, he at last put the 
 money into her hand, and referred her to her mother. This 
 was much the most delicate part of the negotiation ; for, 
 though Rosa was seldom denied a gratification of this charac- 
 ter, and felt now pretty confident as to the result, yet she stood 
 too much in awe of her mother to feel much pleasure in ask- 
 ing a favor. Notwithstanding, when the favor was granted, 
 she always wondered that she ever could have hesitated. 
 Now, however, she was as much astonished by a prompt 
 negative, as her lady mother was at her vanity and presump- 
 tion ; and she put the money back into her father's hand with 
 a sigh, which went to the good man's heart. Rosa did not 
 pay much attention to Ellen Vaughn that day, for she was 
 sure that no trials could equal her own ; and she was quite 
 disgusted that any one who had not missed the chance of 
 having a pink barege frock, should presume to be miserable. 
 As evening drew near, however, a morning twilight began 
 gradually to soften down the shadows on the face of Miss 
 Rosa, and she did at last emerge from the clouds sufficiently 
 to bestow one thought on poor Ellen Vaughn. It was as she 
 stood by the door, bonnet in hand, fingers fidgeting with the 
 latch, and the toe of her well worn shoe digging into the 
 carpet. 
 
 " You may come again in the morning, if you wish," said 
 Mrs. "Warner, " as early as eight, recollect, and if you do as 
 well as you have to-day — " 
 
214 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 The lady checked herself before the promise of patronage 
 was made; for, visions of the ungrateful Mary Jones and 
 Alice Weaver passed before her mind's eye, and recalled, in 
 a trice, all her worldly wisdom. 
 
 " Please, madam," stammered Ellen Vaughn, after waitino 
 a little for the conclusion of the sentence ; and then she rat- 
 tled the door-latch, and dug her toe into the carpet more in 
 c ustriously than ever. 
 
 At another time Mrs. Warner would have encouraged the 
 poor girl to speak on, but now she was in one of her unrea- 
 sonably severe moods; so she only fixed her black eye (in- 
 tensely and burningly black it was) on her in silence. Elkn 
 quailed under it; and, as she did so, the short upper lif 
 began to curl ; for Mrs. Warner is not the first individual whc 
 has mistaken confusion of manner, arising from timidity oi 
 trouble, for the evidence of conscious guiltiness. The pom 
 girl seemed ready to sink to the floor, from excess of agita- 
 tion ; but at last, making a desperate effort, she faltered out. 
 . " if you would only let me take the work home, lady ! " 
 
 " Take it home?" 
 
 *' My mother is sick, and — " 
 
 " Very sick ? " 
 
 " I hope not dangerously — indeed, I do not know — " 
 
 " You have no physician, then ?" 
 
 " No, lady, the poor cannot always — " 
 
 "The poor will receive the kindness they merit; this is 
 not a country where the poor will be allowed to suffer, unless 
 they bring suffering on themselves." 
 
 " Ah ! lady — " began Ellen Vaughn, but Mrs. Warner's 
 eye rested on her with such a look of cold inquiry, that she 
 could not finish. 
 
 " Have you sisters. Miss Vaughn?" 
 
 " Two little girls — the eldest only seven." 
 
 " Are you afraid- to leave your mother Avith them ? " 
 
 " N — n — ! it is not so pleasant for her — " 
 
 *' But it is better for her, and for you too. Here you have 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 215 
 
 a pleasant room, and nothing to disturb you ; but if you were 
 , there, you would have your attention constantly distracted." 
 
 I" Oh ! I would do as much ! I am sure I could have — " 
 " Nobody can do two things at a time, and do them both 
 '': well ; and I should not dare trust my work with you under 
 such circumstances ;" and Mrs. Warner turned away, as 
 though she considered the matter decided. Ellen Vaughn 
 waited for a moment, as though unwilling to let the subject 
 drop, and Rosa longed to interfere in her favor ; but neither 
 had the courage to speak, and so the youngs girl turned lin- 
 geringly from the door. 
 
 " I do not like that girl's face," observed Mrs. Warner ; 
 •' she has a downcast look, and a sly, hesitating manner, that 
 shows she has something to conceal. Give me a frank, open 
 countenance ; there is always hope for such people." 
 
 Rosa wanted to say that a downcast heart, might be the 
 
 occasion of a downcast look ; but she knew that her mother 
 
 ' considered her physiognomical observations (as indeed who 
 
 ' does not ?) infallible ; and she obeyed the dictates of prudence. 
 
 In the morning, Ellen Vaughn again made her appearance, 
 
 but paler and sadder even than on the day previous ; and this 
 
 day Rosa lingered pityingly around her, longing to ask the 
 
 cause of her sadness, but restrained, in part by timidity, in 
 
 part by delicacy. 
 
 " If she would only tell, perhaps I could do something for 
 her," thought the sympathizing child ; but to ask her to tell, 
 required more courage than good-natured little Rosa Warner 
 could muster. 
 1 " That girl will worry my life away," exclaimed Mrs. 
 i Warner, in positive ill-humor, after Ellen Vaughn had com- 
 pleted her second day. " Her whining and teazing are too 
 much to bear ! " 
 
 Rosa and her two cousins dropped book and pencil and 
 looked up inquiringly. 
 
 " She insists on having her pay every evening, and her 
 stammering and whining are really provoking." 
 
216 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 " Would it be inconvenient to pay her every evening 
 mamma?" Eosa ventured to inquire. 
 
 " Inconvenient ! why it would be a positive injury to her, 
 She would spend the money, as such people always do, as 
 fast as she got it." 
 
 The heart, with the fresh, pure dew of its morning upon it 
 is much wiser than any head ; and simple, artless Eosa 
 Warner, in the sight of angels, was this evening far nearci 
 the " hid treasure " than was her shrewd, honored lady moth- 
 er. But Eosa could not gather courage to say to her motlier 
 that Ellen Vaughn might need, the money as fast as she 
 earned it, or faster ; that her stammering was occasioned hy 
 timidity, which none better than Mrs. Warner could inspire : 
 and that in reality she had a right to demand her honest 
 wages when she chose. No I No ! Eosa would sooner have 
 encountered a fiery dragon than the glance of those black 
 eyes, after she had presumed to intimate that there was a bare 
 possibility of her mother's having come to a hasty conclusion. 
 So Eosa was silent ; but she resolved in secret to win the 
 confidence of the poor seamstress the next day. 
 
 There was a haggard look, and a harassed, almost wild 
 expression, on the countenance of Ellen Vaughn, when she 
 took her seat in the little sitting-room in the morning, which 
 i\Irs. Warner herself observed. The lady even condescended, 
 notwithstanding her firmly fixed opinion of the young girl's 
 uMworthiness, to make some kind inquiries ; but there is a 
 spirit, even in the gentlest natures, which will not be pressed 
 too far, and the feelings of resentment swelling in the bosom 
 of poor Ellen Vaughn, were more in accordance with her par- 
 tial views of Mrs. Warner's injustice, than with her meek, 
 forbearing, uncomplaining disposition. She answered her 
 questions in cold monosyllables, and, raising her work that 
 her employer might not note the misery that would make 
 itself visible in her face, she plied her needle with nervous, 
 earnestness. 'As for Eosa, she stood aghast at such a display 
 of ill-nature in one who had so warmly enlisted her sympa- 
 tjiies ; and she revolved the subject in her mind all day, com . 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 217 
 
 iiiL[ 10 the conclusion at night, which she had seldom doubted 
 — tliat her mother was always right. But, notwithstanding 
 all this, her heart yet pleaded strongly in favor of poor Ellen 
 Vaughn. 
 
 Thus passed another day, and Rosa had as yet made no 
 advances tow:ards gaining the confidence of the seamstress. 
 About the hour, however, when the latter usually took her 
 leave, a bright thought somehow found its way into the 
 u^^ually unthinking head of the little lady. She suddenly 
 remembered that it was the most common thing in the world 
 to inquire for the sick, and this might lead to a full revelation 
 of all she wished to know ; and, moreover, it occurred to her 
 tliat if Miss Vaughn should acknowledge herself to be really 
 in want, it would require but one of her own irresistible smiles 
 to induce the cook to supply her with a basket of good things 
 every evening. Full of these thoughts, so rational as scarcely 
 1(1 fi:cl at home in that careless little head, Miss Rosa cast aside 
 the worsteds that she had been assorting, and tripped away to 
 the back sitting-room. Her step was as light as a fairy's ; 
 aiul though she had hummed the fragment of a tune at first 
 starting, it ceased as soon as she left the parlor, and she 
 reached the back sitting-room without having attracted the 
 attention of its occi\pant. The door was ajar, and Rosa 
 paused, like the unpractised little girl that she was, to con- 
 sider what she should say. She did not intend to be a spy 
 upon the seamstress, but it was perfectly natural that she 
 should turn her eyes towards the crevice in the door ; and as 
 she did so, they fell upon the shadow of a person who seemed 
 to be standing by her mother's escritoir. The person herself 
 (for it was the shadow of a woman) was invisible ; but Rosa 
 thought at once of the seamstress, and at the same time she 
 recollected seeing her mother with a bank note between her 
 fingers while ^vriting a letter, an hour previous. She had 
 noted, too, even then, a strange look in the face of Ellen 
 Vaughn, that showed she also saw it; and had observed her 
 turn away her head after a single glance, and press her palms 
 heavily on her eye-lids, with an exhibition of feeling which 
 19 
 
218 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 she could in no wise interpret. Then Mrs. Warner was 
 called suddenly away, and Ellen Vaughn turned her back 
 upon the escritoir, and applied herself to her needle as though 
 she had no thought disconnected from the unfinished garment 
 in her hand. All these recollections came crowding upon 
 the mind of the little girl, with a bewildering power. She 
 attempted to move, but her feet seemed fastened to the floor ; 
 to turn her head, but her eyes would fix themselves on that 
 shadow. Rosa would not have believed, an hour before, that 
 anything short of imminent danger to herself could frighten 
 her so. But now the moving of the shadow sent her heart 
 fluttering into her throat; and when Ellen Vaughn immedi- 
 ately after stepped across her line of vision, and disappeared 
 on the other side, she could scarcely suppress a scream. 
 Should she tell her mother? But what had she to tell? 
 She had seen only a shadow, and if it were Ellen Vaughn's, 
 she might have been looking at a book or adjusting her hair 
 at the mirror. Her mother's escritoir was not the only thing 
 in that part of the room. So reasoned Rosa, meanwhiie 
 drawing back into the shadow of an opened "door beyond, 
 though her trembling limbs could scarce support her weight, 
 and the beatings of her heart sounded to her frightened ear 
 like the heavy strokes of a muffled bell. She had scarce 
 gained this concealment, when the sitting-room door was 
 pushed open cautiously ; the ashen face of the seamstress 
 peered forth, and her perturbed eye wandered up and down 
 the hall with a quick, startled glance, as though she was 
 afraid that the stairs and tables would find mouths to witness 
 against her. One white, shaking hand, clutched the bosotu 
 of her dress, as though determined to defend her terrible 
 secret, and the other was pressed against her haggard fori"- 
 head, while two or three successive shivers passed over her 
 whole frame. She trembled and reeled from side to side a-- 
 she passed along the hall, starting at every sound, and turn- 
 ing with a scared look to gaze at each shadow that lay across 
 her way, until she reached the door. Then, casting one 
 hasty glance around her, she slipped through the opening 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 219 
 
 and closed it with a nervous quickness. Rosa noted all this; 
 and, if she had been the guilty one, she could not have trem- 
 bled more, or turned paler. Lightly she glided forth from 
 her place of concealment, and hurried to her mother's escri- 
 toir. The half- written letter was there, and the pen, with 
 the ink scarcely dried upon it, but the bank note had disap- 
 peared. What a faint, horrible feeling, crept to the heart of 
 Rosa Warner! Not ihat she never heard of a theft before, 
 but she had never been in the immediate vicinity of one — 
 never seen it committed. Should she go to her mother now, 
 and have the girl arrested in the public street, with that paK' 
 face and shaking hand to evidence against her ? Immediately 
 rose before her the agonized look of poor Ellen Vaughn ; and 
 then she thought of her, dragged away to prison, while per- 
 haps the sick mother and the two little sisters of whom she 
 had spoken were starving. True, it was right that the crime 
 should be exposed, but she could not do it. She should never 
 sleep again, if she allowed her hand to unseal the vial so full 
 of misery. An older than herself must hold the balance that 
 was to mete out justice ; the tear-gem of mercy M'as a fitter or- 
 nament for one so young to wear. Rosa did not think lhef;e 
 thoughts in these words, but the result was strikingly like ; 
 and yet, though she fully persuaded herself that no one need 
 know what she had seen, her heart was heavy with its secret. 
 These considerations had occupied scarce a m^oment, and now 
 another project entered her head. She v/ould know what 
 Ellen Vaughn did with that money, and be governed in her 
 conduct toward her entirely by that. Tying on a little straw 
 bonnet, enveloping her figure in a sombre shawl, and drawing 
 a green veil over her face, she passed hurriedly through the 
 nail and followed the seamstress over the pavement. Ellen 
 had disappeared ; but Rosa knew the first corner, and she 
 ; almost ran until she obtained a glimpse of the rusty black 
 i bonnet and faded dress. Ellen Vaughn had entirely lost her 
 i* usual free step and air ; there was a stoop in her figure, and 
 i a crouching, hesitating manner of moving, which showed the 
 crime had written itself on her conscience, and was heaping 
 
220 
 
 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 up the infamy within, which men might soon pour upon her 
 head. She crept along steaUhily, close by the railing, and 
 Eosa could see, from the little distance she kept, the hand 
 clutching the dress as it had done at first; and she could see, 
 too, that it trembled but little less than it had done in the 
 house. At another time, Rosa Warner would not have ven- 
 tured on those dark, filthy back streets alone, but now, she 
 did not once think of the strangeness of her situation, or the 
 danger of being unable to find her way back again. The 
 twilight was deepening, but she kept her eye on the moving 
 figure before her, and her thoughts could not be on herself. 
 At length the seamstress reached a large old wooden building, 
 in a ruinous condition, the crazy shutters mostly hanging \>i 
 one hinge, the windows stuffed with mouldy clothes, the cla})- 
 boards loose upon the wall, and the whole structure settling 
 to one side, and seeming as though a pufF of wind mi^lil 
 level it. As the girl set her foot upon the broken stairs, a 
 boy, some dozen years of age, glided from beneath them, anil 
 laid his hand upon her arm, whispering, " Wait a minui^ 
 Nelly ! — Hush ! don't speak loud — they will hear us." 
 
 " Who?" inquired the girl, casting a glance of horror o^ > . 
 her shoulder, as though capable of but a single thought. 
 
 " Mother and the children. Come this way, Nelly ; I ?)u/s!: 
 tell you. I hav'n't earned a penny to-day — not a single on.'. 
 Nobody would trust a bundle with such a looking boy as 1 ; 
 and nobody had a vahse to carry, or a horse to hold — noboily. 
 because we were starving, Nelly." 
 
 " John ! " 
 
 " It may be that this is murmuring — sinful murmurinL 
 mother would say, but I cannot help it. The little girls ]ia\ _ 
 been crying with hunger for the last hour, and mother is wors' , 
 ten times vi^orse — she will die, Nelly, and all for the want ni 
 a little money to pay a doctor. Oh ! Avhat will become of us ;" " 
 
 "I — I — have got " Ellen Vaughn began; but the 
 
 words seemed to choke her, and she remained silent. 
 
 " But I hav'n't told you all, Nelly; mother has said strange 
 things to-day ; she has not been in her right mind, and when 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 221 
 
 f was gone, sne frightened the little girls so that they left her 
 alone." 
 
 Poor Ellen clasped her hands and looked upward ; but, 
 immediately, an expression of mingled fear and shame passed 
 over her countenance, and she covered her face with her 
 spread palms, saying, in a low, hoarse whisper, " We must do 
 something for her, John." 
 
 '• We can't — we can^io^.' Oh, Nelly ! that money should 
 buy health, and life ! How can it be right?" 
 
 " We will have a doctor for mother." 
 
 " No ! we can't ! that is what I wanted to tell you. I have 
 been everywhere — everywhere that I could find a 'Dr.' on 
 the sign-plate, and Nelly, not one of them will come — no 
 one of them will stir from his door to save our mother's life.' 
 
 "They must, for — for — I — have — got — " Ellen 
 gasped for breath, and again stopped ; while the brother, too 
 much engaged with his own tale to heed her broken words, 
 proceeded — " After that, I went into a store — there was a 
 dollar — a large silver dollar, lying upon the counter, right in 
 my way, and nobody saw me — " 
 
 " John ! " shrieked the poor girl, staggering heavily against 
 the wall. 
 
 "No! no! Nelly — I didn't take it! There were bad 
 thoughts came into my mind ; but I remembered you and 
 mother — I knew that mother would rather die than be saved 
 jso; and I knew that you, Nelly, would never use such 
 money ; and I could not tell you a lie. No I no ! I did n't 
 take the money; but I don't think any better thought tlian 
 that kept me from it. I am sure I should have done it, only 
 I knew it would break your heart." 
 
 A loud, convulsive sob burst from the bosom of the poor 
 girl, and her frame shook violently. 
 
 " Don't mind it now, Nelly, don't ! The doctors made me 
 mad, or I should never have felt so. But you need n't be 
 afraid I shall be tempted again — oh no ! not even for the sake 
 of mother and the little girls." 
 
 Oh ! how willingly would Ellen Yaughn have made her 
 19* 
 
222 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 mother's shroud with her own hands, and lain down to dit 
 with those she loved, so that it could have been done in honoi 
 and innocence. There is no misery like that which eats intc 
 the still lingering traces of God's image, and degrades us be^ 
 fore ourselves. 
 
 " Don't cry, Nelly ! don't ! exclaimed the boy, putting hi; 
 arms about her neck, soothingly. " I shall have better lucl 
 lo-morrow, I dare say ; and all will come out right in the end 
 Mother said last night that it is all for our good — God is try 
 ing us to make us better ; and, though I don't think so mucl 
 about such things as I ought, I always feel as though nothing 
 very bad could happen to us, when she lays her hand on m] 
 head — just as she used to on the ocean, Nelly — and talk; 
 of our Heavenly Father's knowing all about us, and takin< 
 care of us. Don't cry, Nelly, I shall be a man in a few years 
 and then I can support us all. You shall not live in a garre 
 then, Nelly." And the boy, as he spoke, straightened hi: 
 arm, and set down his foot firmly, as though he longed fo 
 the strong frame that might wrestle with his wayward destiny 
 
 One shiver passed over the sister, and made her teeth chat 
 ter momentarily, and then she dropped her hands from he 
 face, and turning away her head, she drew the note from he 
 bosom, and pushed it into the boy's hand. " I ought not t( 
 cry, John, for I have that which we most need. No docto 
 will refuse you now, and you can get bread for the children 
 too." 
 
 " Five dollars, Nelly ! " and the boy's face brightened u] 
 with joy. 
 
 " Go as soon as you can, John ! the children are cryinj 
 with hunger, and mother worse — worse ! God will forgiv 
 me," she murmured. 
 
 " But, Nelly, Mrs. Warner has not given you all this fo 
 three days' work, has she ? " 
 
 "No matter, now — no matter — don't ask me anythinj 
 about it — I might tell a lie ! " 
 
 " No, no ! but you don't want to tell the truth. I see hov 
 it is — Mrs. Warner has given you this for being good am 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 223 
 
 faithful, and you don't love to boast of your own goodness - 
 just like you, Nelly." 
 
 " Go ! go ! " gasped the poor girl ; and as the brother 
 sprang from her side, and bounded joyfully along the pave- 
 ment, she turned her face to the wall and wept, and wrung 
 her hands in utter abandonment. Rosa Warner longed to 
 step forward and comfort her, but this was neither the time 
 nor place ; and she stood back, awe-stricken, until the girl 
 brushing away her tears, and trying to call up a look of cheer- 
 fulness, began to mount the stairs. Then the child, for the 
 first time reminded of her own situation, drew her veil more 
 closely about her face, and, v/ithout giving one look to the 
 gloomy piles around her, or the star-lighted sky above, turned 
 back and fled like a frightened fawn homeward. 
 
 Rosa was by no means sure of her way, for she had noted 
 nothing when she came but Ellen Vaughn. We never know 
 our own resources till necessity moulds them into a spade, and 
 puts it into our hands, bidding us work. Rosa Warner, the 
 timid, delicate, thoughtless child, that had scarce ever been 
 allowed to use her own judgment, even in the selection of a 
 riband for her hair, lost in the dark of evening, in a spot given 
 up to wretchedness, if not to vice ! But Rosa was scarce 
 alarmed : her mind was preoccupied. Now and then she 
 paused at a corner, in embarrassment ; then she would renew 
 her speed, and press onward, taking care to observe a course 
 which she knew led into a more familiar part of the city. By 
 this means, she avoided losing herself among obscure turns 
 and windings, and, although she was taking a long way home, 
 she was soon con\'inced of the wisdom of her plan, by finding 
 herself on well known ground. As soon as Rosa Warner 
 reached home, she proceeded to the parlor, and was delighted 
 to find her father alone. 
 
 ' You recollect that pink barege, papa ?" she said, crossing 
 her hands on his shoulder. 
 
 ' Yes, I have cause ; it spoiled my daughter's face for a 
 whole day." 
 
 " Because I had s©; my heart on it, and was so disap- 
 
224 
 
 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 pointed. But no matter about it, now ; I want to ask you 
 something else, papa. Would you give me the money that il 
 would cost — would you give me five dollars, if you knew 
 that I would put it to a good use ? " 
 
 " I could not know, my daughter, that you would put it tc 
 a good use, without being told what you proposed doing with 
 it. Misses with short frocks," he added, tapping her chin 
 playfully, " are no good judges in these matters." Tears 
 came into the little girl's eyes, and they were not unobserved 
 by the father. He put his arm about her and drew her to his 
 knee. 
 
 " How now, Rosa ? have you such a very hard father that 
 you cannot tell him your little secrets ? Now I have so much 
 confidence in j'-our discretion, that I promise you the money 
 beforehand, and you must have enough confidence in my 
 desire to gratify you, to tell me all about your little project ■ 
 it is a nice one, I dare say." 
 
 " It may not be, papa — perhaps it is wrong, but — " 
 
 " Then tell me, and I will help you judge." 
 
 Rosa hesitated. She had full confidence in her father's 
 generosity and goodness of heart ; but then she knew that he 
 was strict in the administration of justice, and there was a 
 crime in the way, which she could not but look upon with, 
 abhorrence. How much more severely then, might her 
 father, not seeing the palliating circumstances as she could 
 see them, judge of the matter. 
 
 " Indeed, papa, there is something that I do not feel at lib- 
 erty to tell even to you ; if it concerned myself I would 
 you know I aiways have done so ; but this — " 
 
 " I am sorry people should burden my little girl with their 
 secrets." 
 
 " Nobody has. All I know is partly by accident, partly 
 my own — fault. But papa, allow me to tell you a little, and 
 do not ask me to speak plainer. Five dollars," — and Rosa 
 DOW spoke quick and fervidly, while her eye avoided her 
 father's, her cheek flushed, and her lip quivered — " five dol- 
 lars will save a poor, sick family from misery, from disgrace. 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 225 
 
 Perhaps they are not worthy — I do not know — but they 
 leed it — they are suffering — will you give it to me, papa?" 
 
 Closely closed the arms about the excited daughter, and the 
 "ather's voice was not quite clear, as he inquired, " why not 
 JO to your mother, Rosa ? " 
 
 " I cannot — there are good reasons why I cannot. May 1 
 lave tlie money, papa ? " 
 
 " These secrets are bad things, my dear, but — I will trust 
 rou." 
 
 " No ! do 7iot trust me ! " exclaimed the child, vehemently. 
 What I do may be wrong — I am afraid it is. Do not trmt 
 ne — think nothing about it either way — forget, dear papa, 
 hat you have given me this money." 
 
 The father shook his head doubtingly, but at the same time 
 le drew forth the note and put it into her hand. 
 
 " One more favor, papa ; may this be a secret between us 
 wo ? " 
 
 " Rosa, I do not approve of these secrets — honest people 
 lever have them. Your mysteries do not please me at all ; 
 md, I cannot encourage or tolerate them — they begin with 
 his, and with this they must end." 
 
 They shall, papa ; but, if you knew all, you would not 
 'dame me, at least." 
 
 " I do not blame you, my dear ; I do not doubt your 
 notives ; but I must not allow you to contract bad habits. 
 Manoeuvring to do good is manoeuvring still ; and, where so 
 •nuch machinery is necessary, the end seldom justifies the 
 Tieans. It takes an old head to carry a secret, a very old one 
 — mine is less black than it was once ; but it is not old enough 
 ,0 be so burdened yet. And yours — why these pretty ring- 
 ets are a strange wig for one knowing in the ways of the 
 ivorld, — they should not cover a brain given to plotting and 
 jonjuring." 
 
 • Papa, you mistake me, altogether ; I have not looked for 
 1 secret, but it came to me ; and now I do what seems to mo 
 best. I shall never be deceitful, I know I never shall. If 
 
226 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 every mystery vexes me like this, I am sure I shall a\oi(i 
 another." 
 
 " So he it, my child." 
 
 " Thank you, dear papa," and leaving a kiss on both 
 cheeks, Rosa slid from her father's knee, and left the apart- 
 ment. Gaining the hall, she paused a moment, for there I 
 were voices in the back sitting-room, and she caught a word \ 
 or two that told her the note had been missed. i 
 
 What was to be done now ? The last moment spent with I 
 lier father had ruined her plan ; and now that the discovery ) 
 had been made, of what use was the note she had obtained 
 to replace the lost one ? The frank acknowledgment of the 
 existence of a secret, that had succeeded so well with her 
 father, would be entirely useless here; for Mrs. Warner i! 
 would never rest until the whole was thoroughly investigated. 
 Rosa was about giving up all, and going back to the parlor, 
 when the thought of poor Ellen Vaughn, the confiding brother, 
 the sick mother, and the hungry little girls, came freshly into 
 her mind, and she resolved to make one more effort. Reach- 
 ing the door, she again paused ; for she felt her limbs shake, 
 and knew by the chill which passed over her frame, that shg 
 must be very pale. She stood for a moment striving for 
 composure, and then pushed open the door. The moment 
 she entered, one of her cousins glided up to her, and, with , 
 consternation depicted on her face, whispered, " What think 
 you, Rosa, aunt has lost a five dollar note." 
 
 " She left it in an unsafe place," observed Miss Rosa, with 
 well-feigned carelessness, and elevating the note above hen 
 head. 
 
 " Rosa Warner ! " exclaimed the lady, sternly, and Avith one 
 of her withering glances, " where learned you to practise ' 
 tricks on your mother ? Go to your room ! " 
 
 Rosa turnei without a word, and bursting into tears before: 
 she reached the hall, hurried up the stairs and threw herself,, 
 sobbing, on her own bed. Her ruse had succeeded well, but 
 she had incurred the anger of her mother, and her conscience > 
 old her that she deserved it all, and more. " I am deceit- • 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 227 
 
 ful ! " she repeated to herself more than a dozen times that 
 night, and over and over she resolved to confess the whole 
 the very next morning. But when morning really came, it 
 brought quite' a different state of feeling. Mrs. Warner 
 seemed to have forgotten the affair of the last evening; and 
 Iiosa, persuaded that she had saved the poor girl from ruin, 
 did not regret the means she had taken to accomplish it. 
 She felt some flutterings of heart when eight o'clock drew 
 near; and started every time the door-bell rang, glancing 
 from the window to see if she could get a glimpse of the 
 iilack bonnet ; but eight passed, and nine came and passed. 
 and no seamstress appeared. Mrs. Warner grew impatient ; 
 for though not pleased with Ellen Vaughn's face, she was 
 ol'liged to own that in the use of the needle she combined 
 ci lerity and skill. Ten came round, and still no Ellen 
 V;ii.ghn. 
 
 She must be ill," suggested Rosa; "may I go and see, 
 iMiiiiima?" 
 
 •• You will not know where to find her." 
 
 Kosa blushed; here was another concealment. "Robert 
 might go with me ; you sent him home with Miss Vaughn 
 once." 
 
 " True, Robert can go, and then there will be no need of 
 your going." 
 
 'But if they should need assistance, mamma, it seems so 
 much kinder for one of the family " 
 
 'You have taken a strange fancy to that girl," observed 
 Mrs. Warner. 
 
 " She seems so unhappy ! " murmured the child : but it was 
 the starting tear, not the words, that pleaded her cause with 
 her mother. 
 
 " You have yet a great deal to learn, my dear," said the 
 proud woman, tenderly ; " but still this girl may be in want ; 
 her mother may be worse, and I have no objection to your 
 oing to see. Get your bonnet, and in the mean time I will 
 fill a basket for Robert to carry. We should never visit the 
 poor without taking some comforts with us." 
 
228 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 Mrs. Warner did not always think that comforts comprisec 
 only the things that could be stowed away in a basket ; bu 
 for her prejudices, she would have gone herself to look afle 
 Ellen Vaughn ; and when her heart was enlisted, no humai 
 being was ever more completely mistress of the whole vocab 
 ulary of consolation than she. 
 
 Strange emotions were swelling in the heart of pretty Rose 
 Warner as she tripped along beside the good-natured serving 
 man, for she thought of the evening previous, when Eller 
 Vaughn reeled over the pavement before her ; and she won 
 dered what good people — what her father and mother woulc 
 think of her, if they knew she had been accessary to a theft. 
 It made her shudder, and she resolved not to think of it, 
 Then the conversation at the foot of the stairs came back tc 
 her, word by word ; and she wished that her mother could 
 have heard it, believing that if she could, she Avould forgive! 
 and pity poor Ellen Vaughn. The clapboards rattling all 
 each puff of air, the useless shutters, and the broken stairs, 
 were not new to Rosa ; and when Robert turned and asked 
 her, "Did you ever see anything like it, miss?" she only 
 answered with a shudder. 
 
 Robert inquired of a poor woman, at the top of the stairs, 
 for Mrs. Vaughn's room, and was shown up a rickety back- 
 staircase, the old crone muttering as she hobbled on beforq 
 them, — ■ 
 
 " It 's but a narry room the puir crathur 'II be afther havin* 
 whin the sun is doon, an' a deal nigher God's airth than this 
 ould garret, I 'm a thinkin' ! " 
 
 Rosa, though startled, had no time to ask an explanation 
 lor the old woman stopped, and pointing with her staff toward 
 a half-opened door, hobbled back the way she came. 
 
 "Hush, Robert !" whispered the child, putting her fin ge] 
 to her lip ; and stepping lightly, forward, she stood unobserve 
 in the opening. Unobserved — for who was there to obse 
 her ? On a miserable couch, spread of straw and rags upoi 
 the bare floor, lay the figure of a woman. The cheeks we 
 sunken and the muscles rigid ; weights were laid upon t 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 229 
 
 closed eyes to keep down the lids ; the chin was bound up by 
 a folded kerchief; and the white, bony hands lay as they had 
 been placed, their livid tips crossing each other on her still 
 bosom. The mother of poor Ellen Vaughn was dead. Rosa 
 saw it at a glance ; and tears filled her eyes, and streamed 
 do\vn over her face, as she noted a touching exhibition of 
 simple-hearted affection. A pale, meagre-loolcing child was 
 kneeling by the bedside, trying with her trembling little hand 
 to place in the bosom of the dead a single rose which she had 
 just broken from a scraggy, sickly bush beside her. The 
 mother had probably loved that rose-tree, and smiled on the 
 little bud that came like a sweet messenger to cheer her, and 
 watched its opening from day to day with an interest incon- 
 ceivable to those who have never been walled up in the prison 
 of a noisome, filthy street, in the darkest quarter of a large 
 city. The child, too, had loved it ; and she gave all she had 
 to give, when she broke that cherished stem. A little one, 
 still younger, sat on the knee of Ellen Vaughn, playing with 
 her fast falling tears, and looking into her face with curious 
 interest. 
 
 ' Be 's she don to Dod, sissy ?" inquired the little prattler; 
 " when will she tum back agin ? " 
 
 Poor Ellen could not answer ; and the unconscious baby- 
 orphan, putting her thin, blue arms about her neck, said, 
 softly, " Don't ki, sissy, don't ki, an' I will tiss 'ou." 
 
 The boy, with quivering chin and swollen eyes, stood at 
 the foot of the bed, watching his sister's fond movements 
 about the dead ; and when she had finished, and left a kiss 
 on the icy fingers and the sunken cheek, he pressed both 
 hands upon the aching forehead, and with a loud, sob-like 
 burst of agony, turned away, and coiled himself up in the 
 farthest corner of the room. 
 
 ' We are too late, Robert," whispered Rosa Warner, " go 
 and tell mother." 
 
 Robert drew the sleeve of his coat hastily across his eyes, 
 and hurried down the stairs ; while Rosa twined her arms 
 «vrith those of the little one on Ellen Vaughn's knee, and 
 20 
 
230 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 whispered such words as were the first to find their way up 
 from her swelling heart. 
 
 When Mrs. Warner reached the house of death, she found 
 the seamstress fast asleep, with her head resting on her 
 daughter's lap, and the three children gathered around Rosa's 
 feet, listening to her words of soothing and encouragement. 
 How changed did Rosa Warner seem within the last three 
 days ! How exquisitely had the pencil of sorrow shaded and 
 mellowed down her beauty ! So thought the mother, as she 
 gazed upon the little ministering angel ; and then a severe 
 pang of remorse shot to her heart as her eye fell upon the 
 hollow, death-like face between her child's soothing hands. 
 
 "Poor Ellen is asleep, mamma," whispered Rosa; "she 
 has not closed her eyes for two whole nights, and she is-: 
 almost worn out with fatigue." 
 
 John hastened to bring the only stool the garret could! 
 boast; his younger sister, a glow of gratitude lighting up hen 
 sad face, exclaimed, " You are so good ! " and the little one, 
 nestling both of her puny hands in the lady's, looked up into 
 l:ker face, and began telling her that "mammy had don to 
 Dod," never to "tum back agin," but that she would send for 
 all of them one of these days, and then they " should n't be 
 hundry any more — never — never — " so "sissy" said. 
 
 Hungry, poor lisper ! That the grave should be an infant's 
 hope ! Mrs. Warner promised her own heart that their last 
 hour of suffering from hunger had passed ; then, taking the 
 prattler in her arms, she called the boy to her side ; and, with 
 the most sympathetic delicacy, drew from him revealings that 
 made her heart ache. He told her how they had been happy 
 beyond the sea ; how, in an evil hour, his father had sold his 
 little patrimony, and embarked for an unknown land; of a 
 death and burial at sea, that left the little family without ai 
 head, desolate, indeed ; of a poor womaxi seeking a home in 
 a strange land, followed by her dependent children; of the 
 daily diminishing of their slender funds ; of wakeful eyes 
 and anxious bosoms ; of the gradual sinking away of one of: 
 their number, and' the grave opened for her in the village; 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 231 
 
 church-yard ; of toil and sickness, sickness, toil, and tears , 
 then want of work, followed by want of bread ; the bitter 
 mockery that men palm off for sympathy ; hours minuted by 
 woe ; the almost hopeless dining to hope ; of vain, impotent 
 struggles ; and finally, the ill-judged removal to the city. 
 The boy stopped there ; and Mrs. Warner, glancing around 
 the miserable garret, read all the rest but too plainly. Oh ! 
 what sacrifice would not the proud lady have made to be able 
 to live over again the three days since she had first seen Ellen 
 Vaughn ! The boy had told her of a previous bereavement, 
 and she now inquired where they had buried his sister. He 
 told her of a pleasant grave-yard on the shore of New Jersey, 
 and of a rose-bush that he had planted, and his mother and 
 Nelly watered and trimmed ; "but," exclaimed the boy with a 
 passionate sob, " she cannot lie there ! They will put my 
 mother in the Potter's-field — they will not leave us even her 
 grave ! Oh ! that is worst of all ! " 
 
 Mrs. Warner assured him that his mother should be buried 
 in the spot which he and Ellen should choose ; and when 
 Rosa saw the boy's mournful delight, she could scarce forbear 
 waking the sleeper, to whisper the same consolation in her 
 ear. But when Ellen at last did awake, it was not to be con- 
 soled. At sight of Mrs. Warner she was at first surprised ; 
 then, overcome by shame and remorse, she buried her face in 
 her crossed arms ; and finally, springing to her feet impetu- 
 ously, she would have revealed the whole, but for a whisper 
 from Rosa. " Do not say it before your brother, Ellen." 
 
 The girl recoiled ; and her limbs gradually failing beneath 
 her, she sank slowly on the foot of the bed, murmuring, 
 " Then you know it all, and the children will know it and 
 despise me. Thank God I my mother is spared this ! But 
 who will care for the children ? " 
 
 " Nobody knows it," whispered Rosa feelingly, " nobody 
 but me ; and you must not tell — now, at least." 
 
 Mrs. Warner did not wonder that sight of her should so 
 affect the poor seamstress ; and she now came forward and 
 spoke kind, pitying words, in those tones which steal so 
 soothingly over the aching heart, and lull the perturbed spirit. 
 
232 THE BANK NOTE. 
 
 In less than a week, a pleasant room was opened a few 
 doors from Mrs. Warner's, and filled with flowers and choice 
 books, and everything agreeable to a cultivated, simple taste ; 
 and this was the home of the orphans. Not that they were 
 paupers, for their busy hands returned an equivalent for all 
 the good they received. The power to use their hands was 
 all that had been given them. John was sent to school four 
 hours in the day, and employed by Mr. Warner the remain- 
 der of the time, learning constantly lessons of industry and 
 independence. The sister, who had cherished the rose so 
 fondly, and bestowed it so touchingly, had plenty of roses 
 now ; and when not engaged in school, she glided around 
 among the flowers like one of their own sweet selves. The 
 little one talked no more of going to heaven to avoid being 
 " hungry," but still she lisped her broken prayers, kneeling 
 in her sister's lap, and still she prattled to Mrs. Warner of 
 things " sissy" told her, sometimes perverting their meaning 
 ludicrously, and always appearing most enchantingly simple. 
 As for Ellen, she habitually wore a look of sad seriousness 
 far beyond her years; but every day it became more and 
 more mellowed and sweetened, till one could scarce wish it 
 away. It required but few words from Mrs. Warner, to inter- 
 est several ladies in the young girl's behalf ; and from that 
 time she never lacked employment, and consequently never 
 lacked either the necessaries, or a moderate share of the lux- 
 uries, of life. 
 
 And did Ellen Vaughn ever acknowledge how much more 
 miserable she had made herself, than all the troubles, and 
 sorrows, and privations that had been heaped without meas- 
 ure upon the heads of those she loved, could have made her? 
 and was Miss Rosa Warner's little chain of deceptions ever 
 brought to light? Ay, it could not be otherwise; for the 
 seamstress would not leave her miserable garret until the 
 darkest corner of her heart, the darkest leaf of her life, was 
 unfolded to her benefactress. And Mrs. Warner, proud 
 woman as she was, wept, and for the first time spoke of her- 
 self, declaring that she had been guilty of a double crime— 
 
THE BANK NOTE. 233 
 
 tlie fault was entirely hers. And Rosa ! Oh ! the pink 
 barege was only a tithe of her rewards, though no one called 
 the gifts heaped upon her by such a name. And how much 
 more attention Mrs. Warner bestowed upon her now ! how 
 much she watched every movement, and strove to read every 
 glance ! and how she wondered that she had ever considered 
 the little lady so utterly thoughtless ! But Rosa Warner was 
 thoughtless, even as the morning bird that 
 
 " Pours its full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art." 
 
 That is, she was thoughtless as far as the head was con- 
 cerned ; but her little heart was brimming over with heavenly 
 wisdom — a wisdom made up of love and joy. 
 20* 
 
234 
 
 TO MY SISTER IN HEAVEN 
 
 My sister, when the evening wanes, 
 And midnight hours creep on; 
 
 When hushed is every earthly sound, 
 And all my cares are gone ; 
 
 'T is then, into my quiet room - 
 
 Thou comest as of yore ; 
 And close I seat me at thy side, 
 
 Where oft I 've sat before. 
 
 Then I am not as in the day, 
 
 But grow again a child. 
 Simple and loving, as when first 
 
 Thy lips upon me smiled. 
 
 There, with thine arm about my waist, 
 
 Thy fingers on my brow — 
 Those long, thin fingers, parting back 
 
 The clustering hair — and thou 
 
 Pale as the unsunned violet. 
 
 Which opens by the rill ; 
 I sit and gaze into thine eyes. 
 
 Deep, dark, and loving, still. 
 
 And then I hear thy soft low voice, 
 Which always touched my heart ; 
 
 And weep because thou tellest me 
 How near to heaven thou art. 
 
 And still thou speak'st of angel ones, 
 That bow before the throne ; 
 
 And say'st the little one thou 'st loved 
 Shall ne'er be left alone 
 
TO MY SISTER IN HEAVEN. 
 
 But when, an angel too, thou hast 
 
 Thy robes of glory on. 
 Thou 'It hover round her pillowed rest, 
 
 Till morning light shall dawn ; 
 
 And ever, through life's mazy way, 
 Thou 'It guide her wayward feet • 
 
 And be the first her spirit freed 
 In yonder home to greet. 
 
 And, sister mine, I 've felt thy care 
 
 In danger o'er me thrown ; 
 And when cold hearts were gathering near, 
 
 I have not been alone. 
 
 Long years have wheeled their weary round, 
 
 Since dark and deep they laid 
 Thy coffined form, and heaped the earth, 
 
 And bowed their heads and prayed ; 
 
 Then turned away and talked of spring 
 
 And of the sunny day ; 
 As though the earth could smile again, 
 
 When thou hadst passed away ! 
 
 And since, I 've trod a thorny path. 
 
 Of loneliness and pain ; 
 Of clouded skies, and blighted flowers 
 
 And coldness, and disdain. 
 
 I 've drunk from out a bitter cup ; 
 
 With care and grief have striven ; 
 But then, the rustle of thy wing 
 
 Has brought me near to heaven. 
 
 Then come, my angel-one, to-night ; 
 
 My heart is full of gloom ; 
 Come with thy quiet step and smile, 
 
 And seat thee in my room. 
 
236 TO MY SISTER IN HEAVEN. 
 
 And clasp, me, sister, in thine arms, 
 And hold me to thy breast ; 
 
 For by the thronging cares of earth 
 I 'm wearied and oppressed. 
 
 And let me close my aching lids, 
 And sleep upon that arm. 
 
 Which used to seem enough to me 
 To shelter from all harm. 
 
 I 'm weary now, I 'm weary now ! 
 
 I fain would be at rest ! 
 Yet closer twine thine angel arms. 
 
 And fold me to thy breast. 
 
237 
 
 ALLY FISHER. 
 
 Study, study, study ! 
 _ Trudge, trudge, trudge ! 
 
 Sew, sew, sew ! 
 
 Oh, what a humdrum life was that of little Ally Fisher ! 
 Day in, day out, late and early, from week's end to week's 
 end, it was all the same. Oh, how Ally's feet and head and 
 hands ached! and sometimes her heart ached, too — poor 
 child ! 
 
 Ally was not an interesting little girl ; she had no time to 
 be interesting. Her voice, true, was very sweet, but so plain- 
 tive ! Beside, you seldom heard it ; for little Ally Fisher's 
 thoughts were so constantly occupied, that it was seldom they 
 found time to come up to her lips. No, Ally was not inter- 
 esting. She had never given out the silvery, care-free, heart- 
 laugh which Ave love so to hear from children : she could not 
 laugh ; for, though sent to earth, a disguised ministering an- 
 gel, vice had arisen between her and all life's brightness, and 
 clouded in her sun. And how can anything be interesting 
 on which the shadow of vice rests ? Instead of mirth, Ally 
 had given her young spirit to sorrow; instead of the bright 
 flowers springing up in the pathway of blissful childhood, the 
 swelling, bursting buds of Hope that make our spring days 
 so gay. Ally looked out upon a desert with but one oasis. 
 Oh, how dear was- that bright spot, with its flowers all fade- 
 less, its waters sparkling, never-failing, living, its harps, its 
 crowns, its sainted ones, its white-winged throng, its King' 
 The King of Heaven! — that kind Saviour who loved her, 
 who watched over her in her helplessness, who counted all 
 her tears, lightened all her burdens, and was waiting to take 
 her in his arms and shelter her forever in his bosom. Little 
 Ally Fisher had indeed one pure, precious source of happi- 
 
.^38 
 
 ALLY FISHER. 
 
 ness ; and that was why the grave did not open beneath her 
 childish feet, and she go down into it for rest, worn out by 
 her burden of sorrow, want and misery. Yet Ally was not 
 interesting. When other children were out playing among 
 the quivering, joyful summer shadows, she sat away behind 
 her desk in the school-room, sew, sew, sewing, till her eyes 
 ached away back into her head, and her little arm felt as 
 though it must drop from the thin shoulder. " Odd ways 
 these for a child ! How disagreeably mature! It is a very 
 unpleasant thing to see children make old women of them- 
 selves !" Ah, then, woe to the sin — woe to the sinner who 
 cheats a young heart of its spring ! 
 
 Neither was Ally beautiful; — her face was so thin and 
 want-pinched, and her great eyes looked so wobegone ! 
 How could Ally be beautiful, with such a load of care upon 
 her, crushing beneath its iron weight the rich jewels which 
 God had lavished upon her spirit ? It is the inner beauty that 
 shines upon the face, — and all the flowers of her young 
 heart had been blasted. Her curls were glossy enough, but 
 you could not help believing, when you looked upon them, 
 that misery nestled in their deep shadows ; her eyes were of 
 the softest, meekest brown, fringed with rich sable, but so full 
 of misery ! Her complexion was transparently fair, with a 
 tinge of blue, instead of the warm, generous heart-tide which 
 oolongs to childhood and youth; all her features were pinched 
 and attenuated ; her hands were small, and thin, and blue ; 
 and her little figure, m its scanty, homely clothing, looked 
 very much like a weed which has stood too long in the 
 autumn time. So frail ! so delicate ! so desolate ! 
 
 And did anybody love little Ally Fisher? the busy bee — 
 the hum-drum worker — the forlorn child who was neither 
 mteresting nor beautiful ? Was there anybody to love her ? 
 No one but her mother — a poor, sad looking woman, who 
 wore a faded green bonnet and a patched chintz frock, and 
 never stopped to smile or shake hands with anybody, when 
 she walked out of the village church. This desolate, sad- 
 liearted woman, with her bony figure and sharpened face — 
 
ALLY FISUER. 239 
 
 this Dame Fisher, whom the boys called a scare-crow, and 
 the girls used to imitate in tableaux — this strange woman, 
 seeming in her visible wretchedness scarce to belong to this 
 bright, beautiful world, bore a measureless, exhaustless foun- 
 tain of love behind the faded garments and the ugly person ; 
 and she lavished all its holy \yealth on poor little Ally, Ally 
 had a father, too ; but he did not love her. He loved nothing 
 but the vile grog-shop at the corner of the street, and the 
 brown earthen jug which he yet had humanity or shame 
 enough to hide away in the loft. Ah, now you see why Ally 
 Fisher was unhappy ! Now you see the vice in whose 
 shadow the stricken child matured so rapidly ! Now you 
 are ready to exclaim with me, "Poor, poor Ally Fisher! 
 God help her ! " 
 
 Ay, God help her I 
 
 Ally tried very hard to help herself; but her mother was 
 always very feeble, and there were several little ones younger 
 than herself. What could poor Ally do ? She went to 
 school — that she 76-oz<Z<^ do, because she never could accom- 
 plish anything at home in that small, crowded room, with all 
 those thin-faced, miserable little creatures about her ; but she 
 took her sewing with her, and every moment that she could 
 steal from her books was devoted to earning bread. 
 
 Dame Fisher had looked earnestly forward to the time 
 when Ally would be old enough and learned enough to vary 
 the monotonous character of her employment, and preside in 
 the capacity of teacher over the little school just over the hill. 
 These mothers are so dotingly hopeful ! How could she 
 think of it, and Ally the child of a drunkard ? To be sure, 
 this was the only vice of which Billy Fisher had ever been 
 guilty. He had nev^er defrauded his neighbor ; he had never, 
 in better days, when some who now despised him were in his 
 power, been oppressive to the poor ; he had harmed no one, 
 nor wished harm to any ; he had only degraded his own 
 nature almost to a bestial level, and poured out a vessel of 
 shame upon his family. Enough, to be sure ; but then Ally 
 she had always been a gentle, patient, toiling, faultless 
 
240 ALLY I'ISHER. 
 
 child, and why must she suffer for her father's sin? What! 
 the daughter of the drunken vagabond, Billy Fisher, a teach- 
 er for their children ! What a presuming minx she must be ! 
 The idea was preposterous ! She must find other means of 
 supplying herself with the finery she was prinking in of late ; 
 let her go into the kitchen where she belonged ! Poor Ally ! 
 she had wrought till midnight for a fortnight, to prepare her- 
 self for presentation to these same fault-finders ; and if she 
 had not, they would have called her ragamuffin. Where 
 shall we look for a reasonable man ? 
 
 Ally was not much distressed. To be sure, it was the 
 breaking up of a long cherished dream, and the severer that 
 this had been the only dream she had ever dared cherish ; 
 but the poor girl had a holy resource, and she did not repine. 
 She went from the door where the one hope of her life had 
 been cruelly crushed, with a swelling heart and faltering step. 
 Over the stile across the way, the little blue eyes of the spring- 
 violets were looking up lovingly from beds of moss ; the freed 
 streams were dancing gaily, flashing and sparkling in the 
 simlight ; and on a brown maple bough, where leaf-buds were 
 swelling ready to burst with life, a little bird, the first spring- 
 bird, carolled as blithely as though it might thus bring Eden 
 to a desolate, disappointed, sorrowing heart. Ally Fisher 
 heard it, and the tears broke over their frjnged boundaries 
 and fell in a sparkling shower upon her boddice. Then she 
 crossed the stile, and the stream, and passed the trees, till she 
 found a solitary nook away in the heart of the wood ; and 
 there she knelt and prayed. How strong was Ally Fisher 
 when she left her retreat ! The arm of Him who is almighty 
 was about her. 
 
 Ally Fisher passed with quite as light a foot as usual over 
 the dried leaves through which the tender spring-blades were 
 peeping, and beyond the border of the wood, till she came 
 within sight of one of our beautiful central lakes on the border 
 of which the young green was striving with the paUid spoils 
 of last year's frost. Ally Fisher was not very observing — 
 she was too thoughtful to be observing ; but as she emerged 
 
ALLY FISHER. 241 
 
 from the wood she saw a person, probably a nurse, walking 
 near the lake with a little girl, who danced, and prattled, and 
 clapped her tiny hands, now bounding from the path, now 
 half hiding her little head in the woman's dress, and then run- 
 ning forward with all the guileless glee of a bird or butterfly. 
 Ally looked at herj and felt the warm tears creeping to her 
 eyes. Why had she never been thus happy? And why 
 should that terrible shadow which had rested on her crs.dle, 
 darken at this point, so full of strange, wondrous interest, now 
 when she was 
 
 " Standing, with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet. 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance, 
 On the brooklet's swift advance, 
 On the river's broad expanse." 
 
 The tears crept to Ally's eyes ; but they had no time to fall. 
 She heard a shriek, and saw the woman cowering over the 
 verge of the lake, her hands clasped as though in an ecstasy 
 of agonized fear. 
 
 " The child ! " thought Ally, as she sprang forward, new 
 life in every limb and lighting up her eye. She was right. 
 The little one was just rising to the surface after her first ter- 
 rible plunge ; Ally caught a glimpse of a pale, agonized face, 
 then a fold of scarlet ; and then all disappeared except the 
 successive rings formed by the rippling water. " It is not 
 deep, not very deep," she said, half to herself, half to the 
 careless nurse, " if I were only taller ! " She stepped into 
 the water carefully, as though to insure in the outset a firm 
 footing. Another step, and the water grew deeper — another 
 — another — the water had arisen above her waist, and her 
 slight figure seemed swayed by its undulations. Dare she 
 go farther ? Oh, the lake was so still — only a ripple on its 
 surface ; and a life — a life at stake ! Again on, one more 
 step — the little scarlet dress appeared just before her. But 
 one short step more! — she falters, reels — ah, she grasps 
 it! — now Ally! see, she pauses deliberately to steady her- 
 21 
 
242 ALLY FISHER. 
 
 self! Her presence of mind, even in the moment of triumph, 
 has not Forsaken her, and her foot is still firm. She returns 
 slowly, safely to the shore ; and sinks, with her recovered 
 human treasure at the feet of the terrified nurse. 
 
 Ally Fisher opened her large, wondering eyes upon a 
 strange scene. Her head lay upon a pillow of rich purple 
 velvet ; and she turned from her singular couch to magnifi- 
 c(!nt folds of drapery ; heavy golden cords half hidden in their 
 soft shadows ; rich, massive furniture, the use of which she did 
 not understand — all the wonders of this magic palace — quite 
 unheeding a kind face Avhich hent anxiously over her. 
 
 " Oh, 1 was so careless, and you so good ! " was the first 
 exclamation she heard ; and then from a sofa at the other side 
 of the room came a pale, beautiful lady and whispered, " Dear 
 cliild ! God ble<;s her ! " in low, tremulous tones, as though 
 the terror had not yet gone from her heart. 
 
 " Does she recover ?" inquired another voice. It was that 
 of a man ; and, though strong, there was now a subdued 
 tremor in it, which gave evidence that the string on which it 
 vibrated had been lately jarred by fear and sorrow. " Does 
 she recover ? This noble deed has made her ours as Marcia 
 is. She shall never go back to that poor hovel again." 
 
 " My mother ! " was Ally's answering exclamation. " Oh, 
 she will be so frightened ! I must go to my mother now."' It 
 was in vain that the lady and her husband, and even the 
 attending physician insisted on her remaining, at least until 
 she was quite recovered ; and offered to send for her mother. 
 Ally arose to her feet and smiled her usual sad smile. 
 
 " I am well, quite well. It did n't hurt me any ; I was 
 only frightened because I thought the poor little girl was 
 dead. To be sure, I shouldn't fear the dead, but when I had 
 her m my arms — Are you sure she will get well ? " 
 
 " She will ; and it was you who saved her life." 
 
 Ally shuddered. " Uh ! her cheek was so cold ! just like 
 little Willie's. But you say she will get well, and I am very 
 glad ; though sometimes I think it would be a pleasant thing 
 
ALLY FISHER. 243 
 
 to die and go to heaven where Jesus Christ is. — It is so dreary 
 here ! " she added in a pitiful tone and half musingiy. 
 
 Dame Fisher was surprised to see the family carriage of 
 the Burnells draw up at her humble door, and more still sur- 
 prised when her own Ally, all in strange garb " a world too 
 wide " sprang from it, her pale face really brilliant with ex- 
 citement. Ally's large eyes were larger than ever, and the 
 heart's light was centred beneath their jetty fringes ; while 
 her mouth, the lips no longer .pale, was wreathed with unu- 
 sual smiles. 
 
 "Oh, mother ! I have saved a life ! Is not God kind to 
 let me do so great a thing ? " 
 
 Strange that neither Ally nor her mother thought of the 
 lost school that night, heavy as the disappointment was ! 
 Nay, is it strange ? They thought of it in the morning, 
 however, and then dame Fisher was much sadder than Ally 
 was. 
 
 " So you are to sew your life away," she said despond- 
 mgly ; " my poor, poor Ally ! " 
 
 " No, mother ; God will take care of me." 
 
 It was not noon when the family carriage of the Burnells 
 again appeared at the door of Billy Fisher's miserable cottage. 
 
 " Mrs. Burnell. It may be. Ally, she will get you the 
 school — these rich people have so much influence." 
 
 Mrs. Burnell came to offer Ally, as her husband had prom- 
 ised in his first lively emotion of gratitude, a splendid home. 
 
 " You shall share with little Marcia in everything," she 
 said. " You shall even divide our love. More, you are older, 
 and you shall be considered in everything the elder daughter. 
 Come and live with us, dear ; for we should have had no 
 child but for you." 
 
 Ally looked at her mother, whose thin face now glowed 
 with gratified ambition ; glanced at the broken walls of the 
 miserable hovel she called home ; turned from one little half- 
 starved figure to another ; and then, approaching the lady, 
 said in a low, firm tone, " You are very kind, and I will pray 
 God to bless you for it ; but I must not go away from here ! " 
 
244 ALLY FISHER. 
 
 " Must not ! " 
 
 •' Must not, Ally ! " exclaimed the surprised, disappointed 
 mother. 
 
 Ally's voice became choked. " This is a very poor place 
 — I never knew how poor until I went into some of the grand 
 houses ; but I have always lived in it, and — " 
 
 " But the sewing, and that terrible pain in your side, dear ! " 
 interrupted the matron. 
 
 " It Avill be better soon, I think ; and may be I shall not 
 have to sew as much now Mary is getting bigger." 
 
 "But, Ally— " 
 
 " Mother, don't drive me away from home." 
 
 " We will give you a home," pleaded the lady, " the home 
 you saw yesterday. There you shall have everything you 
 can wish ; things much more beautiful than you have ever 
 seen in your life ; and little Marcia, whose life you saved, will 
 love you, and so will we all." 
 
 " Then who will love my poor, poor mother ? " And Ally 
 burst into tears. 
 
 At the commencement of the conference a head had been 
 raised from a pile of bed-covering in a corner of the room, and 
 a red, bloated face looked out on the group with vague won- 
 der. Soon an expression of intelligence began to lighten up 
 the heavy eyes, and now and then a trace of something like 
 emotion appeared upon the face. At Ally's last words there 
 was for a moment a strange, convulsive working of the fea- 
 tures, and the head fell heavily back upon the pillow. 
 
 It was in vain that both the lady and dame Fisher pleaded. 
 Ally's firm, modest answer was ever the same. " Oh, it was 
 nothing ; I could n't let the little girl drown, when it was so 
 easy to go into the water. It was nothing ; so I do not deserve 
 that beautiful home. I should n't be of any use there either, 
 and here I am needed." 
 
 " But I will give you five times the money you could earn 
 by sewing," urged the lady, " and you shall bring it all here." 
 
 Ally was for a moment staggered. 
 
 " So you would help us more by going than by staying," 
 
ALLY FISHER. 245 
 
 added the dame, quite forgetful of self while so anxious for 
 ner child's welfare. 
 
 " But mother, who would hold your head when it aches, 
 and bathe your temples, and kiss away the pain, and then sit 
 and watch you while you sleep? And when the trouble 
 comes, who would try to make it light, and help you find all 
 the happy things to weigh against it ? And who would sit 
 with you at evening when you are so lonely ? Who, mother, 
 would read the Bible to you ? For you told me but yester- 
 day that your eyes were failing ; and who would — would 
 love you, mother ? Oh, don't send me away ! All those 
 beautiful things would only make me sorry if you could not 
 have them too ; and so you must let me stay here in the old 
 house ; for it is the only place where I can be happy. God 
 would not love me if I were to leave you with all the children 
 to care for, and none to comfort you when you are sad." 
 
 The lady's eyes were quite suffused with the heart's-dew, 
 as, with a mental blessing on the young girl's head, and a 
 silent determination to reward her self-denying spirit richly, 
 she turned away. 
 
 " You have sacrificed yourself for my sake. Ally," sobbed 
 the dame, folding her gentle child in her arms ; " Oh, why 
 did you do it ? " 
 
 " No, mother, I am happier here, and he " Ally 
 
 pointed to the bed meaningly. " I could n't mention it before 
 her." 
 
 " Yes, darling, you are right, as you always are ; he would 
 kill himself without you in a week, I know. But, oh, it is a 
 dreadful thing — my poor, poor Ally ! " 
 
 Ally was at her sewing, as calm and quiet as though 
 nothing unusual had occurred, though there was a singularly 
 bright spot on her cheek ; and the dame had busied herself 
 with preparing the children's supper, w^hen Billy Fisher crept 
 from the bed, and glided half-timidly to the door. 
 
 " Don't go to-night, father," whispered Ally, laying her 
 slight hand on his, and fixing her large, mournful eyes on his 
 fece most feelingly. " Don't go ; I will help you fix the 
 21# 
 
246 ALLY FISHER 
 
 chessmen you wanted me to do last nignt ; or I will hem the 
 pretty new handkerchief I bought for you to-day, and sing 
 whatever you like best while I am doing it ; or I will read to 
 you from my beautiful library book, or do anything you like 
 
 — only don't go ! It is very lonely here without you, father." 
 The lips of the miserable man parted as though he would 
 
 have replied; but the word seemed choking him, and he 
 brushed hastily past her. Tears came to Ally's eyes as she 
 turned again to her work ; but no one heeded them. 
 
 That evening passed as hundreds of others had done. The 
 children were all sent to bed, and then Ally and her mother 
 sat down by their one tallow candle to earn bread for them. 
 
 " It is so nice to be together," said Ally, raising a face all 
 beaming with gratitude. 
 
 " Yes, but you lose a great deal by it, dear." 
 
 " Oh, no ; I lose nothing. I should have lost a great deal 
 if I had gone away from you. Mother, I have been wonder- 
 ing since this morning that God has been so kind as to keep 
 us together, and I so ungrateful. I never knew how happy 
 it made me to be with you till now." 
 
 " We never see half the blessings that God bestows upon 
 us, darling." 
 
 Murmurer — you, surrounded by comforts and elegancies, 
 feasting on dainties, and rolling in luxuries -^^ oh, could you 
 but look in upon dame Fisher's cottage, with its bare, broken 
 walls, and scanty furniture ! And yet the poor drunkard's 
 wife was really more deeply blest than you — blest with the 
 inner wealth of " a meek and quiet spirit." She never inur- 
 mured. 
 
 The hour of ten drew near, and Ally's quick ear caught 
 the sound of a step upon the door-stone. 
 
 " Father ! he is very early. Oh, I hope he has not " 
 
 She had no time to finish her sentence. The door was 
 thrown wide open with a quick, earnest, joyous dash. 
 
 " I have done it. Ally, my bird ! I have done it ! There 
 
 — there — whist! don't look so frightened, pussy; it is noth- 
 ing bad — it is something good — very good. It will make 
 
ALLY FISHER. 247 
 
 your little heart glad, and I ought to make it glad once in 
 your sorry life-time, birdie dear. Shall I tell you. Ally ? I 
 have taken the step, the step ; and now, darling, your poor 
 mother shall have somebody to love her, and so shall you too. 
 Oh, it has been a dreadful course ; it has almost broken my 
 heart sometimes to think of my miserable ways ; and I have 
 felt the worst when you thought I was stupid and did not care. 
 Sometimes I have been determined to break away, but then 
 I was tempted, and could n't. Now I have done it, never 
 another drop to my lips ! — so help me God ! " 
 
 That night there was not so happy a house in all the State 
 of New York, as the wretched hovel to which Billy Fisher 
 had brought such unexpected joy. And Ally. Oh, no! she 
 never regretted having sacrificed her own bright prospects to 
 the happiness of those she loved ; for never was human heart 
 more deeply blest than gentle, trusting Ally Fisher's. Other 
 and more brilliant blessings now cluster around her path ; but 
 these are mere trifles compared with that great first one. 
 
 It was thine own work, sweet Ally ; thy never-failing gen- 
 tleness it was which won him. Go on, pure-hearted one . 
 there is still more good for thee to do. 
 
 " Still thy smile like sunshine dart 
 Into many a sunless heart, 
 For a smile of God thou art." 
 
EDITH RAY. 
 
 Pity that Albums should have gone out of fashion, 'Bel. 
 1 feel like an emigrant revisiting the old homestead, when I 
 open the embossed red morocco doors, and see the mystic 
 furniture, in black and white, just as it came from the hands 
 of the machinists, and yet so unlike what it was. To be sure, 
 there are emigrants who have journeyed farther and been 
 longer gone ; but Change labors with the rapidity of second 
 class Irish fairies, and I find but little as I left it.. Come to 
 our nestling-place on the sofa, and let us examine some of 
 these tributes from my school-mates. Those delicate little 
 crow-quill touches, surmounted by the two turtle doves on a 
 green sprig smaller than themselves, and unlike anything that 
 ever grew, are Edith Ray's. I have her bright face before 
 me now, as it looked when, despite her notions of pretty pen- 
 manship, she assumed her own character long enough to give 
 that preposterous flourish to the final y ; then clapped her 
 dainty little hands, and laughed at her oWn work, as fully 
 conscious of its childishness, (billing doves and all,) as such 
 wiseacres as you and I, 'Bel, are this morning. I thought 
 the whole, especially the doves, miracles of prettiness then ; 
 and, strange as it may seem, I am no happier since I have 
 discovered that they are things to laugh at. 
 
 Edith Ray was a joyous creature, with a heart so brimming 
 over with mirthfulness, that every one who came into her 
 presence caught the infection. She was gentle and delicate 
 too, and yet fearless as a young eagle ; doing whatever she 
 purposed in the face of all opposition; and telling the most 
 unwelcome truths, particularly when she might thus unmask 
 hypocrisy, or expose anything mean and cringing. Yet 
 everybody loved her ; for although she possessed a dangerous 
 
EDirn RAY. 249 
 
 power, it was never called into exercise for the purpose of 
 crushing ; being kept in check by a kind and affectionate 
 heart. Edith Ray, as all who saw her would be very likely 
 to suppose, was an only child, and quite an heiress withal ; 
 so it is not strange that she should take a conspicuous place 
 among the Alderbrook belles. The schoolmaster used to 
 quote poetry to her, and bring her bouquets. Mr. Sherrill, a 
 dashing young law student, was the companion of all her 
 horse-back rides, and walked with her to the church-door 
 every Sabbath morning, with the evident hope of one day 
 handing her in very gracefully ; and the doctor, the grocer, 
 and a "wild slip" of a dry goods merchant, had severally 
 shown an interest in Mr. Ray's affairs truly gratifying. Yet 
 Edith would parody the schoolmaster's verses most ludicrously 
 to his face ; give her gallant squire the slip whenever it suited 
 her convenience ; and ridicule the pretensions of the others 
 outright. It is strange that the Argus-eyed supervisors of our 
 little village had no suspicions as to the real cause of Edith's 
 indifference to her admirers ; but certain it is that a pale, stu- 
 dent-like face passed in and out of Mr. Ray's door, particularly 
 on rainy evenings, and at other times when gayer ones would 
 not be likely to interrupt the visit, without exciting the least 
 remark. Perhaps it was because all had decided that the 
 widow's son never would introduce a new mistress into the 
 parsonage ; and perhaps the improbability of the grave young 
 pastor's taste leading him to make such a selection. What- 
 ever the cause might have been, there was certainly an im- 
 portant, life-lasting secret locked fast in the hearts of Mr. Rob- 
 son and bright Edith Ray. The young lovers were strikingly 
 contrasted in outer seeming ; but there was a rich under-cur- 
 rent in the characters of both that perfectly harmonized ; so 
 Edith feared only for her o^vn volatility when she gave her 
 heart into another's keeping, and the young pastor prayed 
 only that he might be able to repay the trust. The betrothal 
 passed, and still the secret was not discovered ; though Edith 
 had unconsciously assumed a gentler manner, and a sweeter 
 expression, which could not fail to excite observation. 
 
250 EDITH RAT. 
 
 As I said before, Edith Ray feared nothing but to do 
 wrong; and her daring had been so much the subject of 
 remark, that she feh some pride in exhibiting her courage ; a 
 quality which her young friends took every opportunity to 
 test. Unknown to her companions, however, there was one 
 point on which Edith was vulnerable ; she had, Avhen a little 
 child, seen her own mother stretched out in death — she 
 remembered the rigid limbs, with their white covering, giving 
 a fearful mystery to their half-revealed outlines — and any- 
 thing that bore the slightest resemblance to such a form, in- 
 spired her with horror. 
 
 It was on a fine moonlight night in midwinter, that a social 
 group had assembled in Mr. Ray's parlor ; and Edith, unlike 
 her wont when Mr. Robson was present, had been the gayest 
 of the party. As the evening drew to a close, Mr. Sherrill 
 expressed a wish to see a book of engravings that had disap- 
 peared from the parlor ; a desire which Edith declared such 
 an evidence of improved taste, that it should be instantly 
 gratified. She tripped lightly from the room ; and as she 
 disappeared we all observed that Sherrill crept carefully 
 toward the door. The next moment a short, shrill cry, fol- 
 lowed by a low, half-choked sound, as of one strangling, 
 brought us to our feet. With one bound poor Sherrill was in 
 the adjoining apartment ; but he was scarce 'in advance of the 
 young pastor. The rest of us followed hastily, alarmed at, 
 we knew not what. But we soon knew. Upon a long table 
 lay extended an object covered with a white cloth, with the 
 moonbeams flickering over it, revealing the fearful outlines 
 of a human figure with apparent certainty. Before this 
 ciouched young Edith Ray, with her fingers clenched in the 
 masses of long hair descending on each side of her face, her 
 eyes distended, and a white foam wreathing her motionless 
 lips. 
 
 '' £dith ! my own Edith ! " whispered Robson, in a voice 
 hearse with agony. 
 
 Edith started to her feet, and the mocking walls echoed her 
 wild unnatural laugh. 
 
EDITH RAY. 251 
 
 " Look, Edith — look ! " entreated Shcrrill ; " it is noth- 
 ing ;" and he shook out two or three cloaks artfully arranged. 
 " Nothing but these — I did it, Edith — I did it — I put them 
 there to scare you ! " 
 
 Edith only laughed again. 
 
 Mr. Robson drew her arm within his own, and led her 
 quietly back into the parlor ; and poor Sherrill followed and 
 crouched at her feet, beseeching her but to speak one word, 
 only one word just to show that he had not murdered her. 
 But the stricken girl only twined her hair helplessly about 
 her fingers, and smiled. 
 
 Three years have rolled away, but they have wrought no 
 change on the darkened spirit of Edith Ray. Mr. Robson 
 still occupies the parsonage, but he has grown graver, and 
 gentler, and more spiritual than ever ; and the young repress 
 their smiles and soften their voices when he comes near ; for 
 untold sorrow is a sacred thing. The neighbors say that Par- 
 son Robson is wholly devoted to his books, and the care of 
 his flock. But they make a marvel of one thing. It is a 
 great Avonder to them what is the attraction at poor Mr. Ray's, 
 that he should spend his two hours there every evening. 
 They never saw the stricken Edith at his feet, gazing up into 
 his face with an expression of childish confidence ; nor heard 
 her low, mournful murmur when he went away. Our young 
 pastor is ever found among the sick and sorrowing ; but every 
 effort to draw him into social life fails ; for the poor wreck, 
 which clings to him .even in her idiocy, is still borne upon his 
 heart. 
 
KITTY COLEMAN. 
 
 An arrant piece of mischief was that Kitty Coleman, with 
 her winsome ways and wicked little heart ! Those large, be- 
 wildering eyes ! how they poured out their stTange eloquence, 
 looking as innocent all the while as thO'Ugh they had peeped 
 from their amber-fringed curtains quite by mistake, or only I 
 to join in a quadrille with the sunlight ! And then those 
 warm, ripe lips ! the veritable 
 
 " rosy bed, 
 That a bee would choose to dream in." 
 
 That is, a well-bred bee, which cared to pillow his head on 
 pearls white as snow, on the heaven-side of our earthly at- 
 mosphere, and sip the honey of Hybla from the balmy air 
 fanning his slumbers. And so wild and unmanageable was 
 she ! Oh ! it was shocking to '^proper people ! " Why, she 
 actually laughed aloud — Kitty Coleman did! I say Kitty, 
 because in her hours of frolicking, she was very like a juve- 
 nile puss, particularly given to fun-loving : and, moreover, be- 
 cause everybody called her Kitty, but aunt Martha. She was 
 a well-bred woman, who disapproved of loud laughing, romp- 
 ing, and nicknaming, as she did of other crimes; so she 
 always said. Miss Catharine. People always have their trials 
 in this world, and Kitty Coleman (so she'finnly believed) 
 would have been perfectly happy but for aunt Martha. She 
 thought, even, that Miss Catharine's hair — those long, golden 
 locks, like rays of floating sunshine wandering about her shoul- 
 ders, should be gathered up into a comb ; and once the little lady 
 was so obliging as to make a trial of the scheme ; but, at the 
 first bound she made after Rover, the burnished cloud broke 
 from its ignoble bondage, and the little silver comb nestled 
 down in the long grass forever more. Kitty was a sad romp. 
 
KITTY COLEMAN. 25Jl 
 
 ll is a hard thing to say of one we all loved so well, but aunt 
 Martha said it, and shook her head, and sighed the while ; 
 and the squire, aunt Martha's brother, said it, and spread open 
 his arms for his pet to spring into ; and careful old ladies said 
 it, and said, too, what a pity it is that young ladies now-a-days 
 should have no more regard for propriety ! and even Enoch 
 Short, the great phrenologist, buried his bony fingers in those 
 dainty locks, that none but a phrenologist had a right to touch ; 
 and, waiting only for the long, silvery laugh, that interrupted 
 his scientific researches, to subside, declared that her organ 
 of mirlhfulness was very strikingly developed. It was then 
 a matter past controversy ; and, of course, Kitty was expected 
 to do what nobody else could do, and say what nobody else 
 had a right to say ; and the sin of all was chargeable to a 
 strange idiosyncrasy, a peculiar conformation of the mind, or 
 rather brain, over which she had no control ; and so Kitty 
 
 was forgiven, forgiven by all but we had a story to tell. 
 
 I have heard that Cupid is blind, but of that I believe not 
 a word. Indeed, I have confirmation strong, that the mali- 
 cious little knave has a sort of clairvoyance, and can see a 
 heart where few would expect one to exist ; for, did he not 
 perch himself, now in the eye, and now on the lip of Kitty 
 Coleman, and, with a marvellously steady aim, (imitating a 
 personage a trifle more dreaded,) 
 
 " cut down all. 
 Both great and small ? " 
 
 Blind ! no, no ! If the laughing rogue did fail in a single 
 instance, it was not that he aimed falsely, or had emptied his 
 quiver before. Harry Raymond must have had a tough heart, 
 and so the arrow rebounded ! Oh ! a very stupid fellow was 
 that Harry Raymond, and Kitty hesitated not to say it ; for, 
 after walking and riding with her all through the leafy month 
 of June, what right had he to grow dignified all of a sudden, 
 and look upon her, when he did at all, as though she had 
 been a naughty child that deserved tying up ? To be sure, 
 Harry Raymond was a scholar, and in love, (as everybody 
 oo 
 
254 KITTY COLEMAN. 
 
 said,) with his books ; but pray, what book is there of them 
 all, that could begin to compare with Kitty Coleman? 
 
 There used to be delightful little gatherings in our village, 
 and Kitty must of course be there ; and Harry, stupid as he 
 was, always went too. People were of course glad to see 
 him, for the honor was something, if the company had other 
 wise been ever so undesirable. But Kitty hesitated not to 
 show her dislike. She declared he did not know how to be 
 civil; and then she sighed, (doubtlessly at the boorishness of 
 scholars in general, and this one in particular,) then she 
 laughed, so long and musically, that the lawyer, the school- 
 master, the four clerks, the merchant, and Lithper Lilhpet, 
 the dandy, all joined in the chorus ; though not one of them 
 could have told what the lady laughed at. Harry Raymond 
 only looked towards the group, muttered something in a very 
 ill-natured tone about butterflies, and then turned his back 
 upon them and gazed out of the window, though it was very 
 certain he could see nothing in the pitchy darkness. It was 
 very strange that Kitty Coleman should have disregarded en- 
 tirely the opinion of such a distinguished gentleman as Harry 
 Rajanond ; for he had travelled, and he sported an elegant 
 wardrobe, and owned a gay equipage, a fine house and 
 grounds, " and everything that was handsome." But she 
 only laughed the louder when she saw that he was displeased. 
 Indeed, his serious face seemed to infuse the concentrated, 
 double-distilled spirit of mirthfulness into her ; and a more 
 frolicksome creature never existed than Kitty was — until he 
 was gone. Then, all of a sudden, she grew fatigued and 
 must go home immediately. , 
 
 Ah, Kitty ! Kitty ! thine hour had come ; and thou wcrt 
 learning now what wiser ones had long been endeavoring to 
 teach thee — that thy mirth was but "as the crackling of 
 thorns under a pot," soulless. 
 
 It was as much on Harry Raymond's account as her own, that 
 aunt Martha was distressed at the hoydenish manners of hel 
 romping niece. But Kitty insisted that her manners were not 
 hoydenish, and that if her heart overflowed, it was not her fault. 
 
KITTY COUEMAN. 255 
 
 She could not shut up all her glad feelings within her ; they 
 would leap hack at tlie call of their kindred gushing from 
 other bosoms, and to all the beautiful things of creation as 
 joyous in their mute eloquence as she was. Besides, the 
 wicked little Kitty Coleman was very angry that aunt Mar- 
 tha should attempt to govern her conduct by the likings of 
 Harry Raymond ; and, to show that she did not care an apple- 
 blossom for him, nor his opinions either, she was more unrea- 
 sonably gay in his presence than anywhere else. But, what- 
 ever Harry Raymond might think, he did not slander the little 
 lady. Indeed, he never was heard to speak of her but once, 
 and then he said she had no soul. A pretty judge of soul, 
 he, to be sure ! a man without a smile ! How can people 
 who go through the world, cold and still, like the clods they 
 tread upon, pretend to know anything about soul ? 
 
 But, notwithstanding the enmity of the young people, 
 Harry Raymond used to go to Squire Coleman's, and talk all 
 the evening with the squire and aunt Martha, while his big, 
 black eyes turned slowly in the direction Kitty moved, like 
 the bewitching sylphide that she was ; but Kitty did not look 
 at him, not she ! What right had a stranger, and her father's 
 
 guest too, to act out his reproof in such a manner? 
 
 When Harry went away, he would bow easily and grace- 
 fully to the old people, but to the young lady he found it dif- 
 ficult to bend. Conduct like this provoked Kitty Coleman be- 
 yond endurance ; and, one evening after the squire and spinster 
 had left her alone, she sat down, and in very spite sobbed away 
 as though her little heart would break. Now it happened 
 that the squire had lent his visiter a book thai; evening, which, 
 strange enough for such a scholar, he had forgotten to take 
 with him ; but luckily Harry remembered it before it was too 
 late, and turned upon his heel. The door was open, and so 
 he stepped at once into the parlor. Poor Kitty sprang to her 
 feet at the intrusion, and crushed with her fingers two tears 
 that were just ready to launch themselves on the roundest and 
 rosiest cheek in the world ; but she might have done better 
 than blind herself, for, by some means, her foot came in un- 
 
256 KITTY COLEMAN. 
 
 intentional contact with aunt Martha's rocking-chair, and her 
 forehead, in consequence, found itself resting very unceremo- 
 niously on the neck of Rover. It is very awkward to be sur- 
 prised m the luxurious abandon of tears at any time ; and it 
 is a trifle more awkward still to stumble when you wish to 
 be particularly dignified, and then be raised by the last person 
 in the world from whom you would receive a favor. Kitty 
 felt the awkwardness of her position too much to speak, and 
 of course Harry could not release her until he knew whether 
 she was hurt. It was certain she was not faint, for the crim- 
 son blood dyed even the tips of her fingers, and Harry's face 
 immediately took the same hue, probably from sympathy. 
 Kitty looked down until a golden arc of fringe rested lovingly 
 on its glowing neighbor ; and Harry, too, looked down on 
 Kitty Coleman's face. Then came a low, soft whisper — low 
 and soft as the breathing of an infant ; and (poor Kitty miisi 
 have been hurt and needed support) an arm stole softly around 
 her waist, and dark locks mingled with her sunny ones, and 
 Kitty Coleman hid her face — not in her hands. 
 
 Empty gayety had failed to win the heart of Harry Ray- 
 mond ; but the tears were triumphant. 
 
 Harry forgot his book again that night, and never thought 
 of it till the squire put it into his hand the next morning ; for 
 Harry visited the squire very early the next morning. Very 
 likely he came on business, for they had a private interview ; 
 and the good old gentleman slapped him on the shoulder, 
 and said, "with all my heart;" and aunt Martha looked as 
 glad as propriety would let her. As for Kitty Coleman, she 
 did not show her face, not she ; for she knew they were talk- 
 ing about her — such a meddler was Harry Raymond ! But, 
 as the arrant mischief-maker bounded from the door, there 
 was a great rustling among the rose-bushes, insomuch that a 
 shower of bright blossoms descended from them, and reddened 
 the dewy turf; and Harry turned a face brimming over with 
 joyfulness to the fragrant thicket, and went to search out the 
 cause of the disturbance. 
 
 Now it happened that Kitty Coleman had hidden in this 
 
KITTY COLEMAN. 257 
 
 very thicket, and she was, of course, found out ; and — I do 
 not think that poor Kitty ever quite recovered from the effects 
 of her fall, for the arm of Harry Raymond seemed very ne- 
 cessary to her forever after. 
 
 The mirth and mischief? 
 
 Oh, they vanished with the falsehood which supported 
 their semblance, when the first dawnings of love made the 
 heart serious ; for love and happiness always fling the weight 
 of feeling upon gayety, smothering its vain sparkles. The 
 rich draught is never in the foam and bubbles that dance 
 upon the brim. The heart never laughs ; but the deeper tfie 
 sunshine that blesses it, the less it looks to outer things for 
 blessings ; and so the world never prizes its light. The gay 
 may have hearts, but they have never learned to use them — 
 never learned to think, to feel, to love. Who will may imitate 
 Kitty Coleman and the butterflies ; but there are those who 
 are wiser, and love better the sweet seriousness beaming like 
 the mellow August moon-ray above hidden heart-treasures. 
 22* 
 
258 
 
 ROBERT FLEMMING; 
 
 A VERITABLE TALK, SHOWING 
 
 "WHAT THAT BOY DID COME TO AT LAST." 
 
 " Rachel," said a young farmer to his wife, as he entered 
 the house, leading by the hand a curly-headed little fellow, 
 with a particularly bright eye and a mouth with a particularly 
 roguish curl to it — "Rachel, you were wishing yesterday 
 you had a boy ; I have brought one home to you." 
 
 The young woman dropped the broom which she was 
 wielding with much spirit, and turning short round, placed 
 her two bared arms akimbo. "Well, Eben Howe, you are 
 just the strangest man that 1 ever saw. What do you sup- 
 pose I can do with a boy, when I have everything under the 
 sun to do, and nobody to help ? " 
 
 " Why, it is to help you that I have brought him home, 
 Rachel." 
 
 " Help ! yes, I '11 warrant me, such help as I get from 
 everybody that comes into this house. You brought grand- 
 mamma to help me, too, I suppose, and " 
 
 " Rachel ! " exclaimed the young man, in a tone of sorrow- 
 ful surprise. 
 
 " Not that I mind the trouble with her," resumed the wife, 
 not much abashed ; " there 's nothing that I like better than 
 waiting on grandmamma ; but you Ve no idea, Eben, of the 
 wear and tear of the slavish life I lead. Here 's the baby has 
 done nothing but cry all day long " 
 
 "Well, well, Rachel; never mind " 
 
 "Never mind! Oh, yes, that's always the way. If I 
 should kill myself, you 'd say ' never mind ! ' " 
 
 " I mean don't mind anything about the boy. I got him to 
 assist you; but if you think he would make trouble " 
 
 "Make trouble, Eben ? Why, I would rather do every 
 
ROBERT FLEMMING. 259 
 
 chore myself than have the trouble of following after a boy, 
 watching to see that things were done right, and slaving 
 myself to death to do his washing and mending." 
 
 *' Very well, Kachel, I can take him back to-morrow, when 
 I go to carry the wool to Smith's. I wish we could contrive 
 some vmy of lightening your cares, though. If you would 
 only consent to hire a girl " 
 
 "Hire! No — no; I 'm not the lazy woman you take me 
 for, Eben Howe. Hire, indeed I Why, I should have the 
 whole neighborhood laughing at me, as they do at that shift- 
 less Mrs. Wood. No; I'll work my fingers off up to the joints, 
 before I '11 have it said that Rachel Ellis set up for a lady as 
 soon as she got married, and ruined her husband by her 
 extravagance." 
 
 " Nobody would say that, Rachel. But supposing we adopt 
 a little girl, would she make as much trouble as a boy?" 
 
 " A thousand times more. I would n't bring up a girl for 
 the world." 
 
 Mr. Howe glanced at the cradle. 
 
 " One not m.y own, I mean. A girl could n't cut wood and 
 take care of the cattle when you were gone." 
 
 " And a boy could." 
 
 "Yes; and — he could look after the baby." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And help scrub floor." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " And run of all sorts of errands." 
 
 " And bring water from the spring." 
 
 "And — and — oh, a boy could do a great deal. Then I 
 could alter over your old clothes for him, and we never have 
 a scant table ; so the keeping would n't be much." 
 
 " A mere trifle. But consider the trouble to yourself, 
 Rachel." 
 
 "Why, as to that, I am pretty strong yet, and shouldn't 
 mind a little more work, if the boy was faithful and willing. 
 I hope he did n't come from a poor, miserable hut, like the 
 
i!bU ROBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 Murphys ; we never could break him of his bad habits, if he 
 did." 
 
 " The boy has been well taught, I am certain, Rachel. If 
 he had bad habits, he would be unlike " 
 
 Howe hesitated to say whom, and his wife, without noting 
 it, inquired — "What kind of a bargain have you mjide, 
 Eben?" 
 
 " If we conclude it is best, we can have him three months 
 on trial " 
 
 " Three months, and haying and harvesting all over ! 
 Why, a baby could do all the chores we shall have to do." 
 
 "Oh, that is of no great consequence " 
 
 " I tell you, Eben Howe, it is of a great deal of consequence 
 when you take any one on trial, that there should be plenty 
 of work to do, and that of the right kind." 
 
 "Yes — yes, I know it, Rachel; but if three months don't 
 satisfy us, I presume we can try him a year ; we can keep 
 him as long as we please, and send him away when we please. 
 Poor woman ! she has not the power to choose," he added, in 
 an under tone. 
 
 "Ah, that is something like. What then ?" 
 
 "Why, if we finally conclude to keep him, we are to con- 
 sider him as our own boy, treat him well " 
 
 " I hope we are not the folks to treat him ill." 
 
 " I am sure you will not, Rachel. Then we are to feed 
 and clothe him only " 
 
 " Only ! I guess you 'd not say only, if you knew what 
 that would be. He '11 wear out clothes faster than I can 
 make them, I '11 warrant, and eat as much as a man." 
 
 " So you think it will be very expensive to keep him?" 
 
 " No, not expensive exactly — no, not at all. I told you 
 that I could manage the clothing part nicely, and one mouth 
 in a family where there 's always plenty don't make much 
 diiference." 
 
 " But the trouble to you ?" 
 
 " Oh, I should n't mind it much. I suppose we can keep 
 him till he 's twenty-one ? " 
 
ROBERT FLEMMING. 261 
 
 "Yes, if he is bound." 
 
 "Well, we won't have him bound. I would n't have a 
 bound-boy about the house. He shall be free to go any miu' 
 ute he chooses ; though, to be sure, if he prove to be a good 
 boy, we will keep hitn to bring up, and do well by him, won't 
 we, Eben ? " 
 
 " That can be decided hereafter ; but there 's one more item 
 in the bargain. We are to send him to school three months 
 every year." 
 
 " To school, indeed ! And where 's the money to come 
 from, and the — and the — ? Now, Eben Howe, caw you 
 think of doing such a foolish thing as that ? Three months 
 every year ! A quarter of the time idled away, books torn 
 and money spent, and all for nothing but to keep a lazy, good- 
 for-nothing boy away from his work ! " 
 
 " I should n't like to have any one about my house that 
 could n't read." 
 
 " Mercy me, I hope not — that couldn't read the Bible! 
 We are not quite such heathen yet. But do tell what 's the 
 use of so much schooling?" 
 
 " It is no more than I hope all American boys, however 
 poor, will be able to receive, Rachel. Education, you know 
 the lecturer told us last evening, is the 'freeman's birthright.' 
 What say you, Rachel ; shall we keep him?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know as we shall do any better. Have you 
 had your supper, boy ? " 
 
 During this long dialogue, the little fellow, now for the 
 first time addressed, had stood digging with his bare toes into 
 a crack between the boards of the floor, his roguish black eye 
 fixed upon a sleepy dog that lay stretched in the corner, and 
 his fore-finger very intent on poking itself through the braids 
 of his straw hat. Thus called upon, however, he turned his 
 little round face for the first time upon Mrs. Howe, and while 
 his cherry cheek became purple, and his plump, pouting lips 
 rolled back slillfarther, very deliberately answered, " I guess 
 I shan't stay here ; I don't like to be scolded at." 
 
 " Robert ! " exclaimed Mr. Howe, in alarm — " Robert !'* 
 
262 ROBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 " Well taught, indeed ! " began his wife, in an angry, tone 
 "Well — well, Eben Howe " 
 
 " My name is n't ' Well Eben Howe,' " said the little fel- 
 low, straightening himself up and drawing down the corners 
 of his mouth, as though he had received a great insult, " my 
 name is Robert Flemming ! " 
 
 " Robert Flemming, eh ? " laughed Mrs. Howe, excited to 
 mirth, in spite of herself, by the look of offended dignity 
 which accompanied the boy's disclaimer. '^Master Robert 
 
 Flemming, I suppose we must call you, and . Bless me, 
 
 the child is eating up his OAvn hat ! Ha, ha ! " 
 
 The boy looked up into the face of the speaker, as though 
 unable to comprehend such a singular character, then, appar- 
 ently satisfied with his scrutiny, joined his clear, silvery voice 
 with hers in a very merry laugh ; and springing forward, laid 
 his curly head on the neck of the dog, and a moment after, 
 was rolling over the floor, engaged in a rare frolic with his 
 new companion. The baby, as a child nearly a year old was 
 called, hearing the racket, raised its little night-capped head 
 from the cradle, and clapped together its dimpled hands, and 
 crowed with infinite delight; while grandmamma, crippled by 
 age and rheumatism, hobbled forward and stood in the door- 
 way, joining, with her cracked, hollow voice, in the general 
 expression of mirth. Mr. Howe, too, laughed, amused at the 
 turn affairs had taken no less than by the gambols of the boy 
 and dog, till at last recollecting himself, he called Jowler 
 away, and patting Robert affectionately on the head, bade 
 him bring his bundle from the cart and sto\y it away in the 
 loft, which was to be his sleeping-place. 
 
 Robert Flemming was a beautiful boy (if health and hap- 
 piness can shed beauty on a face made up of rather irregular 
 features) of eight, possessed of his full share of animal spirits, 
 his young head overshadowed by the clouds of an unusually 
 dark fortune, but with a heart that bounded as lightly in his 
 bosom as ever heart could bound. His mother was a delicate 
 young creature, that had been made a wife before she was 
 capable of comprehending the duties and responsibilities of 
 
ROBERT FLEMMING. 263 
 
 the station : and now her loving heart was well nigh crushed 
 beneath the weight of her many cares, and she labored and wept 
 from morning till night, and all night long upon her pillow 
 strained her aching head with visionary projects that the com- 
 ing light was sure to dissipate. The father of little Robert was 
 one" of those who, perhaps as often as better men, lead to the 
 altar the gentle and pure-hearted, — a man of gross appetites 
 and feelings, devoid of that refinement which nature herself 
 grants most of her children, a slave to his passions and a 
 hopeless drunkard, 
 
 Ebenezer Howe had known Mrs. Flemming in the days 
 of childhood, and his own benevolent heart induced him to 
 relieve her of her heaviest burthen, the care of a bold-spirited 
 boy, who would soon be grown beyond her influence. Yet 
 the poor mother, notwithstanding her own destitute circum- 
 stances, had stipulated for the usual privileges allowed a boy 
 in his situation, and gained a promise that his education 
 should not be neglected. " For," said she, " he is a wild 
 boy and a careless boy, though a better heart never beat ; but 
 I don't know what the poor little fellow will come to at last. 
 I have taught him to read, myself, while I sat sewing for 
 bread ; and I would work still harder and send him to school, 
 rather than to have him grow up in ignorance." 
 
 Mr. Howe too well understood his wife's foibles to make 
 known to her the true reason of his taking a boy to " bring 
 up ;" and so he treated it as a matter of interest and conve- 
 nience merely, trusting that the child himself would soon 
 enlist her better feelings in his welfare. Mrs. Howe was not 
 ai unkind womgji as far as action was concerned, l.ut sne 
 owned a tongue that was incorrigible. Never human being 
 was so difRcult to please if the fault-finding were left to her- 
 self; and yet she was a wonderful adept at smoothing away 
 difficulties and removing even her own objections to a plan 
 when she heard them from the lips of another. Her benevo- 
 lence, which was oftentimes real and heartfelt, was subject to 
 the whimsical variations of her fitful nature ; for she was 
 always capricious and sometimes unreasonably exacting. But 
 
264 ROBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 of all good housewives Mrs. Howe was the very best. Hef t 
 
 table linen was as white as the driven snow, and her table 
 
 oh, it would have gladdened any stomach not perverted by 
 French cookery to look upon it. Then her floors (she 
 wouldn't have such a dirty thing as a carpet — not she) were 
 scrubbed with soap and sand every morning, and her chairs 
 bottomed with basket work, her pine mantelpiece and cupboard 
 slielves had entirely lost the yellow hue peculiar to the wood, 
 and vied with her carefully bleached window-curtains in 
 whiteness. Now all this could not be accomplished without 
 a vast amount of labor; and hence Mrs. Howe's cares, of 
 which her husband had spoken so feelingly. Yet no one, who 
 had once looked on the plump, rosy face and robust figure of 
 the young wife, would fail to laugh at the idea of her being 
 careworn. 
 
 Mrs. Howe soon began to love little Robert very dearly, , 
 though he kept her in constant fear by his carelessness, andl 
 every day she was heard to wonder what that boy would 1 
 come to. If he attempted to bring the castor to the table he :; 
 was sure to drop it ; the meat always got burned when he was ? 
 stationed to watch it ; the wood that he cut was either too j 
 large or made into fine splinters ; and when he milked, if the ' 
 cow neglected to set her foot in the pail, Jowler, who was everr 
 by his side in field, house or barn-yard, substituted his nose , 
 and paw, placing it in the condition of the country maid's in i 
 the spelling-book. Yet Robert was not an ungrateful lad ; 
 and when Mr. Howe talked seriously to him of his careless- 
 ness, he would make — oh, such firm resolves never, never to 
 cause his kind benefactor another moment &f trouble, that no 
 one, could those resolves have been rendered visible, would 
 have doubted his reformation. But, alas for Robert ! no 
 sooner did Jowler rub his cold nose against his hand, or little 
 Hetty crow from the cradle, than the admonitory voice of his 
 master was drowned in his own mirthful shout, and his ad- 
 monitions entirely obliterated from memory. Mrs. Howe 
 scolded and flattered by turns, now threatening to send him 
 home, again raising her hand to give him a blow, which the 
 
KOBERT FLEMMING. 265 
 
 little fellow always contrived to dodge, and at other times 
 laughing immoderately at the amusing nature of his blunders. 
 If Robert could have been spoiled, this was, of all others, the 
 
 Ivery place for doing it ; but somehow every influence over 
 him seemed powerless either to sober or corrupt his heart. 
 So it still remained a great mystery to Mrs. Howe and to Mr. 
 I Howe, and to some of the Howes' less interested neighbors, 
 I what that boy would come to at last. " There is enough in 
 
 !him" was a very common remark, " but — ."' Then followed 
 an ominous shake of the head. Certainly Robert Flemming 
 was not in a position to have his talents, if talents he had, 
 understood and developed. Perhaps it was the position which 
 t shadowed his promise. 
 
 I . What an oddity is a country newspaper ! — always retail- 
 
 i ing second-hand news that is news no longer, relating anec- 
 
 ; dotes that have been fifty times repeated, and reviving old 
 
 j worn-out tales which would otherwise go down to oblivion. 
 
 I And yet, somehow, this news is always worth hearing, these 
 
 I , anecdotes are at least as Avitty as some of the new ones, and 
 
 jr; these tales are very apt to be sensible and moral. But one 
 
 { , thing is certain — nowhere will you find better informed peo- 
 
 . ! pie — that is, those who better understand all the principal 
 
 , , movements of the day, whether political, moral or religious, 
 
 than the readers of a country newspaper. The reason may 
 
 be that they have so little else to read. At any rate, that was 
 
 why little Robert Flemming pored so untiringly over the two 
 
 sheets which weekly found their way into Mr. Howe's dwell- 
 
 ing. About the time the newspaper was expected to arrive, 
 
 ^ it was m vain that Mr. Howe issued his orders and Mrs. 
 
 Howe scolded, in vain did Jowler jump and Hetty crow. 
 
 ^ Robert responded to each, but not heartily ; Le said, " I will, 
 
 , sir," to Mr. Howe ; " Yes'em," to Mrs. Howe ; twisted Jow- 
 
 . ler's collar about his unconscious hands till the poor dog was 
 
 half choked ; cried " Bo-peep " to Hetty through his fingers 
 
 when his head was turned the other way, and, in the midst 
 
 I of the whole, darted off to the road to look for the post-boy. 
 
 ' "Well," said Mrs. Howe, one day, when this had occurred 
 
266 ROBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 at precisely the moment when she was wanting a pail of wa- 
 ter — " Well, if this is n't enough to wear out the patience of 
 Job ! I don't know what that boy will come to at last, but — ;' 
 then followed a solemn shake of the head. " He is the worst 
 boy in the neighborhood, and I can't bear any longer with 
 him, I am sure I can't. I wish all the newspapers were burnt 
 up." 
 
 " I was just thinking," was the quiet response, " that the 
 year will be out soon, and — " 
 
 " You don't think of stopping the paper ? " 
 
 " It might be well to stop it for a quarter, for Robert is get- 
 ting very troublesome, and we should neither of us like to part 
 with him just now." 
 
 " Really, Eben Howe, I should n't think that of you, after 
 your grand notions about schooling and such like things. 
 Why, do you think I would keep house without as much as 
 one paper ? It 's but little time I get to read, to be sure, such i 
 a dog's life I lead of it ; but I should be ashamed to own we 
 were such heathen as not to take a newspaper." 
 
 " Well, what shall we do, Rachel ? " 
 
 " Do ? Why, it is pretty government that you have, M 
 must say, to let a boy like that ride over you rough-shod ! I 'dl 
 tie him to the bed-post, if I could n't do anything else with i 
 him." 
 
 " I don't know of anything that would be likely to please 
 him better." 
 
 " Now, Eben, that is going a little too far. I know Rob- 
 ert's faults as well as anybody, but it can't be said that he is 
 a lazy boy. He does twice as much as Joseph Smith, and 
 Joe is four years older than he. No — no; let Robert be 
 what he may, he is industrious — I '11 say that for him." 
 
 " Yes, industrious enough when he takes the fit ; but look 
 at him now^ ;" and Mr. Howe pointed to the roadside, where 
 Robert, perched upon the fence, was eagerly unfolding his ' 
 damp paper. 
 
 This was the signal for an attack upon the boy; and his: 
 capricious mistress wheeled about as readily as was her wont 
 
ROBERT FLEMMING. 267 
 
 Robert obeyed her boisterous call, though rather hesitatingly ; 
 and, being in the midst of a spirited description of a tiger hunt, 
 he did not raise his eyes, but read as he walked slowly to the 
 house. 
 
 " Come, go to work, you good-for-nothing blockhead ! " 
 exclaimed the vixen. " Do you suppose we are to give you a 
 good home and clothe and feed you for nothing ? " 
 
 " Yes'em ! " replied Robert, mechanically ; for the tiger 
 had just turned about ready for a spring upon her pursuers, 
 and the story had become intensely interesting. 
 
 This time Robert's art as a dodger failed, or it may be that 
 ^e neglected to use it, for Mrs. Howe's hand came down cer- 
 tainly not very gently on his ear, which so surprised the ab- 
 sent-minded young gentleman that he gave a scream and a 
 leap, alighting at last upon poor Jowler's paw. The yell of 
 the dog, together with the instability of his footing, induced 
 Robert to takp another step, which brought him in contact 
 with the cradle ; and the next moment he found himself on 
 the other side, little Hetty kicking and screaming beside him, 
 and Jowler nosing about and frolicking in the midst as though 
 all this was to him rare sport. The entrance of a neighbor 
 at this juncture was like slipping from the hands of the hang- 
 man to Master Robert, for Mrs. Howe was obliged to soothe 
 the baby, and Mr. Howe to entertain the visitor. " I don't 
 know what that boy will come to yet," was all he heard as he 
 made his exit, grasping the unfortunate cause of all his diffi- 
 culties with both hands. 
 
 Robert profited wonderfully by his three months at school , 
 and Mrs. Howe felt almost a mother's pride wliile listening 
 to his praises. Yet, morning, noon and night, as regularly 
 as the recurrence of his meals, came the scolding ; so that, 
 in process of time, he became quite accustomed to it, and 
 would have felt much surprise at its omission. But notwith- 
 standing Robert gained honor in the district school, it would 
 not balance the dishonor he gained out of it ; for wasn't it he 
 that coaxed the boys away to the pond to slide, the day they 
 nil fell in and got such a wetting? — and wasn't it he that 
 
268 ROBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 lamed Squire White's pony when he made the poor, awk- 
 ward beast enact Bucephalus, to the terror as well as admira- 
 tion of the whole school ? To be sure, in the first case, he 
 risked his own life and displayed as much presence of mind 
 as ingenuity in saving his companions ; and, in the other, he 
 took untiring care of the injured limb till it was quite well 
 again. But what had that to do with the matter ? The mis- 
 chief was done, and done by Robert, and everybody wondered 
 what- that shockingly bad, hare-brained boy would come to. 
 But the worst of it was, they wondered what made Mr. Howe 
 keep him — a wonder which, since Mr. Howe himself joined 
 in it, was like to prove a serious affair to the young scape- 
 grace. To be sure, he was always contriving improvements 
 — some useful, some of them complete failures ; but what did 
 Mr. Howe want of a boy to make wind-mills, plant trees in 
 the yard, find all the boys in the neighborhood in hand-sleds 
 and balls, and ride the unbroken colt without a saddle ? Rob- 
 ert was industrious, nobody could gainsay that ; but such 
 industry ! Ha declared it was the dullest thing in the world I ; 
 to saw wood all day, unless he might be allowed to spoil the 
 saw by diversions in favor of the line of beauty, which Rob- 
 ert knew even in babyhood was not a straight line ; and pick- 
 ing stones in the meadow, when no opportunity was allowed ; 
 him for building palaces and pyramids, was an employment 
 he detested. Mr, Howe was of the opinion that boys should 
 never think of anything but what they are bidden to do; and 
 so Robert's extra services, particularly when they encroached 
 upon the time that should have been devoted to other things, 
 all went for nothing ; yet he could not bear to send the boy 
 away, for he was the best-hearted little fellow in the world, 
 and in one case, if no other, showed that he could be careful. 
 Little Hetty, no longer a baby, followed him about as con- 
 stantly as did old Jowler ; and carefully indeed, did Master 
 Robert guard her ; carefully did he lift her over the mud, 
 finding a safe spot for her tiny foot on the dry ground, or seat- t 
 ing her on the soft moss while he gathered buttercups and i 
 daisies for her ; and then he led her gently by the hand, and 1 
 
ROBERT FLEMMING. 269 
 
 pulled down the berry bushes that she might pick the fruit 
 with her own fingers, while he warned her against the thorns, 
 and drew her little red blanket about her shoulders lest she 
 should suffer from the cool air. 
 
 But the time at last arrived when Robert Flemming was to 
 take leave of his kind master and benefactor. To be sure he 
 was not twenty-one, but the farmer concluded as he had set 
 his heart on going, there was no use in detaining him, though 
 the sacrifice was much greater than he had anticipated 
 " V)\\\. it is my mind, Robert, that you had better stick to farm- 
 ing-," he remarked, shaking his head gravely ; " it is the most 
 honorable and honest of all callings, and can never disgrace 
 anybody. 
 
 Mrs. Howe thought him an ungrateful wretch, to forsake 
 
 the house that had sheltered him so many years ; talked pa- 
 
 tlictically of the unsatisfying nature of the world that he was 
 
 : going out to try, and at last concluded by a burst of tears and 
 
 ; a speech, in which were mingled so much invective, affection 
 
 and sad apprehensions for the future, that even Robert, accus- 
 
 I tomed as he was to her moods, felt confused, and could only 
 
 say, " You will get a better boy, Mrs. Howe. I have made 
 
 you a great deal of trouble." 
 
 From little Hetty, as she was still called, the parting was 
 yet more difficult. Hetty had all her mother's spirit, but the 
 disagreeable example continually before her eyes had pre- 
 vented her from displaying it in the same manner, and her 
 look of sorrowful reproach went to Robert's heart. He knew 
 how sad his little favorite would be if he left her alone, and 
 < for a moment his resolution was shaken. Why should he go 
 away from the friends that loved him dearly, that had be- 
 friended him in his worse than orphan state ? But Robert 
 . hesitated only a moment. It was no idle caprice that 
 . took him away, but there was a necessity in the case ; his 
 I future prospects, his personal independence, were involved in 
 it. So he led his little playmate to the top of the hill that 
 ' looked down upon the neighboring village, and there, prom- 
 ising that he would see her very, very often, and would 
 • 1 23* 
 
270 EGBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 always bring her something nice from the town, he kissed 
 her forehead, eyes and lips, over and over again; then, dash- 
 ing away the tears that he thought quite unmanly in a youth 
 of sixteen, he trudged steadily down the hill, not trusting 
 himself to look back, for he knew that the child would main- 
 tain her position there till he was quite out of sight. 
 
 In choosing a profession, Robert Flemming was true to his 
 early preference ; and with the flattering credentials furnished 
 him by Mr. Howe and his old schoolmaster, it was not diffi- 
 cult for him to gain admission into a printing establishment, 
 where he could read of tiger hunts and other wondrous things 
 to his heart's content. We have no inclination to follow our 
 hero through his five years of apprenticeship — not dull, oh, 
 no ; — time never hung heavily on Robert Flemming's hands; 
 but sometimes laborious, and never without its peculiar trials. 
 The indignities to which a sensitive nature is subjected by its 
 inferiors, when fortune obliges them to come in contact, are 
 not borne without an effort. But at last his term of servicei 
 expired, and then, pennyless, but by no means friendless, he'l 
 had another long probation to undergo ere he could feel him- ' 
 self quite a man among other men. But one truth had been' 
 indelibly impressed on the mind of the boy by his sensible 
 master, which many young men of promise have been ruined • 
 by not understanding. Young Flemming knew that in this 
 every-day world, few could step at once into fortune — that 
 persevering industry is the only sure ladder to preferment. 
 
 A country wedding is an affair of importance ; and when 
 it was noised throughout a certain neighborhood that " thai 
 wild boy, Robert, had returned to marry Hetty," it created as 
 great a sensation as the arrival of a foreign danseuse would 
 have produced in other circles. The young men thought the 
 handsome Miss Hester Howe, heiress to all her father's br- 1/ 
 lands, very foolish to throw herself away in such a manii . 
 the young misses pursed up their mouths, both pretty and j 
 ugly, and declared that these proud folks never made out very t 
 well, and to their minds she deserved nothing better; while 
 
ROBERT FLEMMING. 271 
 
 ^e old people all agreed that it was a " pretty risky busi 
 ness." And so it might have been, but our idler had learned 
 I something of himself, and of the responsibilities attendant 
 1 1 upon livmg ; and a change had come over his mind and hab- 
 ■ ,its. And the Howes acted with becoming independence on 
 ' the occasion — Mrs. Howe even going so far as to give some 
 I of the most impertinent of the meddlers "a piece of her 
 mind ;" and the wedding went off at last to the admiration 
 of everybody. Robert Flemming's cheerful, manly face and 
 commanding figure, did much to turn the current of public 
 opinion in his favor ; and the hearty grasp of the hand with 
 I which he met his old acquaintances, together with the polili- 
 i cal information that he furnished Squire White, who had not 
 seen the late papers, completed his conquest over their hearts. 
 Busily wagged many a tongue on the morning of the wed- 
 ding ; though, strange as it may seem, nearly everybody had 
 foreseen how matters would turn out, from the very first, par- 
 ticularly those who had thrown up their indignant hands the 
 highest, and wondered the loudest what that boy would come 
 to. 
 
 "And now you are one of us in earnest," said Mr. Howe, 
 wringing the tough hand of the bridegroom ; " and I shall be 
 almost as proud to call you my son as I should if you had 
 been a farmer." 
 
 " And I as proud to call you father as though you were a 
 king," returned the young man, warmly. 
 i "President, you mean — say president!" exclaimed old 
 Squire White, warmly, who, from having been a ^^seventy- 
 sixer" thought that kings should be classed with " other pi- 
 , rates and robbers," and never let slip an opportunity to lift up 
 his voice against them. "It 's a shame for American boys to 
 ,be talking after this sort of the oppressor who sets his heel 
 
 ;on " 
 
 " But presidents and presidents' sons should n't be proud, 
 jyou know; that would be anti-republican," interrupted Robert 
 . Flemming, good-hum ore dly, " and so the comparison would n't 
 ,be in point." 
 
272 ROBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 " Proud! — no, no, that they shouldn't," muttered the old 
 man, wiiile Robert turned again to his father-in-law. 
 
 " It shall be the study of my life to repay the kindness 
 shown to an untaught, friendless boy, who, without you " 
 
 " Would have done well, Robert; I see it, I know it now, 
 though there was a time when I used to have my fears of 
 what you would come to at last." 
 
 "Now, Eben Howe, do get out of the way!" exclaimed 
 a shrill voice close at hand; "how can the dear boy speak 
 to his mother while you stand mumbling and fumbling at this 
 rate, owning yourself the half-hearted man that you are, never 
 seeing an inch ahead. It is well that everybody was n't so 
 blind Robert, or else " The old lady finished the sen- 
 tence by a knowing glance towards the bevy of peony- 
 cheeked damsels surrounding her daughter. "And yet 
 here you stand talking with all the old men, and shaking ; 
 hands with everybody, as though you had n't a word for your 
 mother." 
 
 "My mother truly — doubly so!" said the young maniiij 
 imprinting a hearty kiss upon the cheek, which, although 
 somewhat withered, now glowed with the excitement of the 
 moment; "and the very kindest of mothers have you been to 
 me, from the moment of my frolic with Jowler (poor old Jow-. 
 ler! it seemed like losing a human friend when he died) uf j 
 to the present time." 
 
 "Ay — ay, so you say; but it is little you act as though 
 you thought you had ever received the least kindness from 
 the poor creature you have come to. rob of all she ever had 
 to love." 
 
 The raised tone of voice could not fail to reach the ears of 
 the bride, and such an entreating look ! It might have meltec 
 a sterner heart than Mrs. Howe's — that is, if stern hearfc 
 were furnished with eyes to see it with. 
 
 " I have certainly caused you no small degree of trouble,' 
 Robert Flemming began, but he was interrupted. I 
 
 "No — no, you never made any trouble, Robert, not the 
 
ROBERT FLEMMING- 273 
 
 least ; but I do think you might just come and live with us on 
 
 1 he farm, where there 's thousands to support us all " 
 
 \ ' " Mother — mother," whispered the bride, touching her arm 
 vith a finger all in a quiver, " mother, don't ; everybody is 
 learing you ; don't, I entreat ! " 
 
 " And what if everybody is hearing me ? What have I 
 said to be ashamed of? I say there 's thousands for us all, 
 ind it 's a shame, and a sin, and a disgrace, for Robert 
 
 Plemming " 
 
 " But, mother dear, that has been all settled, you know," 
 ; igain interposed the bride, in a tremulous whisper. 
 '■ " Yes, I know it has been all settled; but who settled it, 
 ' ffetly Howe — Mistress Hetty Flemming, as I suppose 1 
 
 Ijnust say after this — who settled it, and " 
 
 I! "We will unsettle it, Rachel," said Mr. Howe, with a 
 I fe[lance which added, " What a pity nobody but me knows 
 fciow to manage her ! " — " we will unsettle it, and Robert shall 
 ;.ive with us willy nilbj." 
 
 ! " Shall ! you don't mean shall, I hope ? Robert has always 
 had his own way, and I 'm the last one to interfere with his 
 doings, though he does take the heart out of me and leave 
 
 the old house desolate. It is a sad thing — a sad , 
 
 There, the very papers of cake I had put up for the Thomp- 
 sons ! I never ! The idea of Becky's bringing such a troop 
 :jf children with her ! " 
 I 
 
 Year on year had passed, and each, as is the custom with 
 years, left a token ; a great one with the great, and a simpler 
 one with the lowly. Even old Time is an aristocrat. A 
 church, a new school-house, and a cluster of dwelling-houses 
 had been erected in the neighborhood of Mr. Howe ; while 
 another Robert Flemming, as roguish, as heedless, and as 
 fond of newspapers as the first, had grown almost as tall as 
 his father, and so undertaken the management of his grand- 
 father's farm. Everything was changed. Even a new gen- 
 eration of beings had sprung up around the old farmer and 
 his still wrangling but kind-hearted spouse. 
 
274 ROBERT FLEMMING. 
 
 It was a bitingly cold night. Ugh ! what a shiver the 
 swinging of a door sent over pleasant fire-lit rooms ! how 
 thankful thinking people were for the roof that reflected back 
 the blaze upon them ! But the fireside, lavishly comfortable 
 as it was, was not all powerful. Affairs of importance 
 were to be discussed, and so all the men in the neighborhood 
 were collected in the school-house. A thin-faced man had 
 taken the chair, and a fair-haired one beside him was about 
 unfolding a paper, probably fraught Avith weighty matters, 
 when the do^ opened, and in hobbled old Squire White. 
 He held in his hand a crushed newspaper, his long, silvay 
 hair, which was usually braided over his bald crown, was 
 straggling about his shoulders and floating ofT on every puff 
 of air ; his spectacles were across his forehead instead of his 
 nose, and the Sunday hat of his grandson was stuck jauntily 
 (as hats too small must be) on one side of his head. 
 
 " Hurrah, boys ! " exclaimed the old man, tottering towards;- 
 the middle of the room, and flourishing his cane with an arm 
 not yet quite nerveless ; " returns from all the principal coun-; 
 ties, and the 'lection is sartin. Three cheers for Robert 
 Flemming, the best governor that ever set foot in York state. 
 The blood of 76 is a-stirring yet, I can tell ye, boys ! Why 
 don't ye shout ? Hurra — a — a ! " and as the successive 
 peals died away, the old man raised his palsied hands and 
 exclaimed, "Well, the ways of Providence are marvellous! 
 Who would have thought when little Bobby Flemming lamed 
 my pony, that he would ever come to this ? " 
 
 It is possible that some knowing politician may attempt tc 
 dispute the accuracy of my veritable history ; but I defy his 
 ingenuity, except with regard to the name of Robert Flem- 
 ming. There I will plead guilty to romancing, it being only 
 a veil hung by the hand of propriety over one as widely 
 known and dearly loved as any on whom the Erppire state 
 has ever bestowed her honors. y 
 
276 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 [written after a short absence.] 
 
 Give me my old seat, mother, 
 
 With my head upon thy knee ; 
 I 've passed through many a changing scene 
 
 Since thus I sat by thee. 
 Oh ! let me look into thine eyes — 
 
 Their meek, soft, loving light 
 Falls like a gleam of holiness 
 
 Upon my heart to-night. 
 
 I 've not been long away, mother , 
 
 Few suns have rose and set, 
 Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek 
 
 My lips in kisses met ; 
 'Tis but a httle time, I know, 
 
 But very long it seems. 
 Though every night I came to thee, 
 
 Dear mother, in my dreams. 
 
 The world has kindly dealt, mother, 
 
 By the child thou lov'st so well ; 
 Thy prayers have circled round her path, 
 
 And 't was their holy spell 
 Which made that path so dearly bright, 
 
 Which strewed the roses there ; 
 Which gave the light, and cast the balm 
 
 On every breath of air. 
 
 I bear a happy heart, mother ; 
 
 A happier never beat ; 
 And even now new buds of hope 
 
 Are bursting at my feet. 
 
276 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Oh, mother ! life may be " a dream,"' 
 But if such dreams are given, 
 
 While at the portal thus we stand, 
 What are the truths of heaven ? 
 
 I bear a happy heart, mother ; 
 
 Yet, when fond eyes I see. 
 And hear soft tones and winning words, 
 
 I ever think of thee. 
 And then, the tear my spirit weeps 
 
 Unbidden fills my eye ; 
 And like a homeless dove, I long 
 
 Unto thy breast to fly. 
 
 Then, I am very sad, mother, 
 
 I 'm very sad and lone ; 
 Oh I there 's no heart, whose inmost fold 
 
 Opes to me like thine own ! 
 Though sunny smiles wreathe blooming lips, 
 
 While love-tones meet my ear ; 
 My mother, one fond glance of thine 
 
 Were thousand times more dear. 
 
 Then, with a closer clasp, mother, . 
 
 Now hold me to thy heart ; 
 I 'd feel it beating 'gainst my own 
 
 Once more before we part. 
 And, mother, to this love-lit spot, 
 
 When I am far away, 
 Come oft — too oft thou canst not come . — 
 
 And for thy darling pray. 
 
 1 
 
277 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 The spring-time is coming-, the merry-voiced spring ! 
 
 Young beauty awakes, with the wave of her wing; 
 
 And the bright heavens ringing with music and mirth, 
 
 From hill, vale, and woodland, are echoed by earth. 
 
 The spring-time ! the spring-time I there come with the word 
 
 The dash of the glad rain, the voice of the bird, 
 
 The gushing of streamlets, the swelling of floods, 
 
 The springing of verdure, and bursting of buds. 
 
 The bright spring is coming! 1 feel even now 
 
 The spirit-like touch of her breath on my brow ; 
 
 Her varied light streams over '-alley and hill. 
 
 And breaks in gay flashes from fountain and rill. 
 
 But the flashing of eyes, with more beautiful light. 
 
 And the streaming of tresses, as golden and bright, 
 
 Are missed from the hearth-stone, are missed from the hall, 
 
 Nor come with the blossoms of spring at her call. 
 
 And she glads not the mourner, whose treasure is crashed, 
 And laid where the song and the laughter are hushed. 
 Though golden-eyed mosses their rich mantle spread, 
 And flower-censers swing o'er the grave of the dead. 
 Nor glads she the captive, for in his lone cell; 
 Waits hollow-eyed woe, the slow moments to tell j 
 And the exile's foot falters, as memory weaves 
 Fond tales with the spreading of wings and of leaves. 
 
 Oh ! there are full many that may not be glad ! 
 Want's children are haggard, sin's worshippers mad ; 
 Lips bright as the fruit-buds are steeped in despair, 
 And foot-falls like fairies' grow heavy with care ; 
 24 
 
278 A WISH. 10 AN mPANT. 
 
 And even gay spirits, that welcome the spring, 
 As they move in the sunlight, a dark shadow fling ; 
 Glad, glad are they now, — with the weeper they'll weep; 
 Life bounds in each pulse, — with the sleeper they'll sleep. 
 
 A WISH 
 
 'T IS beautiful ! 't is beautiful ! 
 
 That soft, rich, half-veiled light, 
 Flung by the beams which warmed the day, 
 
 Upon the brow of night. 
 
 So when life's golden day shall close, 
 
 And on my mother's breast 
 I slumbering lie, may love still smile 
 
 Upon my shadowy rest. 
 
 TO AN INFANT. 
 
 The glittering wing, that a leaf might crush, 
 A silvery voice, that a breath might hush, 
 A dew-drop, quivering on a flower, 
 The flickering blush of the sunset hour, 
 The chain of pearls round the brow of night. 
 That melts and is lost in the morning light, — 
 All things gentle, pure and free, 
 And fragile, are but types of thee. 
 
279 
 
 THE OLD MAN. -A FACT. 
 
 The old dry leaf came circling down, 
 
 On a windy autumn day, — 
 The leaf all sere, and glazed, and brown, - 
 
 On the bleak, bare hill to play ; 
 And the sky put on its drearest frown 
 
 On that windy autumn day. 
 
 The hea\y clouds went drifting by, 
 
 As gray as gray could be. 
 And not a speck of azure sky 
 
 Could the crime-chased wanderer see ; 
 That dark stern man, low crouching by 
 
 The gnarled old oak tree. 
 
 But drearer grew the inky sky. 
 
 As daylight fled away ; 
 And the winds more madly hurried by, 
 
 As if they dared not stay : 
 Howling afar and shrieking nigh, 
 
 In wild unearthly play. 
 
 Then the old man shook his hoary head. 
 
 As on his staff leaned he ; 
 For the sky above with blood seemed red, 
 
 And the earth a bloody sea ; 
 And on him crimson drops were shed 
 
 From the boughs of the old oak tree. 
 
 Then the old man laughed a horrid laugh, 
 
 And shook his head again ; 
 And clenching fast his crooked staff, 
 
 He hurried toward the plain ; 
 And the hills rung back his hellish laugh, 
 
 And the wild winds laujjhed amain. 
 
THE OLD MAJNf. 
 
 On, on he strode, but still there rung 
 
 Those echoes from the hiU ; 
 And livid clouds above him hung, 
 
 And forms, his blood to chill. 
 High o'er his head in mid-air swung, 
 
 And all were laughing still. 
 
 The old man noted not his way. 
 For his heart grew cold with fear ; 
 
 Grim thoughts, that dare not meet the day, 
 Were muttered in his ear, 
 
 And his flying feet seemed yet to stay 
 Those fearful things to hear. 
 
 He had trod that self-same path before, 
 
 Ere evening, when he fled 
 A mangled form all bathed in gore, 
 
 And to the hill-side sped ; 
 And now, at mid-night, met once more 
 
 The murderer and his dead. 
 
 Hushed were the winds, the clouds rolled back, 
 
 And on that lonely dell. 
 Revealing full a blood-marked track, 
 
 The cold, pale starlight fell; — 
 Ah ! light the old man did not lack, 
 
 His handiwork to tell. 
 
 He had loved full long and well the youth, 
 
 In cold, dumb quiet lain; 
 But what to him were love and truth, 
 
 For bitter words and vain 
 Had passed that day, and now, in sooth, 
 
 He ne'er might love again. 
 
 Morn came ; and on one fearful bed. 
 
 In that dark, lonely wild. 
 With sere brown leaves of autumn spread. 
 
 The sun looked down and smiled ; 
 Smiled, though there lay stiff", cold, and dead, 
 
 The old man and his child. 
 
GRANDFATHER. 
 
 The old man's eyes are dim and cold ; 
 
 His pulse beats fitfully and low; 
 He whispers oft, " I 'm old — I 'm old ! " 
 
 And brokenly the sad words flow ; 
 But, like the troubles of a child, 
 The old man's griefs are all beguiled. 
 
 The hair above his wrinkled brow 
 Is braided like a wreath of snow ; 
 
 Years have not made his shoulders bow. 
 But his worn foot is weak and slow; 
 
 And totteringly the old man moves 
 
 Among the things his fond heart loves. 
 
 His boyish feats are o'er and o'er 
 In pride recounted every day ; 
 
 And then he sighs that all who bore 
 A share, have mouldered back to clay ; 
 
 A tear just wets his eyelid's rim. 
 
 Making the pale eye still more dim. 
 
 But soon another memory wakes, 
 
 Of prank wild, mischievous, and bold ; 
 
 His trembling voice in mirth oft breaks, 
 While merrily the tale is told ; 
 
 And then he laughs, long, loud, and free. 
 
 And claps his withered hands in glee. 
 
 But tales of darker, sterner days, 
 
 The old man loves the best to tell, — 
 
 The rumor wild, the dumb amaze. 
 The struggling bosom's fitful swell, 
 
 24* 
 
GRANDFATHER. 
 
 While Liberty was yet in bud, 
 
 And e'en the bravest shrunk from blood. 
 
 The rude old church within the wood 
 Must in his rambling tale have share ; 
 
 He tells how one blithe day he stood 
 Within that solemn place of prayer, 
 
 When with a scroll a stranger came. 
 
 Which turned the latent fire to flame. 
 
 How throbbed the pulse ! how leaped the heart ! 
 
 How flashed the valor-lighted eye ! 
 What tears from close-shut lids would start, 
 
 Though maiden pride suppressed the sigh ! 
 How many a cheek forgot its glow, 
 And many a voice was choked with woe ! 
 
 Now hastes the old man in his story, 
 
 Thick-coming memories on him crowd,— 
 
 The proud array, the battle gory. 
 The buried chieftain's starry shroud, 
 
 The midnight march, the ambush sly, 
 
 The savage yell and victim's cry. 
 
 The deed of daring proud, the word — 
 Here soaring memory stays her wing ; 
 
 Some melody within is stirred. 
 
 And tears are trembling on the string ; 
 
 For dearer meed the brave ne'er won, 
 
 Than praise from lips of Washington. 
 
 Around the things of later years 
 
 A veil of shadowy mist is cast ; 
 The clearest, deepest voice he hears, 
 
 Steals upward from the distant past ; 
 And as the lengthening vista grows, 
 Each far-off vision brighter glows. 
 
GRANDFATHER. 283 
 
 He 's going downward to the grave, 
 The good, the kind, the dear old man; 
 
 A worn bark drifting on the wave. 
 
 Which the soft breeze, that comes to fan, 
 
 May wreck, while other vessels lie. 
 
 With canvass spread, scarce rocking, nigh. 
 
 He 's going downward to the grave. 
 Yet bears a palm-branch in his hand ; 
 
 Pauses his standard high to wave. 
 
 Ere treading on the blood-bought strand; — 
 
 Ah ! church and hearth will mourn thy loss. 
 
 Thou brave old soldier of the cross ! 
 
 I love that dear, kind, wrinkled brow ; 
 
 I love the dim and faded eye ; 
 I love to see the calm saint bow. 
 
 With those he loves all kneeling by ; 
 For some strange power must sure be given 
 To prayers breathed on the verge of heaven. 
 
284 
 
 THE DYING EXILE. 
 
 The forms of those I love ! 
 
 They throng around me now; 
 And my mother's soothing hand 
 
 Rests on my aching brow ; 
 Her face is o'er me bending, 
 
 And, again a boy, I lie 
 In the dear moss-mantled cottage, 
 
 To the gray old forest nigh. 
 
 My brother's bounding step, 
 
 And thrilling shout of glee. 
 My father's eye of pride, 
 
 As he turns from him to me ; 
 My sister's clustering ringlets. 
 
 And the love-light on her brow ; — 
 Oh the loved, the loved of childhood . 
 
 They are all before me now. 
 
 Soft, soft the dewy lips 
 
 To my fevered lips now pressed ; 
 And melting are the meek eyes 
 
 That on me fondly rest ; 
 Oh, musical the voices 
 
 That float about my bed, 
 And my mother's hand is resting 
 
 Upon my aching head. 
 
 And now the vision wanes ; 
 
 Strange faces meet my eye, 
 And careless voices say 
 
 That my hour has come to die, 
 
THE DyiNG EXILE. 
 
 Where lofty palm-trees cluster, 
 Or long bright trailers wave, 
 
 Or where the orange blossoms. 
 They will dig the stranger's grave. 
 
 Then, when the white snows rest, 
 
 Far, on a frozen plain. 
 Love will a footstep wait 
 
 That shall never come again. 
 But fond feet hurry after. 
 
 And the voices that I love, 
 WTien they call, shall have an answer 
 
 From the exile's home above. 
 
 END OF VOL. L 
 
A L D E li B R K 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 FANNY FORESTER' 
 
 [LLAGE SKETCHES, POEMS, ETC 
 
 MISS EMILY CHU13BUCK 
 
 IS TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. n. 
 
 E L K V K :,- T II EDIT] O j\ . 
 REVISED, WITH AUDITIOX.S 
 
 • BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 M DCCC LVI. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 
 
 WILLIAM D. TICKNOR AND COMPANY, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts, 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF THE SECOND VOLUME 
 
 The Uncsefpl, 5 
 
 Nora Maylie, 15 
 
 Grandfather Bray, 35 
 
 Sonnet to Winter, 49 
 
 " Lights and Shades, 49 
 
 " The Buds of the Saranac, 50 
 
 Born to wear a Coronet, 51 
 
 "WlLLARD LaWSON, 63 
 
 A Case of Lunacy not uncommon, 85 
 
 The Great March Holyday, 94 
 
 Not a Poet, 107 
 
 Two Nights in the " Nieuw Nederlandts," 109 
 
 Lucy Button, 121 
 
 Mystery, 128 
 
 The Priest's Soliloquy, 130 
 
 Altnt Alice, 133 
 
 My First Grief, 136 
 
 The Mignionette, (A Fable,) 138 
 
 Ministering Angels., 141 
 
 The Rain a Thought-maker, 143 
 
 GiiiNius, 152 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 LiiiAs Fane, 
 
 The Two Flowkhs, 
 
 Kill jJafflks, 
 
 Tub French Emujkants, 
 
 Ipa Ravelin, (A Fantasy,) .... 
 
 To SrKi.wj, .... 
 
 TuK Poetess, (An Allegory,) . . . 
 
 Poka', 
 
 The Angel's Pilgrimage, 
 
 The Dissatisfied Spirit, 
 
 To .MT Father, 
 
 Fakuwell to Alperbrook, .... 
 
ALDERBROOK. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 THf: UNUSEFUL. 
 
 Man i.s a born equestrian ; and from the time when mother 
 n.xed her anxious heart on improving her condition, and 
 d a world at a single bound, to this present writing, he 
 ."^iver lacked a hobby whereon to exercise to his heart's 
 it. And it is no tame, gentle exercise ; for, whatever 
 obby may be, and whether well-mounted or otherwi.se, 
 • only rides tantivy, but hesitates not to " run through a 
 cop and leap over a wall." We have innumerable hobbies 
 -a-days; and many of them (to our credit be it said) are 
 an excellent character. But, poor things I they are ridden 
 wn most savagely. 
 
 You may have seen, among these poor, jaded, spavined, 
 nd-galled, would-be-racers of beasts of burden, a huge mam- 
 moth, with a back like a continent, and legs like those of "Mark 
 Antony in Cleopatra's dream. This is a universal holly that 
 men have named Usefclxess ; and such strong claims has it 
 to 'he suffrages of alLbut the butterflies, that whoever eschews 
 ving of the idler, must needs accept a seat. There is no 
 irn, no spot of terra firma on which we may stand and 
 la!x>r in quiet, sober earnest ; one must either flutter in the air 
 a giddy thing, or gallop away almost as madly on the back of 
 -this irresistible hobby. But we do, verily, constitute a goodly 
 array; and so uncompromisingly do we ride down everv- 
 thing that is elegant and beautiful, and indolently lovely, that 
 VOL. u. 1* 
 
THE UNUSEFTJL. 
 
 we are even in danger of doubting the wisdom of tKe Deity 
 in placing those soft, sun-draped, luxuriously lazy clouds in 
 the summer heavens ; in scattering the idle, balm-breathing 
 flowers so profusely by the way-side ; and in sending out the 
 play-loving zephyrs to dally through the live-long day with 
 every bud that has a lip to kiss, and every light-poised leaf 
 that palpitates at its sly whispers, like a lady's boddice at the 
 first word that takes its course from the tip of a lover's tongue | 
 into her heart. Yet, our hobby is a most noble beast origin- 
 ally. What a great pity that it should be made so stupidly 
 ungainly by its mad riders ! A finer animal never lost its at- 
 tractiveness by man's re-moulding; and while most of us jolt ! 
 along upon the back of our spoiled hobby, we leave its spirit 
 to the quiet, unassuming ones who close one hand to the I 
 labors of the other. What can be more beautiful than Usi:- 
 FULNEss — the great object of our present existence? What 
 more repulsive than the deformed images to which each, ac- 
 cording to his particular fancy, gives the name ?. So many a 
 person, giving up the world to the ultraists, who are sent to 
 occupy one of the " human extremes," preserves the spirit in 
 its purity, and is most unusefully useful. 
 
 Of a character somewhat resembling this, was my friend 
 Nora Maylie ; though I think that in its formation nature had 
 more to do than principle. To estimate things properly and 
 reasonably requires both maturity of judgment and indepen- 
 dence of thought. 
 
 Nora Maylie must have been born under an unpromising 
 star, for in infancy she was fair, fat, and good-natured ; with- 
 out any of that unwelcome vivacity, so illustrative of perpet- 
 ual motion ; but Avith a very knowing bok upon her baby 
 features, that told you, at once, the repose of her manner 
 sprang not from a lack of good sense ; at least enough of it 
 to place her on a par with other babies. This sensible look 
 was Nora's curse, for it gave her a preeminence over her 
 sisters ; and, in proportion to her height was the number of 
 stones cast at her. It was at once decided that she was bom 
 to a high destiny ; and so she waddled oflf to school as soon 
 
THE UNUSEFUL. 7 
 
 I as her chubby little feet would bear her weight. But physi- 
 I ognomical promises are deceitful, Nora was not a particu- 
 I larly playful child, and very far from being mischievous ; but 
 
 yet, all through two golden summers of her school-life, she 
 I took her daily course from a to zed, without once dreaming 
 
 but her whole duty consisted in echoing back, with her own 
 
 pretty lisp, each letter as it was pronounced for her. 
 '. Nora Maylic was the youngest of five daughters, all 'pro- 
 • fessional women, and notedly, eminently iLseful. I will not 
 I say that Rachel, the eldest, could make a nice dish of tea, or 
 
 prepare a delicious jelly for a fevered lip ; but she could make 
 I dresses superbly. She was perfect in her art. Not that she 
 ! was obliged to make dresses — by no means ! Old farmer 
 i Maylie had enough in scrip and granary for his family, with 
 i now and then a bit to keep the poor around him from a sur- 
 j feit of want ; but that made no difference. Mrs. Maylie 
 1 hated, not idleness merely, but a tendency to dwell on the 
 I minutiae of life, in preference to taking that decided stand 
 i indicative of a looman of character. She was herself a nota- 
 I ble housewife ; and she had always privately regretted that 
 
 she could boast no higher excellence. She would have liked 
 , well to figure more largely than was now in her power — for, 
 I on account of the exclusively domestic character of her edu- 
 ; cation, the office of directress in a sewing society was the 
 . highest that she had ever been able to assume. She was a 
 
 sensible woman, hoAvever, and not only wisely kept her 
 
 chagrin to herself, but when she saw that Matilda, her second 
 . daughter, evinced a fondness for such vain pursuits as dress- 
 . ing dolls, and painting paper flowers with sorrel-leaves and 
 
 Indian strawberries, she at once decided that the child had a 
 ' great genius in the millinery line. Susan and Marj'- had a 
 I predilection for intellectuality, and took to books as readily 
 ; and naturally as ducks take to the genial pool while yet in 
 ■ pen-feathers; and so, of course, they must be teachers — 
 
 school-teachers — the most useful of all the multitudes of 
 
 I useful people the world contains. But little Nora, (Mrs. 
 
 Maylie's diminutive for Eleanora,) as I have said, was an 
 
THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 anomaly. At four, she took patch-work to school ; but poo 
 Nora ! she could n't see into the philosophy of over-and-ove 
 seams. She would rather spread the pretty calicoes on he: 
 knee, and admire their bright coloring, or twist them up int( 
 dolls with paper heads, and closely -pinned drapery. Ther 
 she was particularly given to losing thimbles, and knotting 
 thread ; and her needle, however clumsy, was always bent oi 
 broken at the point, — the legitimate result of her devotion tc 
 badly cracked hickory nuts. And then such stitches ! Why 
 the little girls laughed till the tears came into their eyes from 
 very merriment at the sight ; but when they saw the big drops 
 standing in hers, they all patted her velvet cheeks lovingly, 
 and smoothed her hanging hair ; and if they found her incon- 
 solable, made a chair with their crossed hands and bore her 
 away in triumph to the play-ground. In their wise, confiden- 
 tial talks, they used to say that Nora Maylie was just the 
 dearest little creature in the world, but it was a great pity she 
 could not sew. As some compensation for my little friend's 
 deficiencies, I should like to be able to say that she was a good 
 scholar ; but no assertion could have less truth in it, — she 
 was just no scholar at all. And yet I am not certain but a 
 careful observer of human nature, even though less shrewd 
 than the worldly-minded mother, might have detected, in this 
 very backwardness, this refusal to trammel the mind with 
 that which seemed in no wise calculated to enrich it, the 
 germ of a higher order of intellect than common minds ap- 
 preciate. As it was, however, there was no one near to raise 
 the one. fold of ignorance from the beautifying soul beneath ; 
 and so Nora was judged by her non-attainments. How heart- 
 ily she hated the monotonous a, b, c, and the smart, flippant 
 a b ab, e b eb, i b ib, that made her companions' tongues re- 
 semble so many mill-clappers. When, by dint of constant 
 dinging, she could make out the words of a few easy sen- 
 tences, such as "no — man — may — put — off — the — law — 
 of — God," she still evinced the same dead level of intellect, 
 and hated her books, and hated (as poor Mrs. Maylie often 
 despairingly observed) everything that was useful. But Nora 
 
THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 , yid not hate to follow her mother through the routine of her 
 , lay's labor ; to run for the spoon or carving-knife when it 
 , .vas wanted, and anticipate the thousand little Avants that 
 . occasion a careful housewife so many steps. She learned 
 . .his readily, for her heart was her teacher. Neither did she 
 .late tlie arrant idlers of which I have before spoken : the dal- 
 .ying breezes, the sleepy flowers, the chatty brooks, and the 
 ilow-sailing clouds. Oh no ! they were too like her dear 
 jttle self, too natural and graceful, ay ! and too idle withal, 
 ;o be anything but friends to their free and careless playmate. 
 Oh ! Nora ! Nora ! thou wert a sore trial to thy poor mother's 
 heart ! but what a pity that our first mother could not have 
 remained contented in her ignorance — then we might all 
 have been like thee. Dear, darling Nora ! We cannot re- 
 spect thee, as the dictionaries define respect, but we can talce 
 thee to our hearts and hold thee there forever. 
 I Years passed, and Nora had seen a dozen summers. She 
 [had retrieved her character at school, in a degree, but yet she 
 had never mastered the multiplication table. Every word of 
 a little book of fairy tales, the daily object of Mrs. Maylie's 
 animadversions, was as familiar to her as the robin's song 
 trilled forth every morning beneath her window, or the splash 
 of the spotted trout, that made its home in the brook at the 
 hill's foot ; Watts' dear, delightful children's melodies, from 
 " How doth the little busy bee," to the end of the catalogue 
 were on her tongue's tip, to say nothing of the " Children of 
 the Wood," and other ballads, for whose loss no modern rhym- 
 ster can compensate ; but Nora could not repeat a rule from 
 Lindley Murray. When not engaged in homely acts of love 
 whhin doors, she would wander from field to field, through 
 meadow and copse, over hills and into deep, solemn dingles, 
 until the tangled masses of hair shaded her face like a veil 
 woven of golden threads, and her joyous eyes looked out 
 wonderingly from their sunny ambush, like two renegade 
 stars that had leaped from their azure mounting and set up 
 for themselves in the amber shades of an October wilderness 
 There she would lie, hours, beneath a shady tree, her straw 
 
10 
 
 THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 bonnet by her side, wild flowers scattered aroand her, and a 
 bar of sunlight resting on her feet, gazing into the sky with 
 those large chamelion eyes all bathed in light, and with an 
 intensity belonging only to idle dreamers like herself. 
 
 Time still went on, and Nora was obliged, like her sisters, 
 to choose a profession. She said she did not care'; they 
 might bind her to whatever they chose ; though she intimated 
 that if they could provide her with a little spade and a little 
 hoe, she should by all means prefer horticulture. Such an 
 enchanting spot as she would make of the old kitchen-garden ! 
 The beans, and cabbages, and onions should be uprooted at 
 once. The peas might remain — though she would have all 
 sweetpeas — but all the other Aveeds should give place to the 
 beautiful violets, and tiarellas, and fringe-wort that she would 
 bring from the woods. And Nora Maylie really grew ani- 
 mated at her own foolish plans. 
 
 If truth must be told, Mrs. Maylie was more troubled 
 about the perverseness of her youngest daughter than if it 
 had been any of the others ; for never had a mother's ambition 
 a more beautiful corner-stone for the erection of its castles 
 than this. She had first conceived Nora to be a genius, but 
 she had waited long and vainly for what she considered 
 genius-like developments. Nora was unambitious and unas- 
 suming, and all the puffing and pushing in the world could 
 not make her other than what she was. Disappointed in her 
 first hopes, Mrs. Maylie had set her heart on making a teacher 
 of Nora, but alas ! Nora's head was not of the right stuff. 
 She loved books dearly, but such books ! Why there was not, 
 if we allow Mrs. Maylie to be the judge, a useful one among 
 them all ! She revelled in the enchanting luxuries of literary 
 flower-gatherers : they were the mirrors to reflect her own 
 heart, and the glorious world about her, and her own imag- 
 inings. But what science for a school-teacher ! Mrs. Maylie 
 was in a dilemma. She hesitated a while, and then, with 
 praiseworthy decision, seized it by the only horn to hang a 
 hope upon. It was decided that Nora Maylie, in view of her 
 tastefulness and lack of intellectuality, should be a milliner; 
 
THE UNUSKFUL. 11 
 
 and she was forthwith sent to her sister's shop. Matilda was 
 an accomplished business-woman, giving a sharp eye to all 
 the ways and means of trade, and she perceived at once that 
 the beautiful face of her young sister would be a great orna- 
 ment to her front shop. Nora was, therefore, placed by the 
 side of the forewoman, for the express purpose of fascinating 
 customers ; but human calculations are often fallacious. I 
 have intimated before (or, if I have not, I should have done 
 so) that my friend Nova had an unusual share of artless good- 
 nature, kind consideration for everybody except herself, of 
 whom she never thought a moment ; and hence she was ill- 
 fitted for the sphere in which she seemed destined to act. 
 The very first day of her appearance as a tradeswoman, she 
 was foolish enough to tell a sallow-complexioned lady that a 
 pea-green hat, which she was on the point of purchasing, was 
 unbecoming; and so the sale was lost. Another bonnet 
 she thought too heavily laden with ornaments, and so the 
 purchaser ordered a large cluster of artificial flowers, on 
 which Matilda had resolved to speculate a little, taken from 
 the crown. Matilda expostulated and reasoned, but as the 
 simple sister only opened wide her beautiful eyes in astonish- 
 ment, and seemed utterly incapable of appreciating the argu- 
 ments, and, moreover, as a week's trial gave no symptoms 
 of reformation, she was removed to the back shop. But here 
 it was but little better; for though she knotted ribands and 
 arranged flowers with exquisite taste, she had a way of soft- 
 ening the drudgery of the business, not at all pleasing to an 
 inhabitant of Dollar-land. If she had been satisfied to play 
 the idler herself, it might have been endured ; but Nora could 
 not bear to see those half-dozen necks bent with painful im- 
 movableness over bits of silk and stiffened muslin ; and those 
 eight times half-dozen fingers ply, ply, plying the needle con- 
 stantly, as though the whole of existence was comprised within 
 the contracted space enclosed by those four walls. And so 
 she bewildered the tittle coterie with the things she had seen 
 in her dreams ; the rounded periods falling from her bulbous 
 lips slowly and with a dc'icious quietude that bewitched while 
 
12 THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 It lulled the senses. There was an interested uplifting of eye- 
 brows, and a relaxing of fingers when she spoke ; and smiles 
 became more frequent and stitches less, until the detrimental 
 influence of the unuseful sister became strUfingly apparent. 
 The prudent Matilda again resorted to argument; but as 
 Nora's strange obtuseness on these subjects seemed uncon- 
 conquerable, she was, at last, obliged to discharge her thought- 
 less apprentice to save her establishment from ruin. Poor 
 Nor,j she was deeply pained at the distress her friends 
 evmced on her account; and she begged to be taken home, 
 promising to do anything and everything there, that should 
 be required of her. But this, as has been already seen, was 
 no part of Mrs. Maylie's plan. She had disposed of all her 
 daughters as she desired, and if she had manoeuvred less than 
 mammas who seek for a life-establishment, she did not take 
 to herself less credit for her successful management. But in 
 the case of her youngest daughter she had entirely failed. 
 She had resolved to make Nora a star, but Nora would not 
 shine. Indeed, it would have been impossible to make her 
 think about herself long enough to know whether she shone 
 or not ; and the idea of supporting a character, even for five 
 minutes, Avould have been oppressive to her. Slowly she 
 moved about the large, old farm-house, with a step as noise- 
 less as 
 
 " That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 
 Whom mortals call the moon," 
 
 cheerful, and Icind, and loving ; but as characterless as the 
 pe'.-lamb which she led about the garden by its grass-woven 
 c:;...ar. Yet rare beauties, rare for such beauty-scorning peo- 
 ple as the Maylies, sprang up beneath her touch wherever she 
 turned. Her very presence seemed to infuse into everything 
 about her a calm, quiet loveliness ; and there was a soft re- 
 pose in her manner, that made her ii. fluence felt by the most 
 bustling of the working-bees in that busiest of all busy hives* 
 Even Mrs. Maylie looked on, and wondered that everybody 
 should yield to Nora ; and wondered that with hei lazy ways 
 
THE UNUSEFUL. 13 
 
 fihe could accomplish so much ; and then sighed that what 
 was accomplished was of so little use. To be sure, Nora 
 brought the easy-chair to her father, when he came in tired 
 from the field ; and smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek ; 
 and then supported the basin on his knee, while the old man 
 bathed his heated brow with the cold water she had dipped 
 from the spring ; but old farmer Maylie had been his life-long 
 accustomed to waiting on himself, and this was an unpar- 
 donable waste of time. And Nora carried flowers, fresh, 
 fragrant flowers, into her mother's little bed -room, and re- 
 arranged the simple furniture, and put a snowy muslin curtain 
 in place of the soiled paper one, at the window ; and, in short, 
 wrought such an entire change, that even Mrs. Maylie her- 
 self smiled involuntarily whenever she opened the door , 
 though she was always heard to lament, immediately after, 
 that such wondrous talent should be wasted on such trivial 
 pursuits. But it was with her brothers that Nora Maylie was 
 the all-in-all. Hers was the only woman's influence that they 
 had ever felt ; for their mother and elder sisters were too 
 much like themselves — pushing, elbowing, jostling, calculat- 
 ing, hurrying, eating, and sleeping — both of those last in a 
 greater hurry than any of the others. But coming into Nora's 
 presence was like entering a new atmosphere. There was 
 something superior — something pure, serene, refining, calcu- 
 lated to suppress turbulent passions, and noisy tones, in her 
 soft, yielding manner, and low, musical voice, that no one 
 could resist. The bare, gloomy parlor, which was never 
 opened but to company, Nora won her mother into giving up 
 to her direction, and soon it was entirely metamorphosed, and 
 made a delightful withdrawing-room for the family in the cool 
 of the day. And there Nora sat with her brothers : her lux- 
 uriously developed figure so simply, yet so tastefully draped* 
 as to lead one to believe that the addition of a single fold 
 would mar its symmetry; the pearly whiteness of her skin, 
 with the most delicate rose-tint on dewy lip and downy cheek, 
 contrasting strikingly -v^ath their bronzed labor-stained faces ; 
 her massy volumes of hair, folding plainly around a head 
 VOL. II, 2 
 
14 THE UNUSEFUL. 
 
 whose beauty would have mocked the chise of Pygmalion, 
 and gathered into a magnificent knot behind ; her full, white, 
 exquisitely moulded hands folded over a manly shoulder, or 
 wandering like lost snow-flakes among dark, stubby clusters 
 of hair ; her breathing lips parted, and sounds wandering 
 thence at dreamy intervals, the messengers of a heart all 
 goodness, all simplicity, all love. And sometimes she would 
 bring books, the books she delighted in; and though the 
 brothers never glanced their eyes over such pages themselves, 
 Wora's soulful voice, with its bird-like tones and eloquent ca- 
 dences, was the interpreter between the poet's heart and theirs. 
 The Masters Maylie used to boast of their business-like sis- 
 ters ; asserting that nobody could drive bargains like Rachel 
 and Matilda ; and nobody could maintain order among the 
 rebellious spirits of the school-room like Susan and Mary ; 
 but their hearts always fell back upon the unuseful Nora, and 
 they declared, with softened faces and gentler voices, that she 
 was good for nothing but to love. But there they were wrong. 
 She cheered, she encourgjged, she smoothed difficulties, she 
 soothed peevishness, and softened heartlessness ; her loving 
 spirit stealing unobserved on all, and distilling its own dews 
 over the whole household. None resisted her power, for 
 there was nothing in it to resist. It was impalpable, undis- 
 coverable, and yet most deliciously felt, most unhesitatingly 
 acknowledged. Was it a matter of regret that Nora Maylie 
 was an unuseful woman ? 
 
 [ I did not promise you a tale, dear reader, (did I ?) when I 
 commenced this sketch. If you expected one, you were mis- 
 led by your own imagination, for I thought only of dashing 
 off, with a few simple strokes, the character of a friend, who, 
 whatever her faults, you will acknowledge has some virtues 
 If, however, you have become sufficiently interested in gentle 
 Nora Maylie, to desire to hear more, I may resume the thread 
 of my narrative at some future period.] 
 
15 
 
 NORAMAYLIE. 
 
 «« Do ! " 
 
 Tell more of Nora Maylie ? Ah yes ! with pleasure ; J 
 love dearly to think of her. 
 
 Please vacate that ottoman, 'Bel, and betake yourself to the 
 sofa. My first sketch was written on that, and I have a kind 
 of fondness for it ; " by the same token," as an Irish woman 
 would say, that we love the haunts of our childhood. Be- 
 sides, it is just the right height; allo^ving head, neck, and a 
 very small portion of the shoulder to rise above the table. 
 That will oblige me to sit straight. 
 
 High-shouldered ? Oh no ! see how easily the thhig is 
 done, and without the possibility of lounging. 
 
 Then I have another reason for affecting this ottoman. 
 Geniuses have queer notions, (as well as other spoiled chil- 
 dren,) and the world pets and indulges them, and encourages, 
 their eccentricities, till oddity becomes the universal badge of 
 the tribe, and men reason something on this wise : 
 
 All geniuses have queer notions ; 
 A has queer notions ; 
 Therefore A is a genius. 
 
 Or au contrain 
 
 All geniuses have queer notions , 
 A has no queer notions ; 
 Therefore A is not a genius. 
 
 Now I have set my heart on playing make-believe, smce 1 
 am not a genius ; and so I must contrive up some little pecu- 
 liarity. Burns wrote his first things on tlie air, while saun- 
 tering over the " banks and braes of bonny Doon ;" and, seal- 
 ing the light-winged scrip to his memory, he carried it home 
 18 
 
16 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 to copy from at leisure. It was a very odd thing of the Doon i 
 man ! Any common individual would have written better in 
 a quiet room, with the most convenient of standishes, a half- 
 dozen nicely nibbed pens, and a quire of foolscap cut and 
 paged, all spread invitingly before him. (And, between our ' 
 two selves, 'Bel, I think /should prefer such a room, genius 
 or no genius.) But here is another case, quite in point. The 
 whilorae proprietary of Glenmary found the shadow of a 
 bridge, a wall impregnable to truant thoughts; and he has \ 
 made the spot, seldom looked upon but by rafters and cross- 
 beams, and the little winged people that go among them to 
 find summer-lodgings, classic ground. That bridge at Glen- 
 mary ! What a scrambling there will be to see it one of these 
 days ! 
 
 And this ottoman ! it is a very trivial thing, to be sure, but 
 that is whit makes it important ; and I shall take pains to let '. 
 it be known that this is my own peculiar property, leaving it i) 
 to be inferred that I could not possibly write anywhere else, .1 
 Then think of your great-grandchildren, 'Bel, exhibiting this i 
 same pretty ottoman — the cover so faded that you could )iot 
 recognize it, and the hair peeping through a thousand crev- 
 ices — think of their exhibiting it to their gaping little ones ■ 
 as — I can no more, 'Bel; for, even while these light words 
 are on my tongue, there comes a grave betv/een my eye and 
 the point it would settle on. 
 
 Wheel around the sofa, dear, and sit close beside me; . 
 for the ugly vision has got upon my heart, and you must wile : 
 it away, while I tell, whomsoever chooses to read, something 
 more of Nora Maylie. 
 
 'St, cousin ! 'st ! The public is my audience now, and will 
 care no more for that point-lace of yours than they would for r^ 
 so much " Lisle thread." 
 
 Dear reader, how left we Nora Maylie? Indolent and 
 good-natured, was she not ? Disliking anything like bustle, 
 and resisting every attempt to be made something of, with an i 
 invisible strenuousness that made wise people marvel mightilyi , 
 whether her nature were of wax or adamant ? I think we so ; 
 
 II 
 
NORA MAYLIE. 17 
 
 «ft her, and so we find her ; as like what she was as yon sun 
 (vill be to its present self, when we, who now glory in its 
 ight, are shut away from it by the coffin-lid. Few changes 
 -ome upon such characters as that of the fair Nora. They 
 ippear before us quietly and without ostentation, as the bright- 
 ;yed pansy unfolds its petals in the spring-time ; and, like 
 hat loveliest of lovely things, they live on, smiling in the 
 ninshine, and bending to the storm with a pliant gracefulness 
 Vhich mars not their beauty. And yet those who looked 
 )nly at outward circumstances would have said that Nora 
 \Iaylie was changed most entirely. You Avill recollect that 
 It sixteen poor Nora was considered unfit to become a milliner 
 Wen, and sent home in disgrace to do nothing. At eighteen 
 ;he was altogether above the necessity of doing anything. 
 I Mrs. Maylie chanced to have a sister, who married a for- 
 'une, together with an aged and gouty metropolitan ; and this 
 lady chanced to get a glimpse of our fair Nora. Instantly 
 Mrs. Maylie was made to understand that she had mistaken 
 jer daughter's vocation ; and so the young beauty was be- 
 lewelled, be- flounced, and bedizened, till it was proved by 
 Jvery possible experiment, that, adorned or unadorned, she 
 vas all the same, and transferred to a fashionable drawing- 
 "oom. Everybody said that Nora Maylie was a very lucky 
 iidividual, and many a pretty maiden sighed with envy as 
 he proud mother recounted her darling's triumphs. But 
 Vhat thought the young lady herself? Alas ! the perverse- 
 iess of human nature ! Nora longed for the green woods 
 vhere she had first dreamed over the gorgeous creations of 
 ninds as dreamy and as idle as her own ; the silver-toned 
 ^oice arising from the little trout-stream at the foot of the hill 
 Vas forever in her ear, and. she was sure no man-made music 
 ;ould compare with it ; and there were birds and flowers, and 
 r- shall I tell you ? Those were very homely tastes of Nora 
 \Iaylie's. The tame rabbits, peaking their ears at every 
 ound ; old Mooly, with her crumpled horns and sober, sensi- 
 \\e face ; the doves that used to fly from the barn-top to her 
 )Osom ; the hens, with their domestic, motherly ways ; and 
 
 VOL. 11. 2* 
 
IS NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 the geese, with their pretty necks and tea-party voices — al 
 these were to poor Nora as so many lost friends, whose placei 
 could not be supplied by the simpering things in stays an( 
 broadcloth that flocked to do her homage. 
 
 And were there any other home attractions for Nora thai 
 these, and her own kin? Anything for which she wouL 
 have resigned her envied position, with all the eagerness of i 
 pent-up stream leaping every barrier, and bounding away t 
 the ocean's bosom ? 
 
 You may never have heard of Will Waters, a handsome 
 dark-eyed, roguish-looking, care-for-naught sort of a fellow 
 who would rake up more hay in four hours than anybody elsi 
 could between twilight and twilight, and give the rest of hi 
 time to rod or gun, or some other heathenish amusement' 
 Was there a dance. Will Waters was in the midst, leadin;; 
 out the brightest of the blushing damsels ; was there a husbl 
 ing, it was an entire failure without Will Waters' songs ; ann 
 at fourth-of-July orations and stump speeches, and other move 
 ments for the public good, nobody could hold a candle to cleve- 
 Will Waters. Yet (great men will have their failings) Wi] 
 was a wild fellow, very wild ; and people said he was not t 
 be depended upon in the least. Nobody could tell what bar 
 things he had done or was in danger of doing ; and everybod; i 
 loved him for his frank heartsomeness, his ready wit, and hi ; 
 gay good-nature ; but still, it was the general impression tha \ 
 Will Waters, though a " very promising young man," wouL 
 somehow manage to seduce his nature into breaking it 
 promise. 
 
 There was a village between Mr. Waters' farm and Mil 
 Maylie's ; and Will's handsome face was no stranger to th 1 
 villasre beauties, who had wasted more smiles on him than' 
 often burnish a coat of country finish ; but Will had somehow ! 
 dodged the whole artillery and passed on. Away in thn 
 woods, skirting fair fields of pale green maize and dancinj f 
 flax, so proud of its light-poised gem of blue. Will Water j 
 was destined to another trial ; and this time the weapon wa; 
 oointed by a more celebrated marksman than himself. ' 
 
' NORA MAYLIE. 19 
 
 The sun was just scattering his last grains of gold-dust 
 ipon the spotted alders that leaned over the trout-stream at 
 le foot of " the Maylie hill," when Will Waters, his fowl- 
 ig-piece over his shoulder, and his dog by his side, leaped 
 ,16 chattering brook ; and, making a great crackling and 
 xashing among the underbush, landed headlong upon a vel- 
 ety bank, hemmed in by witch-hazel, blackberry bushes, and 
 le white-flowering dog-wood. The rude entree was occa- 
 ioned by an officious grape-vine that had taken a fancy to put 
 ,s arms around the young man's foot, coarse-booted though it 
 fas ; but Will Waters was in a very proper position, consider- 
 jig all things. Beneath the deep shade of a broad-leaved 
 ass-wood, whose peculiar perfume made the air around 
 leavy with richness, appeared, in wondering amazement, the 
 distress of this sylvan drawing-room. A bob-o'link had 
 jjme up from his home among the sedges over the brook, 
 jfid was perking his pretty .bill, and smoothing his plumage 
 ith a knowing impudence, directly before her face ; but 
 lick was the exit of Master Robert when wild Will Waters 
 jcame an actor in the scene. A scarce adult mouser, fast 
 ileep on its mistress' knee, opened its yellow eyes in affright, 
 id scampered off as fast as its velvet feet would carry it ; and 
 crow that had lighted on a limb above, and sat in silence, 
 jpefully civilized by the nearness of the white-browed divi- 
 ty, spread his black wings and rushed skyward with a caw ! 
 iw ! which threw Madam Echo into an ecstasy of noisy fear, 
 ut the fair human joined not at all in the commotion. True, 
 lie rose to her feet, but not with that twitch and jerk which 
 |any another would have adopted ; she rose with the aston- 
 ihed dignity of one who intends to say by the movement, " I 
 
 [I quite superior to being annoyed by you, but I should, like 
 know how far your impudence will carry you;" and her 
 ge, changeable eyes were opened to their greatest width. 
 I " The position could have been no more appropriate had it 
 ten of my own choosing, fairest thou of witching Syl- 
 ins ! " exclaimed the youth, springing to his knee, and re- 
 lating the salaam. 
 
20 
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 The lady blushed a little, and looked as though not quit 
 sure of what she ought to do in such a case, and so she di( 
 nothing ; though her face grew talkative with its declaratioi 
 of amused curiosity. 
 
 " Is it not enough that you have snares at your door-way 
 nymph most beautiful," continued wild Will, " but must he 
 who enters your charmed circle find the chains rivetted about 
 him forever?" 
 
 " Nay," returned the lady with a delicious smile, that be- 
 lied her mocking words, " nay, poor youth, I pity thy mishap, 
 and release thee without a ransom ; depart in peace ! " 
 
 " Bid the poor charmed thing be free, that is beneath the 
 eye of the basilisk," exclaimed Will in a .tone of mock mourn- 
 fulness. 
 
 " Be free ! " repeated the lady ; " the basilisk withdraws his 
 gaze ;" and she gathered up her scattered implements and with! 
 a slight curtsey, was turning away. 
 
 " Nay, lady," exclaimed the hunter in an altered tone^ 
 springing to his feet and shouldering his fowling-piece, "I 
 intruded unwittingly upon your sanctum ; and though, by youiii 
 leave, I cannot regret the accident, you must not abandon it ; 
 for see ! I am gone." 
 
 As he spoke. Will stepped back a few paces ; but how he ,| 
 could consider himself gone, is a query in my mind to this 
 day ; for there was a good yard of the golden-hued moss 
 between him and the blackberry bushes and Co., which pali- i 
 saded the pretty retreat. The lady, however, must have 
 believed him, for she turned round very quietly, and fixed hei 
 eye on pussy, which was peeping her little head from a clunif 
 of thorns that threatened to disfigure her coat most sadly 
 Will Waters retreated slowly, until the folded leaf of thd 
 dog-wood touched the hem of his hunting-frock ; and then 
 with an air of the most respectful deference, he ventured i 
 remark on the beauty of the wood-land scene. The lady, ir 
 common civility, could but answer ; and Will replied ; anc 
 then the lady's voice gave out a bar of music, which Wil 
 Waters could not allow to close the interview, and so 
 
 d 
 
NORA MAYLIE. 21 
 
 should not like to tell you how much lime passed, dear 
 
 ader, for it was shockingly imprudent in Nora Maylie to 
 
 ow herself to be so beguiled. Will Waters, however, uii- 
 
 tood his cue well enough to lean upon his fowling-piece ; 
 
 d Nora turned her back upon the bass-wood tree, and em- 
 
 jloyed her fingers in making baskets of its leaves. The 
 
 kvihght was putting on its grayest hue, when Nora recol- 
 
 3cted that she should be reluming home; and though the 
 
 |outh did not venture to accompany her in person, his eyes 
 
 pllowed her every step across the fields. 
 
 Will Waters made two or three ineflfectual attempts to get 
 )P a whistle on his way homeward that evening ; and once he 
 truck out mto a song very clamorously ; but he was so ab- 
 ent-minded as to break off' in the middle of a word, which 
 |i'ord is waiting for its other half to this day. 
 j The very next evening Nora Maylie was again surprised 
 n her rustic bower ; but, as the young hunter came in a dif- 
 srent manner, and, moreover, as he made a very character- 
 itic apology (prettily impudent) for coming at all, the lady 
 id not consider it necessary to rise from her rich cushions. 
 "Neither did the bob-'link fly away — instead, he gave out a 
 glorious gush of music ; pussy opened her eyes lazily and 
 pimediately closed them again ; and a good-natured little 
 jhrush, that saw fit to make itself quite at home there, went 
 jiopping along on the ground, and never once turned its eye 
 inquire whether the intruder came for it or its neighbors, 
 ^''ery well might humble browTiy manifest such indifference ; 
 or wild Will's step had an exceedingly innocent sound to it, 
 scarce rustling a leaf, much less presuming on the entertain- 
 nent which, by the aid of the grape-vine, he had furnished for 
 voodland edification the day previous. I know not how it 
 vas, but Nora Maylie took the intrusion something in the 
 ipirit of jNIrs. Thrush, whose back of plebeian brownness 
 lever ruffled a feather; and so wild Will Waters leaned his 
 fun against the bass-wood, and placed himself at the lady's 
 eet without the ceremony of asking. Will Waters had a 
 lashmg way of talking which Nora had never heard before, 
 
22 NOKA MAYLIE. 
 
 and so she decided in her own mind that it was dramatic 
 Shaksperian, or something of that sort ; Avhile Nora's voic 
 reminded the young hunter of the whisper of the south-wine 
 dallying with the silver-lined blades of grass, on whose wa^ 
 ing tips he had often been borne away to the land of dreanii 
 
 That our young friends were mutually pleased with eac 
 other, was very certain ; and that their friends would be mi 
 tually displeased, should the acquaintance chance to ripen int 
 anything more than common friendship, was quite as certaii 
 As far as farmer IMaylie was known, it was thought that h; 
 handsome daughter would make an unprofitable wife ; an 
 Mrs. Maylie would have been struck wuth consternation at th 
 thought of committing her poor child, with her lamentah : 
 deficiencies, to the keeping of such a dashing, careless fellov'; 
 as wild Will Waters. But young people never will fall i ; 
 love prudently, and this second interview decided the fate t ; 
 Will and Nora. To be sure, they did not meet then nor a i 
 terwards as lovers, but they did meet, nevertheless ; and tw 
 young people do not go every day to the same spot, and Hstei 
 to each other's voices, and look into each other's faces, aiii 
 read from each other's hearts to no purpose. No, no ! tl' 
 temple that God made, the solemn old wood, is a dangeroi : 
 place for beauty and manliness, that should not love, to me 
 in. There is so much of love in every wind-moved puli 
 which beats there, that the heart must own a triple crust ( 
 worldliness to brave its influence. 
 
 At last Mrs. Maylie's eyes became opened to the truth, b 
 she was saved the trouble of expostulation by the timely i 
 terference of her wealthy sister ; and so Nora was borne awf 
 to other scenes. Before she went, however, the moon w; 
 nessed a very solemn meeting between herself and W\i 
 Waters ; there were vows, and tears, and comforting worci 
 and baseless castle-building enough to occupy long hours ; aii 
 then, with promises, the fiftieth time repeated, and other wor 
 whose meaning was derived from the breath that bore the 
 the lovers parted 
 
 " Forever ? " 
 
 We shall see 
 
 I 
 
NORA MAYLIE. »J 
 
 Was it Strange, then, that Nora Maylic did not love the 
 ity ? that her aunt's splendid drawing-room was a prison to 
 ^T, and the mustachioed things, caught in the trap the sharp 
 tdy was setting for her benefit, a living annoyance ? There 
 •as one thing in Nora's favor ; she had an inexhaustible fund 
 ' good feeling. She could never bear to see even her enemy 
 •"^ora was not conscious of having one, however) unhappy, 
 hd so she could not be thoroughly unhappy herself. While 
 'e feel an interest in a single living being, we are many a 
 ood league from misery. Nora felt an interest in a great 
 lany. Her aunt treated her with habitual kindness, and for 
 er she had gratitude ; her gouty uncle was more like a bear 
 \an a human being, and for him she had pity ; a great many 
 srsons showed her infinite respect, for which she returned an 
 /erflowing measure of the same with a mingling of some- 
 ling warmer ; and the few that loved her she loved with all 
 .^r heart. Oh no ! Nora was not miserable, but she was sad 
 - sometimes very sad ; for her thoughts, in gayety or lone- 
 less, were full of Will Waters and her OAvn quiet home. 
 !ora was still determined 7wt to be made anything of. 
 : And Will? What of him? 
 
 ' He turned from Nora Maylie on the evening of their last 
 'eeting ; and, standing beneath the bass-wood where he had 
 i-st met her, he spread open his heart and character to his 
 (vn inspection. ' Long and serious was the examination ; and 
 .en, with the centred light of his proud eye mocking the 
 lars above him, his fine face full of animation, and his head 
 evated with a consciousness of his own powers, he bounded 
 cm the love-chafmed circle, leaped the creek, and bent his 
 ay homeward. Determination was in his firm step, and 
 Dpe glanced from every lineament of his face. Mr. Waters 
 id measured off an elder son's portion a few years previous, 
 id why might not Will hope the same favor ? The next 
 orning he asked, and was refused. Moreover, he was made 
 understand that if he married " that shiftless Maylie girl," 
 t should not have a cent " to the longest day he lived." 
 It was very impolitic as well as d'firespectful in Will 
 
24 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 Waters to make the answer he did ; and, for one, I do no 
 blame the old gentleman for snubbing him for it. But Wi] ' 
 had never been used to such things, and he had no idea oi 
 being made a little boy of, in his three-and-twentieth summer 
 and so, after a few more words hotly peppered with anger, b 
 turned on his heel and walked away. 
 
 " A year and a half have I worked on this farm since 
 might have been doing for myself, and all for nothing," mut 
 tered Will, as his eye \yandered over the closely-shaven mea 
 dows, and the fields of grain, with their upright sheaves-, 
 many of which had been bound by his own hand. 
 
 " Well, I have you yet," and he stretched out his stronj 
 arm, and regarded it for a moment very affectionately ; thei 
 reaching it above his head, he twisted off a heavy bough ann; 
 lodged it far away in the meadow. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " laughed Will, regarding his own feat with th 
 most decided approbation, and clapping his hands togethei 
 " shall I beg of an old man, whose acres are his all, with sua 
 things as these to carve out a fortune with ? No, no ! WI 
 Waters is not a beggar yet ;" and he trudged on right manfullj 
 
 That winter there was one axe rang from the woods fror 
 dawn till nine in the morning, and from four till darknes ' 
 made the trees almost invisible ; and the remaining hours th 
 axe was sheltered beneath a little wood-shed beside the vii 
 lage school-house, while its owner presided within. Everj 
 body remarked that a wonderful change had come over Wi 
 Waters. And what was to be his reward ? How was fai 
 Nora Maylie ? Did she stand the winter's test of gayety ? ti 
 first, though surrounded by a crowd of admirers, she seeme ! 
 to have no preference ; all passed alike before her ; but, ei i 
 winter set in, Nora had grown partial. One by one, h« ! 
 suitors stood back for the favorite, till Nora scarce ever aj 
 peared with anybody but young Horace Dacre. It was sal 
 that there was an engagement in the case, that the seal of tb 
 ring would soon be appended; and Nora took no pains 1 
 deny the charge. Neither did Nora's aunt. On the recei] 
 of a letter from her sister, Mrs. Maylie looked up her ben, 
 
 il 
 
I NORA MAYLIE. 25 
 
 ip, and went into the extravagance of a new silk go\vn. The 
 3Xt she heard was that Dacre was married, and that her 
 Wghter had had a very narrow escape — she was a bride's 
 aid. How anory aunt, and mother, and Rachel, and Matilda, 
 
 I O J ' ' ' > 
 
 nd Susan, and Mary were with Nora ! and how Nora, and 
 16 sly bridegroom, and shy bride, congratulated themselves 
 1 the success of their provoking ruse d' amour. Oh ! there 
 lUSt have been a spice of evil about Nora, notwithstanding 
 sr quiet ways. Two thirds of the winter had gone, when 
 le astonishing dtnoucment took place ; and there was a most 
 iorious Jishi7ig-season well-nigh lost through this silliest of 
 trlish freaks. Nothing daunted, however, the manoeuvrer 
 'Solved to gather up the scattered fragments of tune still left 
 br ; and, to prevent imposition, she took the cards into her 
 ,vn hands ; and she played so adroitly that a fortune soon 
 y at Nora's feet. Nora would have put it beneath her feet, 
 id she consulted only her own feelings on the occasion — 
 5t that she had any particular dislike for a fortune, but there 
 as a certain incumbrance upon it that she did not like. So 
 ora, like the foolish girl that she Avas, refused the whole. 
 
 But as fast as Nora said no, Nora's aunt said yes ; and as 
 e affirmative could boast superiority in years, Mr. Lever 
 he lady's principal objection to the fortune) was inclined to 
 link that the affirmative had it. Still Nora was obstinate, 
 id her aunt was obstinate, and Mr. Lever was obstinate ; so 
 was thought proper to have Mrs. Maylie's counsel. 
 
 Early in the spring, the dressmaker, the milliner, and the 
 vo school-mistresses, Avere called home to put the farm-house 
 I order for the reception of important guests. It was reportea 
 ,r and Avide, that Nora Maylie had come home to be mar- 
 ed ; a version of matters in Avhich popular gossip invented 
 ss than the lady's OAvn friends. "When they told Will 
 /"aters, he smiled contemptuously ; and when they told his 
 ther, he smiled too, and said he hoped his son Avould re- 
 im to reason now. When, however, Nora came home, 
 ;companied by her aunt and Mr. Lever, the face of Will 
 iTaters greAV anxious, and his smile lost its complacency. 
 
 VOL. II. 3 
 
26 NORA MAYLIE. j 
 
 And now Mr. Lever had plenty of assistants in his wooing, 
 and things would have gone on swimmingly, had not Nora 
 possessed the most provoking of pliable natures. Had she 
 only stormed, and declared that she would sooner die, that they ' 
 might kill her, but she would never commit such horrid per- 1 
 jury, there would have been some hope ; but when Nora, with' 
 her sweet, low voice, repeated every day, " it cannot be 
 mother," Mrs. Maylie's heart grew faint, and she was almosi 
 tempted to give up the contest. Her sister, however, was ' 
 more persevering ; and, finally, affairs were brought to a crisis, 
 The father was called in, and, being urged on all sides, he al 
 >ast resorted to authority. 
 
 " Obey ! or you are no child of mine ! " was the stern pa- 
 .ental injunction. 
 
 Poor Nora ! Should she accept the splendor that was dazv, 
 zling all eyes but hers, and buy the favor of those she lovec^ 
 most dearly ? or should she go forth upon the world an out- 
 cast, oiphaned by worse than death, friendless and penny-, 
 less ? 
 
 " You shall have my answer to-morrow," was all that Nore 
 said. 
 
 The sun had just looked his last good-night, and many e 
 bright cluster of golden rays was loitering in its way heaven- 'i 
 ward, when Nora Maybe, attired in her simplest muslin, and 
 with the little straw hat she had worn the summer previous ■! 
 tied under her chin, stole from the seclusion of her own chanvi 
 ber, and glided like a spirit across the fields. When she had- 
 reached the old trysting-spot, hedged in by the blackberriej 
 and witch-hazel, she pushed aside the bushes, and knelt upoE 
 the roots of the now budding bass-wood. Then she arose and 
 passed on. She crossed the brook on the stepping stones.!' 
 and hurried over the springy ground beyond, until her feel ' 
 were bathed in the cold draught held by the deceitful soil,' 
 and on she went, still more hurriedly, until her father's broad 
 lands all lay behind her. Climbing a fence, Nora was just ' 
 losing herself among the stately patriarchs of the forest, when 
 she heard her own name pronounced, m tones more of won J 
 
NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 27 
 
 ler than gladness, and she stood face to face with Will 
 Waters. 
 
 1 «• I — -was — was going to the village," remarked the lady, 
 ler large eyes turning doubtfully to her lover's, and veiling 
 hemselves in alarmed perplexity at the coldness they en- 
 countered. 
 
 Nora did not know hoAV many tongues had been busy with 
 ihe ear of Will Waters. 
 
 " I will not detain you," was the answer, and with an iron- 
 ical smile and a low bow the young man vacated the path. 
 
 " But I hoped — to — to meet — you there." Nora stam- 
 nnered excessively, and the color went and came upon her 
 iheek with strange precipitancy. 
 
 ''Me!" 
 
 " Is it so very strange, then ? I have gone down to the 
 knoll by the brook many a time to meet you, Will." 
 
 " Ay ; but then you were " 
 
 "Then I was happy in home and friends — now I have 
 neither — you have taught me — not one.'''' 
 
 " Nora ? " 
 
 " You may as well know it, Will — though it matters but 
 [ittle now. I came out to tell you that, without your protec- 
 tion, I have nowhere to go! I came to ask your advice — 
 jrour — your — " 
 
 " Without my protection, Nora ? I do not well see how 
 that can be ; but, were you ten times dyed in falsehood, you 
 should not ask it in vain ;" and the young man's arms were 
 extended, as though, if their shelter could yet be accepted, 
 tliey should be a shield that none of the ills of life could pene- 
 trate. 
 
 Nora did not draw back, nor yet advance, for she was 
 stricken to the heart by this suspicion, where she had ex- 
 pected the confidence and sympathy so much needed. The 
 large, round tears broke from their dark-fringed enclosure, and 
 followed each other silently, gemming her palpitating bod- 
 dice ; while the lady answered, almost in a whisper, " I do 
 Qot ask it now, Will ! Oh ! you are so, so changed ! " 
 
28 NORA MAYLIE. 'j 
 
 " It is not I, Nora — look into your own heart if you woulc 
 know where the change lies. But, perhaps — perhaps — ' 
 and now there was a strange eagerness in the tones of Wil 
 Waters — " if there shoidd be a mistake, Nora ! if they hai 
 belied you ! if " 
 
 A sudden flash of joy lighted up the face of the young niani 
 His supposition became at once reality. He had been a fool 
 and she — he did not say what ; but his arms were a littL 
 farther advanced and folded over, and Nora Maylie lay withii 
 them. Not a word of explanation was necessary now, fo 
 heart was beating against heart, and they told their own trui 
 story. But words were spoken, nevertheless, so low that th 
 light-winged zephyr sitting upon the lip could scarcely hea 
 them; yet they proved, beyond a doubt, that Will Water 
 and Nora Maylie were both unchanged. And so — and so—, 
 
 We are intruders, dear reader ; let these foolish lovers havi' 
 the next hour to themselves. 
 
 The hour is passed, and Will Waters and Nora are beneatl, 
 the bass-wood. 
 
 "And if you cannot effect this most cruel compromise, dea 
 Nora, you will meet me here at ten to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " Do not promise them too much, Nora; do not quite cu; 
 off all hope. You are right, I suppose ; I know you must be 
 but it is a hard thing for me to consent to. I would not havi ; 
 believed that I ever could." 
 
 " You would not but that it is right, Will." 
 
 See that touchingly sweet smile accompanying the ladyV; 
 wcrds! Will Waters cannot resist it, and he acknowledges 
 with almost idolatrous zeal, who taught him right ; and 
 with mutual blessings, they part. 
 
 The compromise ? 
 
 Nora had decided that her friends had no right to force hei, 
 mto a marriage which her heart did not sanction, and there- 
 fore that she ought to resist it firmly. On the other side, as. 
 the bestowal of her hand on Will Waters involved no poim: 
 of conscience, obedience was her first duty. This may soun^ 
 
NORA MAYLIE. 29 
 
 Ice cold reasoning ; but it was arranged with many tears, 
 ^en witli sobs, there in the little chamber, and it was vvhis- 
 jred with anything but coldness in those dear old woods, 
 nd, strange enough, the gentleman consented ! Notvvith- 
 anding he had become estranged from his own father, and 
 r six months had been in the neighborhood of his home 
 ithout once stepping his foot over the threshold, he could 
 jt but consent to a measure which seemed so much a matter 
 ' course to Nora, that he was ashamed to offer more than a 
 ;ore of objections. 
 
 The next morning, while yet the clock was on the stroke 
 
 ten, Nora Maylie pushed aside the witch-hazel and dog- 
 ood, and placed her hand within that of Will Waters ; a 
 ute acknowledgment that he was her last and only friend, 
 id Will accepted the sacred gift as a man should do. Care- 
 Uy he led her down to the roadside, where a carriage stood 
 ailing them, lifted her to a seat, and they drove away to the 
 llage. 
 
 There were tears in the eyes of the fair bride who stood in 
 irson Lee's little parlor that morning ; and a proud, happy 
 soluteness in the whole air and manner of the bridegroom, 
 •ftened and subdued by an appreciation of the touching 
 ustfulness that had possessed him of that quivering hand, 
 nd so they went forth, they two, with but the rewards of 
 Is winter's toil to buy them bread, and with scarce a voice 
 
 cheer them on their way. How everybody laughed when 
 was reported that Will Waters had borne his unuseful 
 •ide to the wilds of the far west ! As though Will Waters, 
 ith his strong arm and strong spirit, and his sweet Nora, with 
 3r loving heart, could not make a pathway for themselves 
 
 the wilderness ! 
 
 Please make me another pen, 'Bel; this story drags 
 'ockingly. 
 
 ■ Not finish it, did you say ? Why, people will think they 
 i^rved there in the .woods, or the wolves ate them up, or, at 
 fist, that they encountered the ague and fever. 
 I" Which is not true?" 
 
 VOL. 11. 3* 
 
•JO NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 Which is not true. I have called Nora Maylie viy friend 
 and so she is, though we did not quite grow up togethei 
 The first time that I ever saw her was on the morning of ire 
 marriage. The holy man had just put the "amen" to h] 
 prayer, when one whom we both love, 'Bel, sent me to th 
 village with a pretty bridal bouquet, and I had the honor o 
 presenting it myself. The kiss on my cheek, and the ligl: 
 touch of that soft hand upon my head, was quite enough t 
 secure my little heart forever, even though I had not love 
 Will Waters as children usually love those who pet ther 
 most. My mother took the young couple into the family 
 sympathized with and advised them, and wafted many 
 prayer westward after they had gone. 
 
 We never heard that any bad luck happened to Will Wf 
 ters, but somehow no news came of his having planted a city 
 or given his name to a village, or of having gained emolumei 
 to himself; and so it was generally supposed that the youn, 
 couple were having plenty of time to repent their folly. i 
 
 It was eight years last spring since Will and Nora wei: 
 married, and a year this summer since I saw them. I nevd 
 forgot Nora's sweet bridal face ; and when, by the aid of 
 dashing steamer, I had measured nearly all the links in tb' 
 great northern chain of waters, you may be assured that 
 was quite willing to look upon a person that I had seen b( 
 fore. And after jolting all day in a big, springless wagoi 
 and sleeping at night in a villainous garret, lighted by foi 
 panes of glass, that would not shove, sharing my breathinj 
 stuff with a dozen others — pah! I will never subject myse 
 to such things again, 'Bel ! 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 Perhaps I would for a sight of those glorious old wood 
 and magnificent prairies — nothing short. But, as I wi 
 saying, after all this, you may well suppose that I would 1 
 grateful for any corner, however small, where the fresh air- 
 revelled in by day, might not be wholly shut from me ; 
 night. 
 
 We expected to find our friends in rather low circumstance 
 
NOEA MAYLIE. 31 
 
 and so we inquired at every log hovel for Mr. Waters, and 
 every time were answered, " farther on." Everybody seemed 
 familiar with the name. We had left the last of these west- 
 ern edifices about five miles behind, when suddenly our road 
 changed its character; and from having " two Avheels in the 
 gutter and two in the air," our clumsy vehicle righted itself, 
 and jogged along on all fours with very decent sobriety. At 
 the same time, we found ourselves in a fine clearing. A robe 
 of variegated gold and green, flounced by a fold of silver in 
 the shape of a creek, with here and there groups of trees 
 looking into it, was spread out to our view ; and we turned 
 questioning glances on each other, wondering if this could be 
 , the possession of Will Waters. There was an air of thrift 
 i about it that said nay ; while many a little tasteful arrange- 
 hient — shade trees left standing where they should be, the 
 i brook made to show its bright, mischievous face at bewitching 
 intervals, a beautiful grove on a rise of ground beyond, which 
 [ookcd as though it was intended to be made something yet 
 more beautiful, with a thousand other proofs of a care for 
 something less important than clearing the land and raising 
 ijood crops, made us waver in our opinion. There was a 
 :lump of green that we could not make out in adv'ance of us ; 
 md as we drew near, we called on the driver to slacken his 
 pai-c while we endeavored to satisfy our curiosity. And what 
 think you it was ? Why, a magnificent avenue, fenced in by 
 stately old elm trees, and leading up to the most charming 
 little bird's tiest that ever nursed such wee witching things as 
 we saw frolicking among the vines over-arching the door-way. 
 
 Curiosity stood on tip-toe, and J went up the avenue to 
 
 repeat the inquiry we had so often made before. We saw 
 him tap at the door, and caught a glimpse of a white dress 
 through a crevice. In a moment he turned back, accompa- 
 nied by a charming woman, who glided over the hard path- 
 !way with singular gracefulness. We knew our old friend 
 Nora at a glance, and we did not allow her to reach the end 
 of the avenue before we had her in our arms. She was 
 f Scarcely changed. There was the same warm, soul- full ex- 
 
32 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 pression in the varying eye ; the same loving smile upon tne 
 lip ; with a deeper happiness portrayed in every lineament of 
 her eloquent face ; a richer hue of health upon her cheek , 
 and a feeling in every glance and movement. J whis- 
 pered me that there w^as soul in the very touch'of that foot, 
 as it kissed the earth ; and a more careless observer than 
 
 J would have detected the soul in the turn of the white 
 
 neck, and the carriage of the classic head. 
 
 And the bright creatures at the door ? The young mother 
 presei;ted them to us with all a mother's love and pride, and 
 we were not inclined to undervalue her jewels. 
 
 The house was built of logs, carefully caulked, and was 
 white-washed inside and out. Very simple and unpretending 
 was it, with its low walls buried by the clinging grape-vines 
 which had been brought thither from the wood. And there 
 were marks in the pretty garden-patch of Nora's "little spade 
 and little hoe," as well as of implements wielded by a heavier 
 hand. The lady, doubtless, found more beautiful flowers in 
 the woods of Iowa, than those which had received her girlish 
 homage in New York. It was a very pleasant room into 
 which we were ushered ; but simply enough furnished for the 
 cell of a hermit. A piece of furniture answering to a bureau 
 stood against the wall, surmounted by a small, well-filled 
 book-case ; beneath a window, shaded by a snowy muslin 
 curtain, was a couch, evidently an article of home manufac- 
 ture, cushioned with a pretty calico; and beyond this, directly 
 beneath a plain, cherry-framed mirror, stood something like a 
 dressing-table, so completely covered by its simple cloth, that 
 eyes less curious than ours might not have discovered the 
 while pine feet below, and so judged it to be the work of the 
 couch's artisan. Mrs. Waters had indulged in one luxury ; 
 those handsome porcelain vases on either corner of her dress- 
 ing-table were not useful things, for they could have been 
 purchased for no earthly purpose but to hold the flowers 
 which were now making the air of the apartment rich with 
 their perfume. Possibly, however, they were a present from 
 her husband, made sometime after encountering unusual luck 
 
NORA HIAYLIE. 33 
 
 in trading off his grain. On the same table stood a willow 
 work-basket, with the hem of a little cambric apron lying up 
 against its rim ; and chairs of basket-work, and a very pretty 
 carpet, evidently a recent purchase, completed the furniture 
 of the apartment. Not quite, however. There was another 
 table, now occupying the centre, with a snow-white cloth 
 spread over it, and upon that a simple repast, lacking but the 
 smoking tea-urn ; and the cakes which, from the peculiar fla- 
 vor emanating from the room beyond, we knew to be in a 
 course of preparation. My eyes (I must acknowledge it, 
 though I be set down as a table-lover from this day forth) 
 turned from the golden-hued butter, and the delicious straw- 
 berries peeping their dainty crimson heads from the sweet 
 cream in which they nestled so provoldngly, to the promising 
 kitchen, and back again, with wondrous eagerness ; when lo ! 
 a scream of delight from the little watchers in the door-way, 
 and a new comer was introduced among us. 
 
 That wild Will Waters ! 
 
 Wild enough to be sure he seemed then, with his heartily- 
 expressed joy at seeing us ; but how came he by that unstud- 
 ied polish, that courteous manner, that je ne sais quoi which 
 marks the gentleman — how came he by it here in the wil- 
 derness, where his whole business must needs be felling trees 
 and ploughing land ? So did not Will Waters leave us. He 
 was bold and blunt then, and notwithstanding his many en 
 gaging qualities, had but little more refinement than his 
 neighbors ; but now, though his manliness had not suffered 
 by it, you would have believed that he had been a metropoli- 
 tar, for a life-time. It was strange, unaccountable — ah no! 
 not unaccountable. We turned to the sunny face of the wife ; 
 we marked her singularly quiet air, the choice words and 
 delicate sentiments that she uttered ; then the sweet, carefully- 
 dressed and carefully-taught children, and the neatly-furnished 
 apartment ; and the riddle was unfolded. We saw for whom 
 that pure white dress had been donned in the close of the day, 
 for whom the little muslin collar had been taken from the 
 drawer probably half an hour before, and for whom the glossy 
 braids of hair were so carefully adjusted about the fine head 
 
34 
 
 NORA MAYLIE. 
 
 Blessings on sweet Nora Maylie ! True, she was no ge- 
 nius ; and she could aot become a teacher, nor a milliner, 
 even ; neither was she of the material to be moulded into a 
 woman of fashion ; but she was a most charming wife and 
 mother. We found her a charming hostess, too, and linger- 
 ingly did we turn from her sunlit door. 
 
 When a poet again inquires, " Where is happiness ?" I will 
 point him to a little log cottage , nestled among wild grape* 
 \ines, in the far-off woods of Iowa. 
 
GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 Dear lady — thou that reclinest so gracefully upon yon 
 sofa, I mean — lady, for a moment close thine eyes upon that 
 handsome volume, though its dress of gilded morocco was 
 certainly invented on purpose to be pressed by thy dainty 
 fingers, and the printed words may make thy heart palpitate 
 almost as much as did the whispered ones of the giver. Nay, 
 turn them not upon the brilliant chandeliers, nor the volumin- 
 ous folds of crimson that shut in the rich, warm light, fleck 
 ing the heavy drapery with changing gold and purple ; nor 
 let them fall upon the soft, yielding carpet, almost yielding 
 enough to bury up thy tiny, slippered foot. No, no ; shut 
 out for a moment all these things ; I would turn thine eyes to 
 a homelier quarter. Dost see that comfortable old farm-house, 
 lady — that with the generous court-yard, broad kitchen gar- 
 den and ample out houses ? How trig and nice everything 
 is about it, although the season of verdure is quite passed ! 
 Look at the ricks of hay, raising their conical heads down in 
 the meadow, and the neat stone wall that surrounds the or- 
 chard — speak they not of thrift ? Ay, that they do ; but they 
 speak of a thing that is passed, so far as the owners of the 
 farm-house are concerned. Yet we will not dwell upon that 
 now. That lofty well-sweep, resting its tip against the lower 
 horn of the moon, is certainly one of the most aspiring of its 
 kind ; but it has labored faithfully in the cause of temperance 
 for many a long year. This is one of the finest wells in all 
 the country round. Wouldst test it ? Close within the curb 
 rests the gray old bucket, and it is a right merry feat to fill it 
 the brim with the clear, sparkling fluid — that mossy brim, 
 that when the October sun shone was as soft as thine own 
 lip, lady. 
 
36 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 It is a cold, frosty night, so let us take a peep within th 
 farm-house. The stranger's foot was ever welcomed her( 
 The crackling wood fire blazes brightly in the huge fire-plac< 
 and sends its cheering rays to the farthest extremity of th 
 room, quite overpowering the light of the mould candle th; 
 stands upon the oaken chest of drawers. The cross heart 
 overhead are set off with festoons of dried fruit, intersperse 
 witli bunches of herbs ; and a swing shelf, suspended by br 
 of leather attached to the ends, is loaded down with usefi 
 books and waste newspapers. The axe has been brougl 
 from the wood-shed, and leans against the wall behind th 
 door ; above this hangs a hand-saw parallel with the top of 
 broom-handle ; and, higher still, an old musket, with its rust 
 barrel and broken lock, rests in honored peace from the laboi 
 of 76. Articles of wearing apparel, varying from the heav 
 lion-skin overcoat to the red flannel blanket, to suit the wani 
 of different members of the family, range along the \Aialls, aj 
 propriating the goodly number of nails and pegs with whic 
 every prominent piece of timber is garnished. Cherry tabk 
 and wooden chairs occupy a due space. A large house-do£ 
 under one of the former, rests his nose on his two fore paw; 
 and looks about him very knowingly, and three or four core 
 placent cats occupy as many of the latter as they can conve 
 niently appropriate. The floor is bare, but it is scarcely les 
 white than the carefully scoured churn, from which a girl o 
 sixteen is pouring the bubbling milk, that but a few moment 
 since mingled with the flakes of golden-hued butter, noA 
 transferred to the snowy bowl. That old lady in the corne 
 opposite, with the grey yarn knitting, and muslin cap, i 
 granny Bray. She is a good deal bent with age ; time ha 
 ploughed deep furrows in her brow and taken all the round 
 ness from her cheek; but what a sweet, holy expression i 
 left instead ! Love speaks from the midst of wrinkles ani 
 paleness and decay; her energies have gone, her vigor i 
 wasted, but love is in • her heart — such love as angels feel 
 A girl of eight is close beside her, knitting too. She h& 
 knotted up her yarn and is " trying a race " with granny 
 
GRANDFATHER BRAY. 37 
 
 By the table, a boy and girl of ten and twelve are busy a» a 
 game of checkers ; and the father, that stout-built, honest-faced 
 man with a newspaper, now and then glances from its col- 
 umns to the kernels of red and yellow corn "jumping" about 
 the board. The remainder of the group are grandfather Bray, 
 JNIrs. Hunter, the mother of the young folks, and her little son 
 Neddy, grandfather's little pet. Grandfather, though the 
 ;rown of his head is quite bare, and the sides decorated with 
 fleecy ocks, is as erect as a grenadier ; and, if we may judge 
 oy present appearances, more to be feared than any son of 
 jMars that ever trod the field. He is in a violent passion, a 
 Derfect rage. Mrs. Hunter has probably asked some great 
 Tavor, and the old man is angered at her assurance. 
 I "No! no! no!" 
 j « But, father —" 
 j " Silence ! I command you, Mary Hunter ! Another word. 
 
 ind you are no child of mine ! I have said and Avill abide by 
 ; ! James Bray shall never step over this threshold till he 
 iomes to look upon his foolish old father's corpse ; you may 
 et him see that, Mary." 
 
 I See ! the fine figiire of the matron cowers, and she raises 
 
 ler clasped hands, as if deprecating her father's anger. Now 
 
 gie sinks back upon her chair, rocks to and fro, and tries to 
 
 tifle her sobs in the folds of her neat, checked apron. Mr. 
 
 punter seems to have lost his interest in the newspaper and 
 
 ,! [18 game too ; a cloud comes over his bluff, good-humored 
 
 . ^ce, and he springs to his feet with an angry exclamation. 
 
 .; Je checks himself, however, and stalks across the room in 
 
 logged silence. The faces of the young people grow anx- 
 
 ;)us, even to paleness, and the beautiful child standing at his 
 
 . irandfather's knee retreats behind him, looking out from the 
 
 . tielter of the high-backed arm chair, with distended eyes and 
 
 arted lips. Granny Bray alone dares speak. With her 
 
 aaking, \vithered hand, she draws a pair of silver-mounted 
 
 bectacles from eyes meek, soft and dove-like, though the 
 
 aze of age has almost obscured their brilliancy, and her 
 
 VOL. II. 4 
 
38 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 gentle, tremulous tones cannot fail to remind us of the " stil) 
 small voice " hushing the tempest. 
 
 " Jacob, the sin of anger leads to other sins ; you are unjust 
 to your own flesh and blood. Poor Mary has been an obedi- 
 ent child to us for more than thirty years, and it is ungrateful 
 to treat her so." 
 
 " Then why does she fret me ? " And the old man, as he 
 speaks, flings a relenting glance upon the matron. " I am 
 sure I think as much of Mary as you do. Eh, Neddy?" 
 He is sorry that there is any cause for disagreement, and that 
 IS why he stoops to caress the little fellow, w*ho, reassured by 
 the natural tone of his voice, is already tugging at his coat- 
 tail. " Don't grandpapa love mother, Ned ? " 
 
 " Yes, but you don't love uncle James, grandpapa, you 
 know you don't ; and that is just as wicked as ever it can be." 
 
 The old man starts as though a wasp had stung the hand 
 laid upon the boy's head. How his voice is changed ! " Go i 
 to your mother, sirrah ! " 
 
 But the brave little fellow is not quite ready to obey ; he 
 has not had his say out. His clear grey eye does not blench, i 
 as it is fixed on the face of the angry old man, and his voice !' 
 rings out like a silver bell. There is a touch of the grand- 
 father's own spirit. 
 
 " Do you hate me, too, grandpapa, because I look like ancle 
 James ?" 
 
 "Neddy, Neddy ! " exclaims the mother in consternation, 
 " you are a very naughty boy, Neddy ; come, come away ta 
 bed!" . 
 
 The old man answers not, but his heavy tramp, as he stalks 
 about the room, betokens a gathering storm. Only one can ii 
 stay its fury, and that is the faithful being, chosen in rosy '' 
 youth from a bright throng ; his soother in adversity, his nurse ' 
 in sickness, his counsellor in perplexities, his companion and 
 never-failing friend through all the vicissitudes of a long life. 
 She now drops her knitting upon the table, quite forgetting i 
 that she is not in the seam-needle, and hobbling forv/ard, places 
 her hand upon his arm. 
 
 11 
 
GKANDFATIIER BRAY. 39 
 
 ! **Take down your Bible, Jacob; consult that; your own 
 neart is deceitful." 
 
 "They teach even their children to taunt me, Ann;" but 
 :the old man's manner is comparatively gentle. 
 
 ** No, no, Jacob ; there you are wrong again. Children 
 will be children, and Hunter and Mary are not to blame if 
 Neddy is now and then saucy to you. You play with him 
 so much that you ought to expect it." 
 
 " I ought to expect it from the face he carries ! " 
 j *' Poor James was the most dutiful of sons." The old lady 
 sighs, as though the involuntary tribute came from a full heart. 
 
 "DutifuJ 
 
 " Father," says Mar/ you have often told us that brother 
 [lames was the kindest and best child you ever had. Don't 
 you recollect how he nursed you through that long fever, 
 and—" 
 
 ! " And how he wheedled me out of all my hard earnings and 
 bnade me a beggar in my old age, owing the roof that shelters 
 pe to the charity of strangers, and dependent for my bread 
 n one who has not a drop of my blood in his veins ! What 
 o you say to that, Mary? Thank God, I have yet a roof 
 pibove me ! He would have turned me into the streets, but 
 Strangers — thank God that I have a roof! and, that, I swear 
 
 y— " 
 
 " Jacob, Jacob !" interposes the mild voice of granny Bray, 
 r say nothing you will be sorry for ; you are in a passion. 
 lacob, and no good comes of anger." 
 
 " Father," — this is the deep bass of Hunter, who has till 
 now remained silent. " Father, just now you spoke of being 
 dependent ; you know Mar}'^ and I are glad to be with you 
 md right proud to make you comfortable." 
 
 *' Dear heart ! " Whai; a grateful glance accompanies the 
 >ld Lady's exclamation. " Jacob, we have the best children 
 n the world ! " 
 
 ' " All bui one, all but one." This is not all the old man 
 •nutters between his teeth ; but perhaps it is as well that we 
 \o not hear the rest. 
 
40 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 " And he is good, too. Nay, Jacob, listen ; James is cm 
 first-born ; he was our pride in the days of our strength, before 
 we knew how foolish and sinful it was to lay up our treasure 
 upon earth. He has taken care of us, and comforted and 
 watched over us ; to be sure we leaned upon a broken reed, 
 but that was our owti fault ; a better child never lived. He 
 has met with misfortunes, and you cannot forgive him for it; 
 how' can you expect to be forgiven ? " 
 
 " I do forgive him ; I told minister Dean so ; but I never 
 will see him — never, while I have strength to shut the door 
 agamst him ! " 
 
 " It does strike me, sir, that this spirit is not befitting a 
 man of your years and profession," interposed the bass voice 
 bluiitly. 
 
 " It is not for you to call me to account, John Hunter, unless 
 indeed — " 
 
 " Do not say it ; do not say it, father," whispered Mary, 
 crouching on the floor beside him, and folding her arms over 
 his knees; " Hunter is a lion when he is aroused, and you and 
 he must be kind to each other." 
 
 "For your sake, Moll; you are a good girl,. and I must 
 humor you, if only because you are the baby." 
 
 Peace seems to be restored, and we will retire, lady, while 
 I explain in a few words the scene. 
 
 Grandfather Bray was now verging on his eightieth winter, 
 and his son James (himself a grandfather) was scarce twenty- 
 five years his junior. When James first married, he lived at 
 the homestead and cultivated the farm, and as one after 
 another of the children made for themselves homes in thr 
 neighboring towns, his situation only seemed the more per- 
 manent. At last, Mary, the youngest child, left the parental 
 roof, and James and his kind family were more necessary to 
 the old people than ever. The farm yielded a comfortable 
 support for all, and there was no reason why it should not 
 continue to do so ; but the demon of speculation entered the 
 honest, sensible head of James Bray. The title-deed of the 
 farm had been his for several years ; he rashly risked it, and 
 
GRANDFATHER BRAY. 41 
 
 ost. Through the generosity of creditors, his father received 
 a life-lease of the house and garden ; but what was this to the 
 sturdy old farmer, who had all his life long gloried in fertile 
 fields and overflo\ving granaries ? His very mind was nar- 
 rowed down — his faculties cramped by thinking upon his 
 diminished fortunes, and they burst forth in anger. While 
 the old lady raised her eyes meekly and wondered what her 
 poor grandchildren would do, he only raised his voice to ani- 
 madvert on what had been done. He declared that he was 
 cajoled, cheated, swindled, and he would not bear it. The 
 more unreasonable his anger became, the more fire it gathered, 
 for indignation ahvays increases in inverse ratio to its right- 
 eousness. It was soon found necessary for James to seek 
 another dwelling, and this was a much sorer trial to poor 
 granny Bray, than the loss of property. James had more of 
 his mother's spirit than his father's, and it was a sorrowful 
 thins: for him to part in anger from his beloved sire. When 
 Mary Hunter took her place by the sacred old hearth-stone, 
 he whispered in her ear, " Never cease persuading till 
 yriii have made peace ; my conscience tells me that I have 
 Ijccn foolish and imprudent, wickedly greedy and covetous of 
 this world's goods ; and my father's anger will weigh heavily 
 upon me until it is withdrawn." And so Mary's pleading 
 voice was often heard ; but it only increased the old man's 
 irritability. This was the night before T hanks givmg, and, as 
 usual, the children and grandchildren were to join in the 
 Thanksgiving merry-making at the dear old homestead. And 
 Mary pleaded and pleaded, and cried as though her heart 
 would break, when she found her pleadings in vain. Thanks- 
 giving came and went, but heavily passed the day at the farm- 
 house. Granny Bray said the like had never been known 
 since the funeral of poor little Jemmy — the bravest and fairest, 
 she had ever since declared, of all her grandchildren. The 
 Hunters had done their best to make the festival joyous, bu ; 
 no joy was there. Even the young children missed the famil- 
 iar faces of their young cousins, and looked thoughtful in the 
 midst of their amusement. 
 
 VOL. II. 4* 
 
42 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 The feast was spread, and it had never been more sumptu- I 
 ous ; but nothing seemed as in former times ; the soul of the 
 feast was wanting. The love, the unity of feeling, that had 
 consecrated it since the now outcast son sat on his father's 
 knee, a baby, had been rudely jarred, and the house of feast- 
 ing was turned to one of mourning. 
 
 Weeks passed by, and grandfather Bray was as positive 
 and unyielding as ever. It was in vain that the sweet, trem- 
 ulous tones of his wife preached the duty of forgiveness. ' 
 
 " I have forgiven him," was the uniform reply, " but I never ' 
 will forget." i 
 
 Still the old man's stubborness made him miserable, and 
 granny Bray, in kindness (whether judiciously or not ia 
 aiiotner matter) ceased not to tell him of it every day. 
 
 As New-Year's day approached, a feeling exceedingly un- ■ 
 comfortable seemed to pervade the atmosphere of the old 1 
 farm-house. It was a festival that had been almost as reli- 
 giously observed as Thanksgiying ; and, should it now be neg- 
 lected ? Grandfather Bray wished that it might, and looked 
 about him for a reason, but none presented itself. As the- \ 
 merry anniversary drew near, even the very clouds and sun- ■' | 
 shine seemed to have an inkling of the old man's state of 
 mind, and to conspire against him. There was a heavy fall 
 of snow on the night of the twenty-eighth ; on the twenty- 
 ninth the roads were somewhat blocked up, and grandfather 
 v/as inclined to think them quite impassable ; indeed, he more 
 than hinted that none but madmen would venture out for al 
 least a week to come. On the thirtieth, however, sleighs 
 flitted here and there like fairy boats on a sea of foam ; and 
 such a day as the thirty-first was an era in the life of pleasure- 
 lovers. The sleighing was a perfect marvel. Oh, how the 
 horses pranced ! And such a jingling of bells ! It was enough 
 to turn the whole world of young folks into Robin Goodfellows, 
 and make the most withered heart dance within the bosom. 
 And hearts did dance, and were mirrored in dancing eyes, 
 and sat upon warm, loving lips, and rang out in glad young 
 voices ; ay, winter though it was,' the earth was radiant with 
 
 I 
 
GRANDFATHER BRAY. 43 
 
 Deauty, and the air vocal with a music far more joyous than 
 the gush of melody from a summer woodland. The last sun 
 'of the old year set in a flood of golden light, and grandfather 
 Bray's heart sank within him. That bevy of try-to-be happy 
 faces haunted him ; he was sure he could not endure another 
 day like the gloomy Thanksgiving ; yet not even a cold had 
 he been able to muster, to confine him to his room. The old 
 man's face grew longer as the evening deepened ; but as no 
 one appeared to observe him, he had no excuse for being surly, 
 and was only sad. 
 
 What a bright mornmg was that of the New Year ! the air 
 was pure and bracing, and a gay dazzling sunlight played 
 :'nany pranks with inclined snow flakes and pendent icicles, 
 ind decked old, withered trees in a gayer garniture than that 
 :)f spring. Granny Bray, with her usual placid smile, deco- 
 rated herself with her newest muslin cap, and folded her 
 whitest 'kerchief across her bosom, and then sat down to her 
 'fnitling in the corner. Mr. Hunter went about his usual 
 inorning avocations, but with unusual alacrity ; his wife took 
 Another look at the pies of pumpkin and mince-meat, the 
 lough-nuts and cookies and gingerbread, and then turned to 
 . whole table full of featherless bipeds, waiting to be roasted ; 
 ivhile the children busied themselves in making ^eadJ^ in 
 heir own way, for a whole troop of expected cousins. Grand- 
 Ither Bray stuinped about the house and barn, and up and 
 iown the nice path cut through the snow to the road, then 
 Irew on his Sunday coat, and made a desperate attempt at 
 heerfulness. But all would not do ; his heart was troubled, 
 'ust as the clock was on the stroke of nine, a pretty pony 
 ashed up to the door with a light vehicle of a somewhat 
 :nique pattern, the self-same little jumper that grandfather 
 lad assisted the two boys of his banished son in contriving 
 nd making. The reins were held by his own favorite grand- 
 i5n , and, by Charley's side, all hooded and cloaked, sat his 
 lOung sister Lucy, ready to spring from the sleigh the moment 
 
 " Cousin Lucy I cousin Lucy ! " shouted the noisy chi.dren ; 
 
44 
 
 GRANDFATHER BRAV 
 
 and before she reached the gate they were all around her, and 
 little Eddy had half precipitated her into the snow-drift in the 
 attempt to jump astride her neck. 
 
 " How glad we are to see you, cousin Lucy ! " and " Did 
 grandfather invite you to New Year's, cozzy?" and "Is uncle 
 James coming ? " were among the questions and exclamations 
 poured upon the little maiden, as she proceeded to the house. 
 
 Even Charley, who kept his station in the sleigh, was for 
 tlie moment forgotten, but it was only a moment. Eddy turned 
 back to him, and, with a delighted scream, accomplished the 
 feat he attempted with Lucy; and the children, attracted by 
 the noise, gathered round the funny little jumper, leaving 
 Lucy with her eldest cousin on the threshold. 
 
 " Does grandfather love m.e yet ? " she whispered in Julia's 
 ear. 
 
 " I don't know," and Julia shook her head, as though sho 
 would have added, " you would n't think he did." 
 
 " Then he never speaks of me ?" inquired the child, in a 
 still softer tone. 
 
 "Poor grandfather!" sighed Julia Hunter; and "Poor 
 grandfather!" echoed Lucy E ray; "poor dear grandfather! 
 It must make him unhappy, not to love everybody; he v/as 
 always so good." 
 
 By this time the door turned on its hinges and Lucy step- 
 ped into the capacious kitchen, where you and I went, lady, 
 the night before Thanksgiving. Grandfather was trying to 
 busy himself over a newspaper, but Lucy's quick eye at once 
 detected the failure, for it was upside down. " A happy New 
 Year, grandfather ! " she said, in a cheerful tone ; and the old 
 man, though he raised his hand, and drew back his head, 
 could not prevent the dewy, red lips, from meeting his. 
 
 " You are cold, Lucy," he attempted to say in an indiffer- 
 ent tone ; but his voice sounded husky and unnatural, and he 
 was ashamed to trust it. 
 
 The meeting between granny Bray and her little grand 
 daughter was a loving one but the child soon turned away 
 
GRANDFATHER BRAY, 45 
 
 from the dear old lady, to one who, notwithstanding his faults, 
 was none the less dear. 
 
 " I did n't come to stay, grandfather, for I know that it would 
 spoil your New Year's to have anybody here that you don't 
 love ; but I did want to bring you some of my socks and mit- 
 tens, you liked them so much last winter. Don't you remem- 
 ber, grandfather, that first pair of mittens ? how they twisted, 
 anil the stripes Avent all askew ? and then how you laughed 
 at me, and put both my hands into one and tied them fast ? 
 But the next pair was done to a charm — don't you recollect? 
 Now, look here, grandfather ! " and Lucy began to display the 
 contents of her basket. 
 
 Grandfather, however, did not look. There was a slight 
 redness about his eyes, and a nervous twitching at the corners 
 of his mouth ; but what principally prevented him from look- 
 ing was the extreme difficulty he had in firiding his way into 
 his pocket, though his only object seemed to be to force an 
 entrance, for when he once accomplished the feat he withdrew 
 his fingers and tried again. In the mean time, Lucy had pro- 
 duced from her basket a neat muslin cap, and granny Bray's 
 snoAA-y head was bared to try the effect of her pretty present. 
 For thirty years her caps had been made by the same hand, 
 and she was sure that no one could suit her but the elder 
 Lucy, 
 
 " Tell your mother," said the old lady, " that it was very 
 kind in her to think of us ; and especially to-day, when we 
 have done the same as to shut the door upon her. Your 
 mother is a good woman, Lucy, and you are a good child." 
 
 " Her mother's child," said the old man, struggling with a 
 whole throatful of emotion, 
 
 Lucy turned her full eyes upon him ; then they brimmed 
 over, and. twining her arms around the old man's neck, she 
 buried her face in his bosom and sobbed, " My father's child, 
 and yours, dear grandfather; you cannot cast me off!" 
 
 The shaking arms closed around her, as if declaring they 
 did not wish to cast her off, and the old man threw a troubled 
 glance upon the floor. It was not the place to gain firmness ' 
 
46 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 for there stood the basket, with the hose and mittens thai 
 nobody but Lucy and her mother could knit just right ; and 
 upon the top lay a pair of cloth slippers, so comfortable that '! 
 his feet felt a strong inclination to creep into them at once. ' 
 How he had wanted just such a pair of slippers ! and how 
 granny, and Mary, and Mary's daughter, Julia, had fretted 
 over them, and at last succeeded in producing a pair that 
 would fit the hoofed foot of — of anything that has such feet, 
 much better than the pedal extremities of any human being. 
 But there was one thing about them that troubled the old 
 gentleman more than all the rest. 
 
 The soling was the handiwork of James. There could be 
 no mistake about it ; James was ingenious and economical, 
 and he had always 3one such things. Grandfather Bray 
 drew the back of his horny hand two or three times across 
 his eyes ; and his aged partner knitted away very earnestly, 
 having — not the tact, oh, no, the old lady was far from being 
 celebrated for skill in that line — but the genuine kindness of 
 heart, to forbear speaking. Prying eyes overthrow a vast 
 amount of good in this world. Honest hearts do not like to 
 be looked into, and spied out, and commented upon, much 
 better than dishonest ones. Emotion of all kinds is a sacred 
 thing, and the man who loves to display it has only the coun- 
 terfeit. Grandfather Bray never counterfeited ; it Avas unne- 
 cessary, for he was in possession of the true coin. All he 
 did was done bluntly and honestly. For a moment he held 
 his breath and winked back the moisture from his eyes ; but 
 the mute evidences of love and carefulness looked up plead- 
 ingly from the child's little basket, and told of by-gone days ; 
 and the precious burden within his arms, quivering all over 
 with emotion, was too close to his heart not to exert a soften- 
 ing influence upon it. 
 
 " God bless you, Lucj''!" at last the old man broke forth 
 •' Hush your sobbing, child ; hush ! There, there, my little 
 puss, be quiet now, and you shall have everything your own 
 way. Children are so wilful now-a-days ! Do you hear, 
 pussy ? everything your own way," 
 
GRANDFATIIEli BRAY. 47 
 
 " Grandfather ! my — do you mean " 
 
 " Mean ! to be sure I do ; mean a great many things '. 
 Hop down from my knee. Crying children should never 
 kiss; you've sprinkled my face all over with your tears;" 
 and grandfather, thinking he had, by this last remark, proved 
 the impossibility of any of the tears belonging exclusively to 
 himself, rolled the bewildered child from his arm and hurried 
 to the door. 
 
 " Hunter ! John Hunter ! How d'ye do, Charley ? come 
 here, my boy ! we are to have grand times to-day, and you 
 and I must do the little odd jobs, you know. Hunter, harness 
 the horses to the big sleigh, and — hem I — and go over to the 
 corners and bring — ahem ! — bring James Bray, and all the 
 family — all of them, remember, Hunter; down to the cat, if 
 Billy has a notion." 
 
 Off started the overjoyed son-in-law with a skip-hop-and- 
 jump-step, that made the children send up a merry peal of 
 laughter exactly suited to the gayety of the morning ; and 
 grandfather Bray joined in the merriment, though very far 
 from certain that it was not at his expense. Lucy had heard 
 the command ; and she now had both hands clasped about 
 her grandfather's arm, with her sweet, sunny face upturned 
 and looking into his ; while Charley expressed his joy by 
 leaping over the fence and back again three times succes- 
 sively. 
 
 Lady, if you could have looked in at grandfather Bray's 
 that day ! if you could have heard the stale joke applauded, as 
 though that moment coined ! and seen the mirthful faces (to 
 say nothing of the steaming meats and smoking gravies) and 
 heard the long, loud peal that shook the rafters, mingling 
 with the silvery tones of childhood ! If you could have seen 
 and heard all this, I do not say that you would have envied 
 that joyous party, but you would have w^ondered all the rest 
 of the world did not envy them. And Lucy clapped her 
 small, dimpled hands, and skipped and frisked about like a 
 little kitten ; and Neddy declared that grandfather only hug- 
 ged him the closer when they all said he looked like uncle 
 
48 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 
 
 James. Not a word was said of forgiveness, on either side, 
 for when the heart has done its work words are weak things; 
 but nevertheless words did pass ; words of care and considera- 
 tion, and they were appreciated. 
 
 You will wonder, lady, that I have taken you to such a com- 
 mon place, and told you such a very common story ; and I can 
 hardly answer why. It must be that you have kept all home 
 feelings pure and sacred ; the chain of love that passes around 
 your hearth-stone can never have been tarnished by the breath 
 of an unjust or unforgiving spirit. Lady, pardon me ; my 
 story was intended for unreasonable old men like grandfather 
 Bray, and resentful people wrelike his son James ; and I am 
 sorry to have detained you so long. Of course, the fire on 
 your domestic altar never burns dim ; and you are too gentle | 
 and loving to stand up in unbending coldness, because you | 
 happen to be in the right. Would that all were like you, 
 lady : 
 
49 
 
 SONNET TO WINTER. 
 
 Thy brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove ; 
 And palaces of frost-work, on the eye, 
 Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye, 
 
 The pencil, dipped in glorious things above. 
 Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair J 
 
 But cold and cheerless as the heart of death. 
 
 Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath, 
 One soothing whisper for the ear of Care. 
 
 Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring, 
 We watch the bud of promise ; and the flower 
 Looks out upon us at the Summer hour; 
 
 And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring ; 
 Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold. 
 When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold. 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADES--A SONNET 
 
 If there be light upon my being's cloud, 
 
 I '11 cast o'er other hearts its cheering ray ; 
 
 'T will add new brightness to my toilsome way. 
 But when my spirit's sadness doth enshroud 
 
 Hope's coruscations, pleasure's meteor gleam. 
 And darkness settles down upon my heart. 
 And care exerts her blighting, cankering art, 
 
 Then, then, what I am not I '11 strive to seem ; 
 Woe has no right her burden to divide, 
 To cast her shadows o'er a sunny soul ; 
 
 VOL. II. 5 
 
So, though my bark rock on the troubled tide, 
 Or lie, half wrecked, upon the hidden shoal, 
 The flowers of hope shall garland it the while, 
 Though plucked from out her urn in death to smile. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC* 
 
 An angel breathed upon a budding flower. 
 
 And on that breath the bud went up to heaven, 
 Yet left a fragrance in the little bower 
 
 To which its first warm blushes had been given ; 
 And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew. 
 
 And so they both had being in the last, 
 And on this one distilled heaven's choicest dew. 
 
 And rays of glorious light were on it cast, 
 Until the floweret claimed a higher birth. 
 
 And would not open on a scene so drear. 
 For it was more of Paradise than earth, 
 
 And strains from thence came ever floating near ; 
 And so it passed, and long ere noontide's hour, 
 The bud of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower..- 
 
 *Lucretia and Margaret Davidson. 
 
51 
 
 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 Some people are bom to wear a coronet, no doubt ; but 
 why such things happen on this side of the Atlantic, where 
 plain, simple, republican blood alone is allowed to pass cur- 
 rent, I cannot imagine. Yet that such things do actually occur 
 here, I am certain, and so would you be, dear reader of mine 
 if you had ever seen Rosina Brown. Well do I remember 
 her — a tall, dark-haired maiden, in the first half of her teens, 
 with a form remarkably well developed, an easy air, and a 
 very peculiar manner of carrying a head which was in reality 
 a very fine head, when it was not thrown back so far as to 
 destroy the equilibrium of the figure. In school-girl phrase, 
 she was a magnificent creature, with hair like the raven's 
 wing, and eyes to match, features of nature's most exquisite 
 workmanship, a queen-like figure, and a step like Juno's. 
 People less enthusiastic would have said that she was a very 
 fine girl, who, if she did not spoirherself by disagreeable airs, 
 might become a useful and accomplished woman. We were 
 not so tame and common-place, however ; and, from the digni- 
 fied Miss Martin, who had come to Alderbrook "merely to 
 review her studies," doA\Ti to us lisping Peter Parleyites, we 
 al. regarded such equivocal encomiums with the contempt 
 they merited. Oh ! how we did lament the vulgarity of 
 American society, and deprecate the debasing sentiment which 
 is the corner-stone of our government. But for those " rusty- 
 fusty old men," who^ut their heads together, as old men are 
 forever doing, to destroy all the dear, delightful romance of 
 life, by making believe that all the people in the world are 
 born free and equal, our splendid beauty might have been at 
 least a countess. 
 
 " The head of Zenobia ! " Miss Martin would sigh, and, 
 
52 BORN TO WEAll A CORONET. 
 
 " Such a head ! " came the echo from lip after lip, with a half- 
 lisped finis from the baby-pet, Fanny Forester. 
 
 Alas ! that Nature, who it is generally believed may be im- 
 plicitly trusted in matters touching pedigree, should, on this 
 occasion, so far forget herself as to send a model for a princess 
 of the blood royal across the water, where women are expected 
 to wash their own dishes and scrub their own floors ! 
 
 It must have been some awkward mistake, and I have since 
 c 3me to the conclusion that Miss Rosina Brown was intended 
 for the Queen of England, and the more simple Victoria for 
 Miss Rosina Brown. Be that as it may, many were the 
 fresh-hearted, simple-souled little damsels who threw up their 
 pretty hands in ecstasy at every sentiment she uttered, and 
 heard her animadvert on fashion, refinement, and, above all, 
 aristocracy, with staring eyes and gaping mouths. Among 
 these did Miss Rosina move a queen, though deprived of any 
 other court. We vinderstood the contraction of her brow, the 
 drawing up of her neck, and the curl of her lip perfectly well ; 
 and unfortunate indeed was the stranger who, by some pecu- 
 liarity of voice or manner, or the display of some article of 
 dress not precisely in accordance with our sovereign's taste, 
 called down upon herself these unequivocal marks of disap- 
 probation. But Miss Browr>, (if her title must needs be simple 
 Miss, pray why couldn't it have been Neville or Montfort, or 
 something that had at least a shadow of nobility about it ?) 
 Miss Brown, with all her holdings forth on aristocracy, could 
 not have defined the word any better than two thirds of the 
 b'illiant misses and ambitious mammas that have so well nigh 
 exhausted the theme by their continual harpings, both before 
 her day and since her settlement. She knew that aristocrats 
 were a touch above the \ ulgar, that they lost caste by making 
 themselves useful, that they should not come in contact with 
 — with — well, even I, her pet pupil, have forgotten whom; 
 but it is a class whose traits it is given them to understand 
 intuitively. That aristocracy is a shadowy word to me yet ; 
 for it is enveloped in the misty veil of Miss Brown's explana- 
 tions. I think it conveyed the idea of some exclusive privi- 
 
BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 53 
 
 leges, I do not recollect what, and a particular way of bowing 
 and curtsying, I have forgotten how ; whether it had anything 
 to do with the curl of the hair, or bend in the bridge of the 
 nose, I cannot say ; but it certainly had with the curvature of 
 the lips, for I recollect one sweet little girl was voted plebeian 
 by Miss Brown's court, because, after numerous lessons, she 
 could not throw up the corners of her pretty mouth, as my 
 Zikka does when angered by the bit. Neither do I know 
 whether high birth had part or parcel in the matter of making 
 an aristocrat, but I half suspect in theory it had ; for I remem- 
 ber one young lady who was considered an unfit associate, 
 because her father was a " vile mechanic ;" and Miss Brown 
 carefully concealed from us the fact, that her dear papa was 
 the same Adam Brown, the flower of his profession, who had 
 graced so well the character of " mine host," proud, rather 
 than ashamed, of the gilt letters emblazoned on the swinging 
 sign before his door. Adam Brown was a worthy, pains- 
 taking man, kind and affable, and very much of a gentleman 
 withal, having not the slightest suspicion that his business 
 was incompatible with the maintenance of that character. 
 Neither was his fair daughter troubled with any qualms about 
 the matter ; but she flitted like the gladsome thing that she 
 was among the numerous visitors, laid the snowy cloth, served 
 the tea, and performed the thousand other offices that none 
 can grace so well as a sweet little girl, flashing with spirit 
 and dimpling with good humor. Indeed, though afraid of 
 scandalizing myself by the expression of such a sentiment, I 
 do more than half suspect that much of Miss Brown's Zeno- 
 bian grace was picked up in this very manner. If she did 
 not owe the shape of her head to the duties of the hostel, she 
 certainly did the carriage of it ; and not a coroneted brow in 
 Christendom could bear its honors more proudly than she the 
 clustering wealth of her own black tresses. But things were 
 not destined to continue long in such an even course. Adam 
 Brown died, lamented as men who "act well their parts" 
 always will be, and left his daughter an heiress. 
 
 Of such stuff as this are American aristocrats made — they 
 
 VOL. IT. 5*" 
 
54 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 lay the parent who has toiled for them in his grave, and rear 
 the fabric of their miserable, degrading glory on his ashes. 
 Their fathers are honest laborers, they are spendthrifts and 
 mountebanks, and their children, if no worse, are beggars. 
 (Dear reader ! a word in your ear. From the dash a couple 
 of sentences back, not a word of all this rant is mine ; but, 
 unluckily, there is leaning over my shoulder a Democratic 
 monomaniac — a genuine Jeffersonian Polk-and-Texas-man, 
 as he calls himself, and I must needs submit, now and then, 
 to an interpolation.) . 
 
 It was a sad day when our clique of exclusives was broken 
 up by the loss of the nucleus round which we gathered ; but 
 we all promised never, never to forget Rosina Brown, and 
 kept the promise as well as school-girls usually do. In a 
 short time rumor brought to our ears something, I scarce 
 know what, about her marriage ; and, one by one, most of 
 us followed in her wake, till scarce a heart in our little band 
 but beat the echo to another's throbbings. Then we were 
 scattered widely ; none but us " little ones " remaining at 
 Alderbrook, and we were of course so fluttered at the idea of 
 growing up into womanhood as to forget our a-b-c days en- 
 tirely. Even our little keepsakes found their way into the 
 ashes, or at best some old bag or oaken chest in the garret j 
 and scarce a trace remains to tell of by-gone days, except, 
 now and then, a faded flower within the heart, which the 
 dews of memory cannot soften into life. Thus lasting are the 
 friendships founded on a. momentary fancy, and nourished by 
 flattery. Sometimes I felt some interest — not curiosity, oh, 
 no ! — in the fate of my dear Rosina; but I always quieted 
 myself with the reflection that she must be the star of some 
 proud circle ; and, if truth must be told, I had become so in 
 love with the quiet, simple beauties of our darling Underbill, 
 that I valued her estate but lightly, however high it might be. 
 But of its elevation I doubted not ; and when fame conde- 
 scended, now and then, to waft the name of some beautiful 
 lady, one who was the cynosure of all eyes in her own land, 
 
BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 55 
 
 across the Atlantic, I involuntarily inquired if she were not 
 American born. 
 
 More than a dozen years had passed when I took a journey 
 to the far west. Oh ! those wild, luxuriant woods ! Every 
 pulse within me dances at the remembrance of them, and 
 even yet my heart flutters like a caged bird in sight of its own 
 free heaven. How I clapped my hands, and laughed, and 
 shouted in baby-like glee, until the old woods rang with 
 ten thousand answering echoes. Then how I sat and 
 dreamed, till fancy transported me to gay Sherwood, and I 
 detected among the changing foliage the Lincoln green, and 
 started at every leaf that rustled, expecting to see peering out 
 upon me the face of bold Robin Hood, or some one of his 
 merry foresters. Oh ! beautiful wild, wild west ! I love 
 thee, not " despite thy faults," but, as rare Elia did things 
 scarce more loveable, " faults and all." I love even thy cor- 
 duroy roads, mud and underbrush, log houses without win- 
 dows, quizzing inhabitants, and gruff, bragging hosts, who 
 think it very strange that people can have any objection to 
 sleeping a dozen in a room, particularly if it be summer, and 
 that room has no air-hole but a chink in the wall, made for 
 the especial benefit of beetles and musquitoes. 
 
 We had left Will Waters' fine farm away in the distance, 
 and commenced our return home. Oh, such roads ! Our 
 ample wagon was like a miniature ark of particularly clumsy 
 make, now rising on the tip-top of a billow, and suddenly sink- 
 ing almost out of sight. Then we had an over- turn, and that 
 was the climax of the day's enjoyment ; for nobody was hurt, 
 and everybody laughed, and perpetrated stale witticisms and 
 laughed at them again ; till the birds were no doubt convinced 
 that upsetting a big travelling-wagon is one of the rarest sports 
 we humans engage in. Next the horses, panting as though 
 worn out by their own strong will, set their forward feet stub- 
 bornly down, refusing to part company with the turf even for 
 an instant ; the driver flourished his whip and swore roundly , 
 the gentlemen coaxed the horses, soothed the driver, and 
 laughed with us, who, with comical glances, half of mirth half 
 
56 LORN TO WEAR A C0RONET. 
 
 of anxiety, nibbled the tips of our kid gloves and wondered 
 what we should do. Then all at once one prying fellow of 
 our party announced that a spring was broken, a pin lost, or 
 something of that sort had occurred, which women are sure 
 to get wrong if they mention it afterwards ; to which the pro- 
 voking driver responded that a horse had lost a shoe. And 
 so, as in duty bound, we all laughed again, not heartily, as 
 before, but a nervous, hysterical laugh. The gentlemen 
 looked perplexed ; we cast sidelong glances at the woods, as 
 though the wolves had already smelt out our discomfiture, and 
 were only hiding behind the nearest trees till night-fall ; and 
 the driver used harder words than ever. A consultation was 
 now held, rather short to be sure, as consultations are apt to 
 be when there remains but one path to choose ; and then each 
 gentleman tucked his lady under his arm, and on we jogged 
 as merrily as before. It might be five miles, indeed it might 
 be twenty, to any human habitation, but no — it was only one. 
 A neat log cabin, situated in the very centre of a Paradisal 
 bower, its white-washed walls nearly concealed by woodbine 
 and eglantine, loomed up from an expanse of cleared land ; 
 and, all at once, our rejoiced party discovered that we were 
 very tired, and could not have lived to walk farther than this 
 one mile. Beautiful dark-eyed children, in neat, coarse 
 dresses, were playing about the cottage, and .interrupting with 
 the cry — "Oh! look here, father!" — "Father! Robin has 
 hit the target!" — a tall, sun-embro^vned, intellectual looking 
 man, who was reading in the doorway. We were cordially 
 welcomed by this man, and shown into a little room full -of 
 flowers and green bushes, through the leaves of which the 
 hot air, made heavy by the weight of the sunshine, cooled 
 itself and dallied lovingly with the flowers, then came to play 
 about us who knew so well how to appreciate both its fresh- 
 ness and its perfume. 
 
 " A little paradise ! " whispered I. 
 
 " Almost equal to the nestling-place of your friend Nora," 
 returned J — , in the same tone. 
 
BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 57 
 
 " A pretty good house-keeper for the woods, I imagine," 
 added another of our party. 
 
 ' House-keeper, indeed ! Who would think of a house- 
 keeper's arranging all this ? It was undoubtedly some little 
 sprite with taste enough to prefer such a bright spot to fairy- 
 land ! " And I tossed my head in make-believe playfulness ; 
 but, in reality, feeling quite resentful that any one should 
 think of such prosaic things as house-keeping in a place like 
 this. 
 
 So I looked about among the foliage for my sylvan deity, 
 but nothing was there more fairy-like than a domesticated 
 robin, which, perched on a fresh bough that waved above the 
 snowy pine mantel, was practising a little duet with its part- 
 ner in the fragrant bass-wood, just beyond the court-yard 
 fence. But we had no more time for observation or remark. 
 Our hostess, a young Avoman of dignified, matronly air, as 
 unlike a fairy as anything you can imagine, came in to wel- 
 come us ; and, shortly after, we were seated around a plenti- 
 ful board, smoking with hot corn cakes, and the most fragrant 
 imperial, and — oh! didn't we do justice to these same? 
 And did the fresh cream, and the strawberries, and the snovry 
 cold bread for those who preferred it, and the raspberry jam, 
 or any of the other nice things, suffer from neglect ? During 
 the repast the fine eye§ of our hostess frequently turned on 
 me, and there was such a peculiar attraction in their deep 
 darkness, that mine invariably met them. Then there was a 
 little blushing, a little confusion on both sides, and a resolu- 
 tion on my part not to be so rude and stare so again. After 
 tea we repaired to the little embowered parlor, while our 
 hostess was " putting things to rights," and in less than a half 
 hour were joined by her and her htisband. They kept up an 
 interesting conversation, but I was silent and perplexed. 
 There was something in the face, air, and manner of this 
 woodland lady that was familiar ; and at the same time I was 
 sure that I had never seen any one so dignified, so self-pos- 
 sessed, and yet so simple and unaffected in every word and 
 
5S BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 movement. I ran over my list of acquaintances that had 
 " married and gone west ;" but no, it Avas none of these. '■*' 
 
 "Fanny'" exclaimed J., somewhat impatiently, "are youjit 
 dreaming? I have spoken to you three times without getting pi 
 an answer. Our host tells me that his wife spent some of i 
 
 her school-days at Alderbrook." 
 
 " At Alderbrook ? " 
 
 It came like a flash of light. 
 
 " Rosina Brown ! " 
 
 " My little Fanny ! " and we were locked fast in each oth- 
 er's arms. 
 
 My countess, my queen, here in the wilderness, actually 
 washing her own dishes, and sweeping the floor of her own 
 log-house, and " not always with a civilized broom either," as 
 she laughingly asserted. Only think of it ! Of course I was 
 astounded ; and no wonder that I did n't venture on asking a 
 single question, while she overpowered me with a whole vol- 
 ley. But at midnight, when all were'asleep within, and the 
 stars alone kept watch without, (Rosina assured me that there 
 was not a wolf in the whole neighborhood,) we stole away, 
 and beneath the silent trees renewed our former intimacy. 
 
 " And so you wonder," said Rosina, " at my being here. 
 Well, so do I sometimes ; but oftener I wonder why I am so 
 happy, so contented, so willingly circumscribed in my want? 
 and desires, and yet so free in soul and fancy. Believe me, 
 Fanny, I never before knew a single day of such pure, unal- 
 loyed happiness as I have enjoyed every day since we shel- 
 tered our pretty birds within this forest nook. Don't you 
 think they are pretty, Fanny ? They stole their red cheeks 
 from the dewy flowers, and their bright eyes have grown 
 brighter by looking on the teautiful things about them. Then 
 these stately old trees have made them thoughtful and deep- 
 hearted ; and they are little musicians, too, vying with the 
 woodland minstrels in melody." 
 
 " Perfect cherubs — and so happy and healthful !" 
 
 " Yes — happy, and healthful, and frolicsome, as the young 
 colts you must have passed when you wound around the bend 
 
BOKN TO WEAIl A CORONh 
 
 09 
 
 ba] 
 
 n the creek. They used often to be sick, and I watched 
 jeside them until all the color was gone from my cheek, and I 
 icquired this stoop in my shoulders — see! I never shall be 
 traight again ! " 
 
 "Ohl I should n't observe it at all — it is very slight in- 
 ieed, and you will soon overcome it. But do tell me how it. 
 happened that you, of all others, should marry a farmer, and 
 
 and — " 
 
 " A poor man, you would say. I did not." 
 I; And then I listened to a story, of which I should never 
 pave dreamed that Rosina Brown could be the subject. 
 1 Rosina had met Richard Merrival several times before she 
 came to Alderbrook, and their acquaintance was renewed 
 every vacation. So when she had " finished," and he threw 
 bff the student and was admitted to the bar, it was no great 
 wonder that he pleaded his first cause in the queenly presence 
 jof Rosina Brown. It were a pity, ind."'ed, if such a handsome 
 young barrister should plead in vain ; and so Merrival en- 
 snared his lady-bird, and bore her away to toAvn ; and there, 
 ;in an elegant mansion, surrounded by every luxury, their 
 thief study seemed to be how to make everything about them 
 inore luxurious still. At length their means failed, and Mer- 
 rival applied to his father. But this fountain of wealth 
 [was dry. Failure had followed up the old man's golden 
 'schemes, and Richard Merrival and his father were beggars. 
 Rosina saw herself falling; she knew that the magic circle of 
 which she had been the brightest star was shutting her with- 
 out its pale ; the glittering bubble, which, in her girlish days, 
 she believed it the chief aim of her life to grasp closely, was 
 crushed within her hand. All that was bright, all that was 
 gladsome, all that was worthy of possession in this world — 
 every meteor that for long years she had gazed upon and 
 believed a sim — all the roses that had clustered so luxuriantly 
 about her path — all receded now, and the world lay stretched 
 out before her, a wilderness. And yet, an old friend came, 
 one who had loved her when a little girl in the inn by the 
 way-side, and she would not know him. No ! come poverty, 
 
60 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 
 
 come beggary, come starvation even, — these should not oow 
 her spirit to go back to things she had despised. She could 
 suffer, but she would not bend. And so the old friend went 
 away, and Rosina wondered where she should find bread fol 
 her children. 
 
 But Merrival, though he had spent years in idleness, was 
 gifted and eloquent. He knew that his profession was a for- 
 tune in itself, and he gathered strength, as manliness ever I 
 does when struggling with obstacles. With a heart some- 1 
 what lightened, he sat down by his humble fireside at evening,! 
 to gain sympathy from the loved ones. But discontent and| 
 misery were there. His wife complained; his pamperedj 
 children missed their accustomed luxuries, and they com-} 
 plained also ; recrimination followed between the husband and 
 the wife, and they lay down to rest with hearts full of bitter- 
 ness toward each other. Wlien the whole world is the object 
 of bitterness the individual is never spared. 
 
 Weeks passed, and Richard Merrival grew gay again ; but 
 It was over the cup of death. His laugh was long and loud, 
 and his eye had a fearful sparkle to it — a. flash that every one 
 knew was but the kindling of pent-up misery. The little cot- 
 tage grew dark and darker, the loving heart grew desolate ; 
 but on the top wave of anguish rode always the harrowing 
 thought — " Bread ! bread for the little ones whom God has 
 given me ! " 
 
 Months — years went by, and Rosina was a drunkard's 
 wife ! Not a tithe of the degradation of such a lot was 
 abated ; but the bitterness of her spirit was drowned in sor- 
 row. She had watched day and night by the bed-side of 
 innocence, and she grew gentle in such an atmosphere. Then 
 she laid two of her s\veet nurslings in the grave, and so a link 
 was forged between her heart and heaven. 
 
 A change :ame over Merrival. Poverty had taken up its 
 abode by his fireside ; suffering and sorrow were there, but 
 none of these had driven him thence. It was the bitterness 
 of crushed pride ; and that was a guest there no longer. He 
 laid his hand upon the icy forehead of his dead child, his first- 
 
BORN TO WEAK A CORONET. 61 
 
 bom darling boy, and took upon his soul a voav, and that vow 
 never was broken. And now behold them, pale and weary, 
 but calm and hopeful, wending their way to the far west, 
 where they might forget their vain dreams and their degrada- 
 tion together. 
 
 " We are yet poor in gold and lands," continued Rosina, 
 "but are rich in health and peace, in our children, and in 
 each other. And now, my dear Fanny," she added, as we 
 turned toward the house, " I am as aristocratic as ever We 
 lord it over the natives of these wilds, the birds and beasts, as 
 though we were peers of the realm — Nature's realm — and 
 claim the exclusive privilege of making each other happy, and 
 of offering our humble roof to the stranger benighted in these 
 woods, — privileges which not a living thing about us ventures 
 to exercise." 
 
 " But do you never long for society, Rosina ? " 
 
 "Society?" 
 
 She led me to a couch where two living rose-buds, two 
 bright-lipped sleeping Hebes, lay nestling in each other's 
 arms, and throwing back rich clusters of golden curls, kissed 
 cheek, and lip, and forehead, — a gentle, loving pressure, so 
 mother-like that a tear sprang to my eye, for I seemed again 
 Ijring in my ovm little cot at Alderbrook. 
 
 " Look at these, Fanny ; and my two noble boys ! What 
 more society could I desire, unless it be his .' I wish you 
 knew my husband, Fanny. I used to boast that he Avas a 
 perfect gentleman, and so he was ; but that is an abused term, 
 and now I know the highest praise that I can offer ;? ♦hat he 
 is a man! — in heart, and soul, and intellect, a man — l\ill of 
 integrity, and courage, and strength, and truth — in short, my 
 little Fanny, he is, as I suppose every loving wife thinks of 
 her lucky Benedict — the one man in the tvorld ! " 
 
 It was almost morning when Mrs. Merrival and myself 
 gave the good-night kiss, and turned away to dream of our 
 school-days at Alderbrook. 
 
 When the sun arose, and the discovery was made that we 
 should be detained a whole day and night longer in our par- 
 
 VOL. II. 6 
 
62 BORN TO WEAiJ A CORONET. 
 
 lor-bower, my resignation on the occasion entitled me to become 
 pattern-woman for the whole party ; and our hostess looked 
 anything but sad at our discomfiture. It was a happy day ; 
 and, when evening came again, I no longer wondered that 
 Rosina was satisfied with her society. In the course of the 
 day I took a peep into the little library, composed of a few 
 choice volumes, to which the Merrivals had clung in weal and, 
 woe ; walked into the garden and viewed, not only the wall 
 fiowers and sweet peas, but the beans and cabbages ; and then 
 went to the log barn across the creek, and brought in our 
 own hands the fresh eggs that were served up for dinner. I 
 learned, also, that JVI^ster Robert Merrival, the active little 
 fellow who had just " hit the target," on our arrival, mounted 
 the pony Roger every Saturday, and rode off fifteen miles, to 
 the nearest post-office, whence he returned well . laden with 
 papers and letters. 
 
 Another morning came, and we turned with reluctance 
 from our parlor-bower, and with still more reluctance from the 
 dear ones who had constructed it, to pursue our journey. 
 The adieus, the prayers and prophecies, the clasping of hands 
 and kissing of lips, I will not attempt to describe ; neither the 
 heart-swell that it took so many miles to calm ; for I would 
 not leave a tear here at the close of my tale. So we parted, 
 the Alderbrook Zenobia and her little worshipper. A strange 
 throne that of rare Rosina Bro-v^Ti's ! — her hut away in the 
 
 green wilderness. And yet — and yet, I do believe 
 
 Well ! I will not brave a straight-jacket for the sake of having 
 mTj say ; but whatever mistake Fortune may have made in 
 the execution of her plan, of one thing I am certain, my 
 proud-browed friend was at least born to wear a coronet. J. 
 says I am mistaken ; that I must be thinking of her husband's 
 " crown. 
 
63 
 
 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. LEAVING HOME; 
 
 " You will be sorry for it, Willard." 
 
 " Sorry ! I tell you, Sophy, I have been in leading string-a 
 long enough ; and I will go where I can, now and then, do as 
 I choose ! " 
 
 " You will be back in less than three days." 
 
 " No, not in less than three years. Come, tell me what 
 I shall bring you from over the seas ; they have all sorts of 
 gimcracks in the Indies, and, maybe, I shall go to China, 
 or — " 
 
 " Or take a peep into Symm's hole, or a ride on the roc's 
 back. Bring me a pair of slippers from Lilliput." 
 
 " I will bring you a pair so small that you cannot wear 
 them, if that is what you like ; and a rare India shawl, to beat 
 cousin Meg's." 
 
 " I hope you will get your purse well replenished ; I dare 
 say. you will find them in New York." 
 
 " New York ! " 
 
 " Don't speak so contemptuously of our mammoth city, 
 Will ; there will be a little fading out of those handsome curls, 
 I dare say, before you will see a larger." 
 
 " I tell you, Sophy, I am going to sea. "What part of the 
 world I may visit, I don't know ; but it will be many a long 
 year before you will see me again." 
 
 " Nonsense, Will, think of scrambling up ropes and perch- 
 ing in the air like a monkey ! You have always had a taste 
 that way, I know, but try it in a gale, and you would soon 
 come to the conclusion that you had a little too much of it. 
 Come, this freak of yours is all nonsense ; be obedient, and 
 father will be kind to you, but you know it was wrong for you 
 to go " 
 
64 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 " I know it was not wrong, Sophy, and I am glad I went. 
 I should like to know what right anybody has to hinder me 
 from speaking to a school-fellow now and then, or even from 
 shaking my toe in a dance, if I choose. Wondrous good 
 some people are, indeed ! I wish they would tell me how 
 much w )rse dancing is than anger ; and did n't you see how 
 pale he turned ? James turned pale, too, for I believe he 
 thought I would get knocked down. I almost wish he had 
 done it." 
 
 "WiUard!" 
 
 " He drives me to it, Sophy." 
 
 " If you go away with these bad feelings, I am afraid you 
 never will come back again." 
 
 " Maybe — but — yes, I shall — of course I shall. I shall 
 want to see you, and — and all. Oh, I shall come back some- 
 time." 
 
 " I am afraid not, WiUard." 
 
 The observation seemed to induce a new train of thought, 
 for the boy's excited countenance assumed an unusual sober- 
 ness ; a tear crept to his eye and twinkled on the upraised 
 lash, but he brushed it hastily away, and with a " never fear 
 for that, Sophy," sprang to the door, as though afraid to trust 
 his voice with another word. The sister waited awhile for his 
 return, thinking that he would at least bid her a good-night ; 
 but when she perceived that he was not coming, she began to 
 persuade herself that he was ashamed of his folly and would 
 be in oetter temper in the morning, or that her father would 
 abate some of his sternness ; at any rate, somehow, the diffi- 
 culty would be settled, as others had been before ; and so she 
 went to sleep. These troubles were nothing new to her. 
 Judge Lawson was a noble-minded, upright man, who exer- 
 cised a kind of patriarchal sway, not only in his family, but 
 over the whole neighborhood. He was a good father and a 
 kind neighbor in the main, but stern and self-willed; all 
 suavity and gentleness when obeyed, but woe to the luckless 
 one who dared to oppose his plans or wishes ! To such, 
 if the truth must be owned, Judge Lawson was a tyrant. He 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 65 
 
 liad managed, however, without unpleasant bickerings, to 
 bring up his family in the strictest integrity; and they were 
 now about him, doing honor to his gray hairs. They had 
 yielded to him ; he had led them wisely, and now they 
 honored him with all their hearts. Sons and sons-in-law 
 looked up to him with reverence ; all but a bold, daring boy, 
 his youngest child, the handsomest and the bravest, but, alas ! 
 so full of faults ! Willard had talents, but he did not like the 
 trouble of cultivating them ; like many another, he was so 
 well satisfied with his natural acuteness, that he could see no 
 necessity for bestowing labor on the mental soil. Mistaken 
 Willard ! Mista'ken thousands ! He was spirited as a young 
 colt that spurns the bit, and grew restive under his father's 
 control before he had reached a dozen summers. Now he had 
 grown into a tall stripling, and considered himself very nearly 
 a man, and was he to be led about like a baby? I think — I 
 do not know — but I really think that if Judge Lawson had 
 not been quite so authoritative and unbending, his son Willard 
 would have been more manageable ; but yet I must admit that 
 the Judge never required anything of him which was not 
 right. Then Willard was frank and joyous, with a heart full 
 of generous sentiments and brimming over with sympathy and 
 kindness ; and it must be owned that there was something 
 which shut down over his spirit like a lid whenever he entered 
 his father's house. He had felt it when a little boy playing in 
 the sunshine on the lawn ; and used to think, when called in 
 at evening, of the atmosphere of a damp, dark cellar in the 
 spring-time ; but the uncomfortable feeling had increased as 
 he grew older, and now Willard Lawson did not love his 
 home. It was a rare good place for his intellect, but there 
 was no room there for his heart to expand. All were kind, 
 his sister Sophia especially so, but it was a kindness which 
 was always smooth, and even, and cold ; no bubbling, no sud- 
 den gushes, like the spring which lures the travel-stained 
 wanderer from the way-side, or the fountain leaping up at the 
 kiss of the breezes and the glancd of the sun-ligiu ; but a quiet, 
 cahn, lifeless sort of kindness, that seemed to lack that uni' 
 
 ■"OL. II. 6* 
 
66 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 versal inspiration — love. So he went away from home for 
 society, not always selecting the best, for how could the boy 
 know how to choose rightly? He found more sympathy 
 without doors than within, and so Willard Lawson, young as 
 he was, had set both feet resolutely in a most dangerous path. 
 Beware, Willard ! Nay, but he will not beware ; he has 
 •'been in leading strings long enough," and he has resolved 
 en emancipation. 
 
 How much Willard Lawson slept that night I will not 
 attempt to say ; how many misgivings visited his heart in the 
 lone darkness, or how much dearer his home became as he 
 thought upon the words of his sister : " If you leave us with 
 these bad feelings, I am afraid you never will come back 
 again." The thoughts and emotions were his own, his own 
 to brood over, his own to hmy; forget he probably never 
 would. Morning dawned at last, and by the first faint glim- 
 mer Willard rose and dressed himself. He then walked 
 about the little room as though taking a farewell of every 
 article of furniture, and looked from the window, and walked 
 again, till a tear, actually a big round tear, rolled from his 
 eyes like a red-hot bullet, and dropped upon his hand. He 
 was alone now, and so it was no shame to weep ; and Willard 
 did not even put a hand to his eyes while the liquid sorrow 
 rained down over his cheeks in torrents. Poor boy ! It is a 
 pitiful thing to forsake the roof which sheltered us in our 
 helplessness ; where the only real love the wide earth knows 
 beamed on our infant eyes ; where tenderness and purity and 
 truth bud and blossom in the sunshine of kindness and the 
 dew of innocence; the dear hallowed hearth-stone, circled 
 round with sacred affections, — pitiful to leave it, and for 
 what? Thank God for the gilded veil behind which the 
 Protean future is allowed to conceal her features ! Who 
 would look into the book of fate and read at a glance his ovm 
 destiny? Willard Lawson had no very bright hopes this 
 morning ; for the false star glittering but yesterday before his 
 eyes, had set in darkness, been extinguished in tears. He 
 had laughed and sported in that room, he had slept there 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 67 
 
 while angels guarded him, he had lisped his first prayers 
 there, and there too had he almost forgotten the duty. He 
 was still but a boy, and yet he was very much changed ; and 
 he thought upon this change with sadness. What an inno- 
 cent little fellow he was when he went to sleep hugging his 
 first top to his bosom, and thinking what a dear good papa 
 his was to bring such an invaluable present from the town I 
 And how often, in his childish reverence, had he thought of 
 that same father, and wondered if his Heavenly Father could 
 be any better or any wiser ! And how disobedient he had 
 been of late, and self-willed, and disrespectful ; in actions 
 rather than words, and in thoughts more than either. Dost 
 thou relent, Willard ? Is there not a softening in thy heart ? 
 Are not thy lips moving to the words, " I will arise and go 
 unto my father ? " Ah ! stay thee, rash youth ! Gently, 
 gently ! There is a balm in penitential tears ! I already see 
 the rainbow arching thy heart. It is a precious moment, 
 Willard ; beware I Nay, all is lost ! That movement below, 
 followed by the whistle of Bluff Bill, the man-of-all-work, has 
 sent other thoughts into the head of the stripling, and the 
 scale is turned. The tears are brushed away, and in quiet, 
 but hurriedly, the room is left without a tenant. 
 
 Willard stood in the yard, beneath the dear old trees where 
 he had sported in childhood. The large, long-limbed butter- 
 nut had never seemed so beautiful as now, since the day when, 
 an urchin in petticoats, he had scrambled up its jagged trunk 
 to get a peep into the snug little home of Madam Redbreast, 
 and came down again amid huzzas and chidings ; and as for 
 the elm trees, he had pruned them himself many a time, and 
 he had watched them year after year, till he knew the position 
 of every graceful branch against the sky, as he knew the 
 places of the children at his father's table. There was a 
 locust precisely his own age, and the circumstance had been 
 so often mentioned, that he felt as though somehow that tree 
 belonged to him — was linked to his life — was a part of him- 
 self, which he ought to carry away, or rather which he ought 
 to stay and cherish. He cast a glance around to see that no 
 
68 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 one was near , and then he threw his arms about the dear old 
 tree, and pressed his hps to the rough, dewrspangled bark, as 
 though it had been a living object of love. This done, he 
 looked back upon the house hurriedly, and passed on. In the 
 stable stood gay Larry, the fine young saddle-horse, which 
 turned at the sound of his voice, and laid his finely arched 
 neck over his shoulder, with all the affection of a child; and 
 he patted the animal and passed his. hand over his smooth 
 glossy skin, and then buried his face in the flowing mane 
 and wept unrestrainedly. Poor Willard ! Larry was an old 
 playmate, and that Larry loved him was clear, for to no other 
 
 ne was he so gentle and obedient. Oh, if Larry could but 
 go with him ! Our hearts warm toward thee, dear Willard, 
 more than they did a half-hour since, when th,e careless 
 whistle of Bill awakened thee to all thy stubbornness; for there 
 
 s that in thy spirit which the angels know to be priceless. 
 Thou art even as mettlesome as thy pet Larry ; but thou art 
 good and noble, too, for thou lovest the poor dumb animals 
 which look up to thee for care and protection, even as thou 
 shouldst look to Heaven. Mayst thou never lose the manly 
 softness, young Willard ! The lad found as he passed on 
 that he had bestowed more love on Lawson farm than he had 
 i)nagined. The cows — one in particular, which had always 
 been called his — looked into his face with a kind of pleading 
 mournfulness — a sad, beseeching expression, that seemed to 
 him made up of love and censure ; and then they came 
 lowing after him, as though they would yet entreat his return. 
 Even the fowls gathered about his feet fainiliarly, and raised 
 a chorus of sounds which it was not difiicult for him to inter- 
 pret. " Sir Chaunticlere" shook his long parti-colored plumes 
 ominously, and sent out a shrill, high-ringing warning ; the 
 hens, cackling, flocked before him, like a swarm of butterflies 
 in August; and a dove flew from its perch to his shoulder, 
 and then nestled in his bosom, looking up to him, with its 
 warm, melting eyes swimming in love as his were in tears 
 There is yet time to retract, Willard. Take back those dan- 
 gerous steps, and no one will know they have beeri troddeq. 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 69 
 
 No, this is not among things possible to the boy. The part- 
 ing is taking the very life from the innermost core of his 
 heart, tearing away the threads which invisible fingers have 
 been braiding within, ever since his baby foot first tottered on 
 the threshold of being : but who ever suspected Willard Law- 
 son of wavering or fickleness? Why, we might as soon 
 expect the judge himself to change his mind and reverse a 
 decision ! Willard, boy as he is, will never hesitate and falter 
 after he has resolved; but it is no part of his philosophy to 
 dispense with feeling. Perhaps — I am not sure how strong 
 the sense of right may be in his bosom — but, perhaps, if he 
 were thoroughly convinced that he was taking a wrong step, 
 one which he would regret in all after life, he might yet be 
 induced to go back and nestle again, more lovingly than ever, 
 among the dear old associations Avhich are clustering around 
 him, striving to entangle for good his erring feet. But 
 Willard, with his bold, free spirit swelling in his bosom, will 
 never stay with Larry and the other dumb things that love 
 him, at what his boyish inexperience deems a sacrifice of his 
 yet unbearded manliness. 
 
 Willard passed from the barnyard without venturing to 
 look upon the garden patch, for he had had chiding enough 
 without listening to the gentle murmurs of the green things 
 that the morning breeze was dallying with ; and leaping the 
 stile, he took his way across a rich field of clover, which the 
 little spirits of the night and the messenger sun-rays had 
 decked out in matchless diadems. Sometimes a little sheet 
 of gossamer, fastened to shafts of emerald, gleamed with all 
 the colors of the rainbow, here and there breaking from its 
 fastenings, as highly gifted spirits sometimes sink beneath the 
 weight of tneir own wealth. Spires of grass bent beneath 
 clusters of the same jewels ; and the fragrant clover-heads and 
 nodding butter-cups flashed and sparkled like the coronet of a 
 duchess. Birds, sweet, glad little creatures, with wings and 
 voices but too familiar, carolled from the tree-tops, or wheeled 
 and careered in mid-air, mad with exultant happiness, (blessed 
 npirits of the air !) and the bee, in his glossy black coat, with 
 
70 "WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 more gold than even a gay courtier of the olden time would 
 have cared to deck his mantle vi^ith, sped beneath the soft 
 clouds Wee an arrow, and plunged headlong among the luxu- 
 riant sweets of the fragrant clover blossoms. How all these 
 glad things contrasted with the heavy spirit of the young 
 wanderer ! A stream went dancing and bubbling hy, right 
 il^errily ; and close beside the rustic bridge was a deep place, 
 where he had angled for trout for many a summer. Willard 
 glanced at it and seemed inclined to stop, then passed on — 
 returned again, and kneeling' down, bent his head far over 
 and peered earnestly down into the water, A fin swept by, 
 with a thin layer of silver over it ; and he caught a glimpse 
 of a mottled back, crimson and amber, and a pale, soft azure 
 in a setting of gray. Another followed, and then came a troop 
 of little silver things, huriying after each other, as though oil 
 their way to a fairy wedding, scarce rippling the water as they 
 went. Willard caught by a branch of the birch tree that grew 
 there when he first opened his eyes on the landscape, and 
 swung himself to the bank. His seat was as soft as the rich- 
 est carpet, woven of glossy brown and gold ; and as he again 
 bent over the stream, he scooped up handfuls of the cold water 
 and dashed them over his burning face, jewelling his wavy 
 hair and the luxurious bank together. Along the borders of 
 the stream grew clumps of willows, their narrow leaves trem- 
 bling on the breath of the morning, and now and then a wild 
 elm, shagged with green away down to the earth, or a round- 
 topped maple, or a silver-coated beech ; and at their roots 
 sprang troops of flowers, bending their blue and crimson cups 
 to the water, while in the spots of light breaking through their 
 branches swarmed clans of bright-hued insects, dipping their 
 gay wmgs in the liquid gold of morning, and warming their 
 bloodless limbs at the heart of nature. It was beautiful, and 
 Willard had often thought so ; but now his heart yearned to- 
 ward the familiar scene, and he would have taken the whole 
 to his bosom and folded his arms about it as tenderly as a 
 mother clasps the child she dotes upon. Again the tears 
 rushed to his eyes, and again he dashed the cool water upon 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 71 
 
 his face ; and, without turning for another glance, hurried on. 
 Tlie sheep were speckling the green of the neighboring pas- 
 tures, and the horses were bounding and tossing their manes 
 in play, or quietly cropping the grass at their feet ; but Wil- 
 lard had grown wiser and did not trust himself among them. 
 He sprang over the fence and proceeded resolutely along the 
 roadside. But his trials were not yet over. With a cry of 
 |oy, that seemed almost human, a dog rushed over the banks 
 among the thorny bushes, scattering doA\'n a shower of rain- 
 drops, bounded over the fence, and leaped, quivering all over 
 with gladness, to the shoulders of his young master. 
 
 " Good dog ! good Rover ! " exclaimed the boy, in a husky, 
 broken voice, patting the head and smoothing the neck of his 
 favorite. " Good fellow ! I did not want to scold you, and 
 so — Bill should have known better than to set you free. 
 But I must take nothing, not even my o^vn dog, from the 
 farm. Go back. Rover, go back ! " 
 
 The dog seemed to understand the words, though they 
 were spoken low and sorrowfully and without a gesture, and 
 he looked up with his large meek eyes into the boy's face — 
 oh, so pleadingly ! Poor Willard's heart had been swelling 
 until his bosom seemed hardly large enough to contain it, but 
 this last appeal was too much ; and, with uncontrollable sob- 
 bings, he threw himself u^on the neck of his dumb favorite, 
 and clung to him as though he had no other'associate or friend 
 on earth. And he had no other now. Poor Willard ! For 
 awhile the wanderer sobbed on in utter abandonment ; the 
 dog now thrusting his nose into his bosom, now licking his 
 hands and face, and striving by such mute eloquence to win 
 him from his grief, whatever might have occasioned it. At 
 last the youth mastered the emotion, and with trembling lip 
 and swimming eye -stood again upon his feet. 
 
 " Go home, Rover — go ! Go, Rover ! Rascal ! down ! 
 do-wn ! go home I " 
 
 The dog, at the first command, given falteringly, had 
 sprung again to his master's shoulders, wagging his tail, as 
 though to congratulate him on his restored calmness. But at 
 
72 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 the last words, spoken authoritatively, he crouched at his feet, 
 whining piteously, and looking up to his face with the most 
 beseeching fondness. If the eyes be the mirror of the soul, 
 what a soul some brute animals must have ! Willard turned 
 his head from their chidnig, appealing gaze, and choked down 
 the heart that was springing to his throat, while, in a louder 
 and still more commanding tone, he exclaimed, pointing with 
 his finger and stamping with his foot, " Back, Rover ! Go 
 home ! " 
 
 The dog only lowered his head quite to the dust, and 
 whined more piteously than before. Perhaps Willard was 
 afraid to trust his voice again, but he certainly was resolved 
 on making the animal obey him. Taking a knife from his 
 pocket, he proceeded, not very deliberately, to a tree which 
 drooped its heavy branches over the stone wall by the way- 
 side. The dog did not move, but his large, pitiful eyes fol- 
 lowed his young master to the tree, and watched him with a 
 look of meek sorrow while he cut a limb from it and hastily 
 trimmed away the leaves. But — as he returned ! Willard 
 was within a yard of his mutely eloquent friend, when the 
 dog seemed of a sudden to comprehend his intent; and with 
 a sharp, piercing cry, made up of more emotions than often 
 swell in a human bosom — a cry of intense, heart-crushing 
 anguish — he leaped the fence and" bounded away. Willard 
 Avatched him ; not with tears now, for there was something 
 horrifying in what he had done, but with a kind of awe- 
 stricken fear, until he reached the little bridge which had been 
 thrown over the creek in the pasture. Here the dog for the first 
 time relaxed his speed, turned about, and stretching his neck, 
 ominously, in the direction in which Willard stood, sent forth 
 a long, dismal howl. Howl after howl — howl after howl — 
 prolonged — 'terrible ! And the boy, putting his fingers to 
 his ears, ran with all his speed, till he had left the hill between 
 himself and his home. Pause once more, and bethink thee, 
 Willard ! Perchance, that far-off howl, dying now in the dis- 
 tance, is warning thee of coming evil. Pause, and think ! 
 
 As Willard hurried on, though he passed familiar farm 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 73 
 
 houses, bidding adieu to the scenes of boyhood, perhaps for- 
 ever, a change gradually came over him ; for the clear, fresh 
 air of morning brushed his cheek and cooled his forehead 
 giving courage to his heart ; and the brisk motion quickened 
 his blood and took some of the pain from his pulse-throbs. 
 By degrees his thoughts passed over from the things he was 
 leaving, to the future ; and he went on, whistling " A life on 
 the ocean wave," and carelessly switching the thistles and 
 May-blossoms with the stick which he had^ut for Rover. 
 
 CHAPTER II. A STRANGER. 
 
 Willard had been wandering by the wharf all day, passing 
 from one vessel to another, talking with seamen and laying 
 plans for the future with apparent boldness ; but, spite of all 
 this, there was a desolate feeling at his heart, which was fast 
 writing itself in unboyish characters of thought upon his face. 
 He still had with him the stick which he brought from Law- 
 son farm ; and carried suspended from it a small bundle of 
 things which he had taken the forethought to tie up in a 
 pocket handkerchief on the morning he left home. This, 
 with a very scanty purse, was all he had on earth ; neither 
 money, nor goods, nor friends. But he possessed that which 
 was worse for" him, unguided as he was, than his wants — a 
 bold, impulsive nature, self-confidence and an undoubting 
 trust in others, warmth and energy and gayety, and a desire 
 to see everything and test everything ; Avhile, just at this 
 moment, when he most needed it, a hinge was loosened in his 
 strong heart. He wandered alone to a back street, dark, nar- 
 row and filthy, for he was taking his first lesson in economy, 
 and seated himself on a bench at the door of an alehouse. 
 Strange beings were passing by. The drunkard and the 
 pauper, the undisguised miserable and the degraded mirthful in 
 their misery, the needy beggar and the beggar by profession, 
 all went trooping on ; varied only now and then by a face 
 which had some tokens of decency in it, to break up the dis- 
 gusting monotony. After awhile men began to gather in the 
 
 VOL. u. 7 
 
■i WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 alehouse, for night came creeping on. And such men ! Wil- 
 lard had never dreamed of their bke before. There were 
 oaths and blasphemies, and brutal jests and coarse loud peals 
 of laughter, and wrangling, with now and then an expostula- 
 tion that had but little gentleness about it ; and as Willard 
 listened, he moved uneasily on his bench and looked about 
 him with some anxiety, for his prospects for the night were 
 anything but agreeable. But should he be coward enough to 
 change his quarters ? Willard was but a boy, and boys have 
 some super-refmed notions of courage. He stretched him- 
 self upon the bench, placing his little bundle under his head. 
 He had not been in this position long when his attention was 
 attracted by another new-comer. The stranger was tall and 
 broad-shouldered — magnificently made ; and as he stept into 
 the light beyond the doorway, Willard raised his head and 
 looked after him admiringly. Was it some brigand chief, 
 some proud and powerful sea-robber, or could it be a mere 
 common man like the others there, smoking and drink- 
 ing and swearing ? He could not be a good man, for Wil- 
 lard knew that this was no place for the good. And yet he 
 did not look like one given to vicious habits or evil passions. 
 His rich, wavy hair was slightly grizzled, but it had evidently 
 been touched by no pencil more objectionable than Time car- 
 ries ; his complexion was pale and delicate, quite unlike that 
 of a sea-robber ; and his soft blue eye was full of mildness 
 and love. He wore a stiff, military-looking coat, buttoned 
 closely to the chin, displaying his strong musciilar propor- 
 tions to the best advantage, and carried in his hand a heavy 
 walking-stick, headed vdtfc silver. Willard could not discover 
 in what the stranger's peculiarity either of dress or manner 
 consisted, and yet there w is a peculiarity which attracted the 
 attention of all the bar-room loungers. He spoke a word or 
 two to those nearest him on entering, in a voice of singular 
 richness and energy ; and then drawing back a little from the 
 company, placed himself upon a settle, just inside the door. 
 He was evidently a stranger to the rest of the company as to 
 Willard ; and although he seemed disinclined to join in their 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 7b 
 
 mirth, his eye wandered from one to another with an inter- 
 ested kind of curiosity, which puzzled our young fnend not a 
 little. Was there any affinity existing between the spirit of 
 the stranger and a scene like this? There was a nobleness iu 
 his countenance and a majesty in his air, which belonged t.) 
 no common person — an arch-angel fallen, perhaps, for, if 
 not fallen, why should he be there among the vicious and 
 degraded? Willard Avatched him wonderingly, and as he 
 watched, the heads within began to dance together, the nighl- 
 lamps joined them, and finally the stars, and at last the boy's 
 dull eyes closed entirely, and his chin rosted upon his shin- 
 collar. Willard was tired and sleepy that night. How long 
 he gave himself up to the dream-spirits he did not know; but 
 when he awoke, a voice of singular kindness, close to his ear, 
 remarked, " You have slept soundly, my son." 
 
 •' I have had an unusual pillow," returned Willard, smilir-, 
 and raising his head from the shoulder where it had rested, 
 " I trust I may not have hugged it too long for its owner's 
 convenience." 
 
 " That is its owner's care. It was presented unasked, and 
 might have been reclaimed at any moment. But, surely," 
 added the stranger, in a lower tone, " you are not in the habit 
 of resorting to such a place as this ? " 
 
 " I might return the compliment," answered Willard, laug!)- 
 ing, " for I take your remark as something of a compliment ; 
 I wondered myself to sleep upon the subject." 
 
 " And what did you decide ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " I have met with better success in my study. You are a 
 stranger." 
 
 "Not quite a companion for men like those? — thank 
 vou." 
 
 " You are far from home, for the first time ? " 
 
 " The first time," returned Willard, with a sigh. 
 
 " You have not always been happy in that home ?" 
 
 " There 's no great skill in that — who has ?" 
 You left it in anger." 
 
76 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 "Go on, wizard." 
 
 " You know you have taken a false step, and feel much 
 regret ; but you are too proud to return." 
 
 " No, no, I am not sorry I have done it. I am not sorry 
 — I wouldn't go back for the world !" 
 
 " Rover misses you." 
 
 Willard started, and turned slightly pale. 
 
 *' And your sister Sophy " 
 
 " Ha ! I believe you are the deuce, man." 
 
 " Not quite, my son ; your guess has even less courtesy in 
 It than mine, when I dub you runaway." 
 
 " Who and what are you that you should know so much 
 of me — know the names of Sophy and Rover ?" 
 
 " I can tell you more — you have a desire to go to sea." 
 
 " Right, but you must have dealings with his black ma- 
 j'^stv." 
 
 " And more." Here the stranger took the youth's hand 
 affectionately in his, and looked into his face with solemn 
 earnestness. " I can tell you more, my son ; and I am no 
 magician to discover it. I see it written upon your forehead ; 
 I see it beaming in your eye. God has done that for you 
 which may make you among men like yonder star among- 
 these feeble lamp-lights. He has gifted you with a quick, 
 powerful intellect, and a warm, earnest heart ; but that power 
 may be degraded and spend itself on trifles ; that warmth may 
 be perverted. The gallant craft you are about to launch upon 
 the broad ocean of the world, (pardon me, my son,) with tender 
 sails and Avarped rudder, is a thing too noble to subject to 
 such a risk. If you wsre an older sailor you would make 
 better preparations for your voyage. No, I am laying no 
 unusual weakness to your charge. I see the fire in your eye ; 
 I read strength of purpose on that bold brow, and T know what 
 a strong will may enable you to do. But beware, my son ! 
 as noble vessels as yours have been wrecked ; as strong minds 
 have yielded the jewel of intellect — integrity, .unswerving 
 principle ; hearts as true as yours have blackened under the 
 finger of pollution. What talisman have you to bear you 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 77 
 
 safely through? There was a time, I think — there must 
 have been a time when you prayed, ' lead us not into tempta- 
 tion ;' and now you are voluntarily walking in the way of it. 
 Do I not tell you truth, my son ? " 
 
 " What am I to do?" asked Willard, with a quivering lip. 
 
 " First sit down and tell me all your troubles and your 
 plans." 
 
 " You seem to be pretty well informed on that subject 
 already." 
 
 " I never saw you, nor heard of you till this evening." 
 
 " How, then, do you know so much about me ?" 
 
 " Your face is just now strangely full of thought — you look 
 innocent — you are respectably clad — you carry a bundle on 
 your walking-stick — you are in a place given up to the vicious 
 — you go to sleep unsuspectingly where any but a stranger 
 would feel pretty sure of having his pocket picked — you mur- 
 mur names in your sleep — your speech on awaking is intelli- 
 gent ; am I a vdzard ? " 
 
 " You are observing." 
 
 " I came here to observe ; and shall be but too happy if I 
 can be of service to you." 
 
 " I thank you, but I believe my path is pretty plain before 
 me. I have had conversation with a shipmaster to-day, and 
 have very nearly enlisted as a sailor. You are very kind ; 
 but, notwithstanding your warning, I have a fancy that he 
 who cannot preserve purity of mind and morals on the water, 
 would scarce do it on the land." 
 
 " Very true, my son. Is it your intention to go out as a 
 common sailor ? " 
 
 " Yes, I begin at the bottom of the hill. I have r,o iriends 
 to help me to a better berth." 
 
 " Your associates then must necessarily oe men who, if not 
 vicious, are ignorant — you \vill have no change of companion- 
 ship, nothing to elevate your thoughts and feelins^s — all a 
 dark, degraded level about you, and you must be more than 
 human not to sink to it. You are young, too, and do not yet 
 
 VOL. II. 7* 
 
7S WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 understand your capabilities, because you have not tested 
 them. You should be thoroughly educated " 
 
 " J do not like study, sir." 
 
 " Scarce an excuse for a man, my son. If the bird should 
 chance not to like the air, we might give it to some little girl 
 to enslave, or if the fish should find the water disagreeable, 
 we should scarce take the trouble to reason with it — let the 
 Ibolish thing die ; but the immortal mind is not a bird or a 
 fish, to be granted its whim and perish. The question is not 
 what you fancy, but what you need. Nothing worth having 
 flies to you and alights upon your hand ; you must seek, dig, 
 dig, dig, and the ' hid treasure,' when found, will be worth a 
 thousand worlds to you. There is something glorious, too, in 
 the labor. You commence in this world a process which is 
 to be carried on hereafter under the eyes of angels — which 
 is to make the bliss of eternity. Think of the great, undying, 
 God-like mind within you, lying all uncultivated, its capaci- 
 ties undeveloped, its powers unimproved, its affinity to the 
 Deity unrecognized — benefiting no one, influencing no one, 
 ^ost like rubbish among the things that perish — a chasm in 
 the great intellectual unity, a monster of ingratitude to the 
 God who endowed it, and a curse to itself. You cannot walk 
 through the world as the fool walks, and be happy ; for there 
 is that within you which demands your life-long care, and if 
 you neglect it — listen to me, my son, believe me, for I have 
 seen more years and more men than you have, and I have 
 made natures like yours my study — if you neglect it, you 
 may almost as well turn at once to yonder bar and find your 
 associates there. You cannot satisfy the yearning of the death- 
 less spirit for the food it covets, with husks ; it will not be toyed 
 with ; and when, starved, enslaved, trampled on, its sharp cry 
 comes to your ear, you will drown it as — those men drown it. 
 Look ! that one with the scar across the brow, and the fright- 
 ful scowl had — has no common mind — you will discover it 
 for yourself if you watch his actions and his words. On the 
 table yonder, degrading himself lower than any mountebank 
 
WILLAHD LAWSON. 79 
 
 is one made to love beauty and harmony — a poet by nature, 
 a harlequin by prostitution."' 
 
 " You seem to know them well," remarked Willard, throw- 
 ing a scrutinizing glance on his monitor. 
 
 " As I know you ; I have never met them before." 
 
 " I had been looking at them before you came in, and I 
 thought them either fools or madmen ; there seems to be no 
 reason either in their actions or words." 
 
 " They are both ; but not half as mad as you are now to run 
 voluntarily into the same danger." 
 
 Willard drew himself up. " I have reason to be highly 
 flattered, sir, with your opinion of my strength of character 
 and purity of principle." 
 
 The stranger laid his hand soothingly on the shoulders of 
 the half-angry youth, which lowered beneath its magnetic 
 touch, until he stood smiling beside him as before. " Have 
 you more than human strength, my son ? There is an angel 
 hovering over your heart I know ; but is there one standing at 
 its door with a flaming sword to keep out evil ? Is it chained 
 fast that it cannot go into error ? Are you stronger than the 
 Son of the Morning, and purer than he, that you cannot fall ? 
 Does none of the original sin of our ruined natures cleave to 
 you, and have you added nothing thereto ? A Redeemer died 
 for you ; but did he make it impossible for you to sin ? or was 
 it not this same Holy One who said, ' Watch and pray, lest 
 you enter into temptation?' Think of the indignant exclama- 
 tion of one as pure-hearted and unsuspecting as you are : 
 * "What ! dost thou think thy servant a dog that he should do 
 this great thing ? ' And what things did he not do ? What 
 crime too black for him afterwards ? There was a time, I 
 doubt not, when yonder harlequin would have been indignant 
 had his present degradation but been hinted at. But listen to 
 him now. That was a beautiful sentiment to drop from such 
 ,ips — but how distorted — and finished with an oath — hear 
 him. There was a time when he was innocent and self-con- 
 fident, and I am sure not many years ago. Wait me here 
 while I recall those days. If I can but lay my finger on the 
 
80 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 right chord, I may produce a vibration which will call up 
 some well-nigh forgotten strain of better days, and do him 
 good." 
 
 The stranger stepped to the table, where a light-haired, fair- 
 faced, lithe young man was dancing and singing songs, and 
 performing various feats of buffoonery for the amusement of 
 the boisterous company about him." 
 
 " Henry Crayton, I believe I " 
 
 " Ah ! ' what 's in a name ?' ' Avoid ye ! get thee behind 
 nie ! ' ' Do you squinny at me ? ' 
 
 'When the wine-cup is smiling before us. 
 And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boys, true, 
 Remember j^our part 's to encore us ; 
 So here 's for a hulabuloo — loo, loo, loo, 
 So here 's for — here 's for — ' 
 
 Where are your voices, boys ? Oh, there is the big shadow 
 yet — out with it, man ! " 
 
 " I have a message for you." 
 
 " Then deliver thyself, an' thou art not breathless with the 
 weighty matter, my little foot-page. Speak on ; these are all 
 our right loyal subjects, and we have no secrets from their 
 ears." 
 
 " I had better wait your leisure," replied the stranger, turn- 
 ing away. 
 
 " Leisure ! here 's for you, then. I come — I come !" and, 
 plunging from the table, young Crayton alighted on his hands, 
 turned a somerset, cleared himself of the applauding crowd, 
 and joined the tall stranger on the portico. 
 
 " Perhaps I should apologize for interrupting your agreeable 
 amusement," Willard heard his new friend remark. 
 
 " Agreeable ! Well, there is laughing and the hours go 
 by — yes, it is agreeable. You had an errand." 
 
 " My message was a petition." 
 
 " You had better have presented it then while I was on my 
 throne. Ha, ha ! " I 
 
 " It is a solemn one." 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 81 
 
 " Well, spcalc, though I have no liking for solemn things," 
 answered the half-sobered youth, 
 
 ' Let 's laugh and be merry, 
 For old Charon's ferry, 
 
 I heg your pardon, speak on." 
 
 "An angel once dwelt in your heart, and he would fain 
 come back again. Innocence is the lost one's name — oh, 
 take her to your bosom, and with her she will bring a sister 
 — Peace." Willard did not hear the reply, but he thought it 
 was a scoff, and he wondered if it were possible for him ever 
 to become so degraded. The two men still pursued their 
 walk up and down the portico, their voices gradually growing 
 lower and more earnest, till not a single word could be dis- 
 tinguished. At last they parted. The younger walked away 
 in the darkness, and the stranger monitor returned to the 
 waiting Willard. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! He is very miserable, for he is as sensitive 
 concerning his degradation as though it were not his own 
 work. He was not sorry to find sympathy and encourage- 
 ment, and I have left him with an arrow in his heart which 
 he may turn to balm. Heaven help him ! He has promised 
 to come to me in the morning for employment. If he should, 
 I will do the best I can for him, and I think some friends that 
 I have in town would second my endeavors." 
 
 " Do you believe that he will keep his promise ? " 
 
 " It is doubtful. He might reform, but it is hard to retread 
 s}3ps of darkness and bitterness ; better commence aright, my 
 Bon. ' 
 
 Willard wished himself at home again, and almost thought 
 that he would submit to his father's control, (tyranny he named 
 it,) in order to avoid the fearful hazard of his present position. 
 
 " I would commence aright," he began, falteringly, " I would 
 commence aright — but — 1 cannot go back to Lawson farm. 
 There is no one to guide me here, no one to advise me ; what 
 shall I do ? " 
 
82 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 " And why not go back, my son ? " 
 
 " I am not happy there — I cannot be. If there were any 
 one to talk to me as you do, to awaken me to a consciousness 1 
 of my own powers, and teach me to cukivate and improve 
 them, I might find pleasure in that ; but I shall go away and 
 forget what you have told me, and I cannot do right when I 
 am unhappy. No, I never will go back to Lawson farr *' 
 
 " Go with me then, will you not?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " To — to complete your education, to fit yourself for use- 
 fulness in the sphere which to-day you may choose ; to-mor- 
 row will be lost to you. Go with me, my son, and you never 
 will regret this most important decision of your life." 
 
 " How can I go ? I am but one remove from beggary, 
 though I decline the profession, in favor of the 'bounding bil- 
 low.' Here is my wardrobe in this pocket-handkerchief, and 
 here my purse — just eighty-nine cents in it — a weighty cap- 
 ital with my expectations ! I have nothing else in the wide 
 world." 
 
 " You have a strong hand and a strong intellect. Improve 
 well what you have, and I will make the rest easy for you." 
 
 " Who then are you ? " 
 
 The stranger pulled a card from his pocket and put it in 
 the hand of the youth, who stepped nearer the light to read it. 
 In a moment he returned, his eye moist and his voice tremu- 
 lous. 
 
 " I have heard of you. You have been very kind to reason 
 so with my waywardness, and I commit myself, without c ues- 
 tion, to your guidance; for your voice has reached lo my 
 inmost spirit, and roused aspirations which might have slum- 
 bered forever." 
 
 " You will go with me, then?" 
 
 " I will. I dare not refuse. It almost seems to me that 
 you have been sent here, in this hour of danger, by my dead 
 mother." 
 
 " Perhaps ; the spirits that have gone home before do watch 
 over us, my son." 
 
WILLARD LAWSON. 83 
 
 CHAPTEK III. THE ORATOR. 
 
 An immense concourse of the proudest intellects our state 
 
 can boast, had assembled at . There was a hush like 
 
 the pulseless silence of the tomb; for the inspiration of a 
 mighty spirit had passed over them ; and each rapt listener 
 suspended his breathing, lest even that should drown some 
 tone replete with the eloquence of the mighty indwelling 
 spirit. The voice of the speaker was one well known in the 
 council-hall, one to which senators had listened with rever- 
 ence, one which wisdom honored and philanthropy had cause 
 to bless. And he now spoke eloquently and feelingly upon a 
 subject, which it was evident interested him beyond measure 
 — the dispersion of the clouds from the intellectual horizon 
 of the human race ; and the full, steady light, flooding every- 
 thing in its way, which was spreading itself from zenith to 
 nadir. He spoke of the might of mind even in its clay prison ; 
 of the man of the wise thought beside the man of the strong 
 arm ; of the little voice which comes up from the lone phi- 
 losopher's cell to shake the broad earth with its thunders ; and 
 of the foolish one, who goes out among his fellows, never 
 knowing nor making it known that he carries more than the 
 Avealth of an empire in his bosom. He went back to the 
 earth's midnight, and plunged into the closet of the alchymist 
 and the cell of the monk, where genius wrestled with supersti- 
 tion, in the dense darkness, and where knowledge long hid 
 her mourning head ; and he brought up from each a libation 
 to pour upon the altar of intellectual democracy. He pointed 
 to the lone stars that formerly glittered, wonders to gaze at, 
 in the wide heaven of literary fame ; and then he suddenly 
 unrolled a new firmament, all spangled over with orbs full of 
 brilliancy and beauty, but so lost in the universal light as to 
 be scarce discoverable. And with what heart-felt eloquence 
 he hailed the glorious morning ! Ah ! he must have been 
 .standing beneath a sun of his own, to be so enraptured with 
 the spirit-warming eflulgence ; for there are those who even 
 now see nothing but feeble rush-lights, glimmering in the 
 
84 WILLARD LAWSON. 
 
 darkness ; who long for the olden time, when but one star 
 blazed aloft to light a century, and after its exit the world 
 slumbered on, till another came, darting its wild coruscations 
 athwart the gloom with startling fitfulness. He was not a 
 mere orator, he was an artist, a Pygmalion, and his creations 
 breathed — glowed — burned ; his Promethean hand had stolen 
 the sacred fire, and he scattered it with a wild profusion, which 
 left a spark on every heart — not to kindle passion, but to 
 burn away the dross, and leave the godlike spirit unalloyed, 
 in unshackled freedom. He ceased, and that vast concourse 
 arose and walked away in subdued silence. Each mind, 
 how'ever deeply buried in frivolities, flung open its portals to 
 thought, and thought is the angel which, once admitted, rec- 
 tifies and renovates the whole inner being. 
 
 Among those who listened to the thrilling eloquence of the 
 gifted orator Avas a noble-browed, mild-eyed old man, with 
 locks of snow, and a face whose expression combined benevo- 
 lence with native dignity. His broad chest heaved Avith emo- 
 tion while he listened ; and, when the eyes of others kindled 
 with enthusiasm, his closed over the warm tears which 
 gushed up from a fountain stirred in his bosom only ; for he 
 knew that from a little seed which he once held between his 
 own fingers, sprang all those sentiments so fraught with life, 
 so redolent with wisdom and purity. In a few minutes they 
 had grasped hands — the noble old man, and the son of his 
 better nature. They met not with outward caressings, but 
 with a close clasping of the spirit which is sometimes granted 
 on this side of bliss, and a more than womanly gUsh of ten- 
 derness quivering in either voice ; for it is a gross wisdom 
 which claims not love for its twin. 
 
 Go on, Willard Lawson ! gather thy jewels about thee, as 
 tliou art gathering them now ; make thine own setting one of 
 unsurpassed glory ; for soon a brow thou lovest will turn from 
 earth to be adorned in heaven ; and on that noble brow the 
 jewel of thine own bright spirit will glitter. 
 
Sfi 
 
 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 " Whereaway, Jem ? " 
 
 " Up country." 
 
 " Aha ! What 's in the wind ? " 
 
 " A raise." 
 
 " As how ? " 
 
 " Honor bright ? " 
 
 " Honor bright." 
 
 "Fact is, Tom, the New Yorkers are purse-proud — no 
 money to be had for love, even. All Avrong — money buys 
 love, why not love money ? A'n't I a philosopher, Tom ? " 
 
 " Very good for a beginning." 
 
 "Well, I must practise a little, you see — nothing lilce 
 practice ; and no knowing how soon I may be drawn out. 
 Country belles, I've heard say, are the deuce-and-all at phi- 
 losophy." 
 
 " And who is to have the honor of buying the ninety-ninlh 
 part of some hitherto hidden corner of Jem Fletcher's heart, 
 (all there is left,) and what's the bid?" 
 
 " No funning, Tom; I'm in sober earnest this time. Thai 
 is, what with the billet-doux from trades-people, and the lack 
 of them from heiresses, I am getting feeble, very. Pulse low, 
 {alias purse,) no rest, (worried by bills a mile long every day,) 
 can't sleep o' nights, (for want of a bed,) appetite shockingly 
 irregular, (ravenous when somebody else foots the bill,) — 
 tell ye what it is, Tom, I'm a case, that's clear. Nothing 
 wiU do but change of scene — country air, and country exer- 
 cise — the doctors would recommend it, I know. If I don't 
 get better, they '11 smother me with duns — I shall be regu- 
 larly Burked — chopped into minced meat for the benefit of 
 Shears & Co. Sad, isn't it?" 
 
 " Very. Poor Jem Fletcher ! " 
 
 VOL. II. 8 
 
36 A CASE OF LUN^xoV NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 " Tho't the sou] of ye would melt a little. But don't quite 
 break your heart ; I shall take a dose of the country and come 
 out new. The worst of it is, I must serve an apprenticeship, 
 and my Laban will outdo his prototype ; he will make me 
 spin every thought that is in me into gold threads to match th(» 
 yellow-boys in his .eel-skin purse." 
 
 " That will be oppressive." 
 
 " So it will, but I must submit." 
 
 " And for lack of the gold, substitute the labor of gilding, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Ah ! you understand, Tom ; you know all about it. A 
 fortune in your eye, my boy ! " 
 
 " Something in that way, you know." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! 'waiting for dead men's shoes;' but take my 
 word for it, Tom, there 's nothing like this plan o' mine. 
 Catch a bird with a piece of money in her mouth', and you 
 have birdie and all." 
 
 " Ay, catch the bird." 
 
 "Oh! that's nothing. She's as good as caught, now. 
 I 've got a fortieth cousin up there in the woods, (Alderbrook 
 they call the settlement,) and he 's a great man among them 
 — justice of the peace, town clerk, or something or other. 
 Well, I believe he has an inkling of the state of my affairs ; 
 and having done pretty well in the matrimonial-money- 
 making line himself, he just takes it upon himself to advise 
 me. Let me see — I have a mem. somewhere. Deacon — 
 Deacon — Palmer, (I believe it is,) — a hundred thousand — 
 one pretty daughter, very pretty, and sole heiress — about 
 sixteen — bright eyes — dark hair, given to curling — tall — 
 hands and feet — (dang it ! not a word about them I all right, 
 though, I dare say,) — loves to queen it — a little blue, and 
 wilful as Zantippe ! What say to that, eh ! Tom ? " 
 
 " No pulling hair, I hope." 
 
 "Do you think I had better go to the barber, Tom, by way 
 of a preventive?" 
 
 " Time enough. You told of an apprenticeship." 
 
 " Oh, ah ! that 's the bitter pill, the drop too much, the great 
 
A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 87 
 
 Bacrifice that 's to make a martyr of me, Tom. It seems they 
 have got an academy of learning up there. (When I ain 
 president, I'll have all such ruinous institutions levelled.) 
 James Fletcher, A. B., your servant, sir, was graduated at old 
 Harvard, and he purposes assuming the duties and responsi- 
 bilities of principal of that most excellent institution — the 
 academy at Alderbrook, I mean." 
 
 " Capital, Jem ! But no ! Why not dash out, play high 
 and take the fortress by glitter? No danger of an indictment 
 for swindling." 
 
 "There's a papa in the way, with an eye like a hawk. 
 No ; sober and intellectual is my cue — not moneyed, but 
 evidently ' a rising young man.' Dang it ! won't I rise ? " 
 
 " If you can. But see ! the steamer is ready for putting 
 off. Success to ye, Jem — Good-by.'' 
 
 " Good-by. Better try my prescription, eh ? Think on 't 
 — do!" 
 
 Oh ! what a sensation there was in our village, when it 
 was reported that James Fletcher, Esq., of New York city, a 
 young gentleman of very brilliant parts, and highly-finished 
 education, was coming to take charge of our academy I 
 There was much sympathy for him, too ; for it was rumored 
 that the exigences of the times had deprived him of a very 
 fine fortune ; and, moreover, that he came to us for the sake 
 of giving his mind the opportunity to recover its usual tone 
 and vigor, after having been nearly shattered by adversity. 
 Mr. Fletcher arrived late of a Saturday evening ; but in the 
 ten minutes that elapsed before he disappeared in one of the 
 upper chambers of the " Sheaf and Sickle," he had been seen 
 by half the men of the village. The next morning there was 
 a great rush to church, which must have been anticipated by 
 the parson ; for the elder part of the congregation did not fail 
 to observe that he had taken unwonted pains with his dis- 
 course. Adeline Palmer called at our door, and, as we 
 walked to church together, I had a full description of Mr. 
 Fletcher — eyes, hair, complexion, bearing, character, and 
 even feelings. The picture was rather " taking," I must 
 
SS A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. ' 
 
 own ; but my muslia and straw were " as good as new, 
 then ; so I only readjusted the precious morsel of paste glit- 
 tering in my breast-knot, and carried my parasol as daintily 
 as possible. But it was of no use. Ada Palmer was the 
 belle of Alderbrook ; and, though it is impossible, in any case, 
 to resist the desire to look one's prettiest, the vainest of us 
 never dreamed of being seen when beside her. Worse still, I 
 was informed that Mr. Fletcher was particularly anxious to 
 board at Deacon Palmer's, for the reason that his love of 
 retirement and quiet might be better gratified there than at 
 any other house in the village. 
 
 " And will he ? " I inquired, with quite enough interest. 
 
 " If we can get papa to consent." 
 
 " To think of your having a boarder ! " 
 
 " You pity us, I dare say, Fan," whispered Ada, Avith a 
 very roguish tAvinkle of the eye, and a knowing look about the 
 corners of the mouth, that was particularly provoking. 
 
 " Rather impertinent, Miss Deacon's daughter," thought I , 
 " I shall treasure that up to measure back to you one of these 
 days ;" but there was no chance to reply, for we had entered 
 the church porch ; and so, with a mutual smile, and a nod of 
 good-natured defiance, we parted. I soon discovered Mr. 
 Fletcher, for his was the only strange face there ; and he 
 evidently soon discovered Ada Palmer. Oh ! Ada was a lit- 
 tle queen, and she never looked so beautiful as on that day. 
 It was impossible not to concede to her her winnings ; and 
 when, in a fortnight after, Mr. Fletcher was reckoned unfail- 
 ingly among them, I do not believe there was a belle in the 
 whole village but thought it was her due, and yielded the 
 conquest to her with a good grace. But we did have rare 
 times, making Ada blush, and (did you ever observe that 
 awkward right-angle which bashful consciousness puts in the 
 corner where the two lips meet ?) make square mouths. Rare 
 times had we ; and it was as good revenge as need be. 
 
 But poor Jem Fletcher I he was right when he anticipated 
 a severe apprenticeship, for the deacon was " a marvel of a 
 good man." Deacon Palmer's right hand, holding his purse 
 
A C^SE OP LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. S9 
 
 within it, was given to every good enterprise, whether for the 
 advancemen'; of religion and morality, or intended to promote 
 the secondary interests of the village which acknowledged him 
 its head. So poor Jem was not only obliged to attend church 
 three times every Sabbath, and lectures of various kinds dar- 
 ing the week, but he must needs listen, with at least pretended 
 int.vest, to a thousand plans for ameliorating the condition of 
 the human race ; from which weighty matters, he hoped, as 
 he listened, at some future day to relieve his intended father- 
 in-law, by taking the helm into his own hand. The more 
 Jem saw of the old gentleman's generosity, the more sanguine 
 became his hopes ; and bright was the picture his fancy 
 painted, of the time Avhen good Deacon Palmer would no 
 longer be obliged to look after wealth which he did not know 
 how to use. But Jem's hardest apprenticeship was not to 
 Laban — it was to Rachel herself. Oh ! such a sprite as was 
 Ada Palmer ! Proud as Juno, and mischievous as a whole 
 troop of those small people they call fairies, headed by bright 
 Titania's own jester. An 
 
 " Airy, fairy Lilian, 
 Flitting, fairy Lilian" 
 
 was she, with the same " crimson-threaded lips," and the " silver 
 trebled laughter" on them ; but as dignified as a lady duchess, 
 when she chose. Oh ! there was no bringing Ada to terms 
 till she was ready to come ; and sometimes I used to doubt 
 whether Jem Fletcher, though he trained his eyes, and trained 
 his tongue, and tuned his voice to the tone of a harp with a 
 die-away air on its strings, would be able to accomplish it. 
 Ada was un-read-able, even by us. Jem, however, hoped on, 
 and with good reason, for it was evident that he had the right 
 ear of both parents. 
 
 There was to be a meeting of the •' Alderbrook "Young 
 Ladies' Temperance Society," and Mr. Fletcher was unani- 
 mously declared " the very one " to deliver a fitting lecture on 
 the occasion. Jem Fletcher lecture on temperance ! But no 
 matter; he had embarked, and must push forward at all 
 
 VOL. 11. 8* 
 
90 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 hazards. Besides, what better opportunity could a lover wish 
 for the display of his eloquence ? Wliat delicate compliments 
 might he pay to one under cover of the whole ! How charm- 
 ingly would he angelize all the fair teens at Alderbrook, while 
 Ada would be thinking within herself, " if he holds all of us 
 in such high estimation, what would his idolatry be when 
 concentrated ? " Mr. Fletcher delighted the ladies by consent- 
 ing to address them ; but, in the mean time, he begged a week's 
 delay, as he would not presume to rise before such an assem- 
 bly of wit, and beauty, and talent, without due preparation. 
 The delay was granted, and poor Jem Fletcher sat down 
 determinedly and perseveringly to his severe task. Such 
 havoc as was made among the goose quills and foolscap ! 
 Jem's organ of destructiveness had never accomplished so 
 much since the days of his babyhood, when newspapers had 
 been given him as playthings. But he succeeded. Even his 
 own fastidious taste was fully satisfied. And what might not 
 be expected of those bright beings on the look-out for beauties ? 
 Jem was in raptures. He read, and re-read his address ; and 
 each time it grew more strikingly brilliant, more witty, more 
 sweefly sentimental, more gracefully insinuating — in short, 
 more decidedly the precise thing to bait the hook dropped 
 through a Jady's ear into her heart. We all expected won- 
 ders of Mr. Fletcher ; and curiosity, pushed back like a bois- 
 terous beggar ti]\ the latest moment, was ready for a rush. 
 
 " Ada, go up to Mr. Fletcher's room and get the newspaper," 
 said the deaccon, after the young lady had donned bonnet and 
 shawl to go to .the lecture. 
 
 Ada seized m;y hand. " Come with me, Fan ; Mr. Fletcher 
 is down taking tea with mamma. He stayed out late to-night 
 — conning his ^speech, I dare say," she added, in a whisper. 
 
 The deacon ^rang for lights, and away went Ada and I for 
 the newspaper. Mr. Fletcher's hat, with his gloves beside it, 
 was upon the ;table ; and upon a folded handkerchief, like the 
 driven snow /m whiteness, lay a little manuscript book. 
 
 " Lock ! \he lecture, Fanny!" said Ada, taking one cor- 
 ner between the tips of her fingers, and elevating it above 
 
A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 91 
 
 her head. " Now what would you give to see the inside 
 of it?" 
 
 " A bound to the top of the staircase ; I never could bear 
 to read a manuscript. But what a very 7iice man this Mr. 
 Fletcher of yours must be ! See how carefully that bit of 
 blue riband is knotted." 
 
 " The very same that he stole from my work-basket this 
 morning ! Saucy, is n't it ? I have half a mind to punish 
 that impudence. Besides, (between our two selves, Fan,) 
 this very correct Mr. Fletcher is an arrant hypocrite — I see 
 it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He would be far more 
 at home, I dare say, singing — 
 
 'Blame not the bowl — the fruitful bowl,' 
 
 than saying pretty things for the edification of us cold-watcr- 
 ites. Let 's punish his knavery. Here, come to the window 
 while I untie this knot." 
 
 Ada Palmer's fingers shook as though shocked at their own 
 naughty doings, while she loosened the blue riband ; and then 
 she slipped the inner sheet from it, and slid it down behind 
 the sofa. 
 
 " Now, if I only had some queer thing to substitute. Look ! 
 there 's a sheet of note-paper on the table ! He has just Avrit- 
 ten down a page, and the ink is hardly dry on it. Bring it, 
 Fanny — it is just the size of this — some love-note, I dare 
 say ; and we shall get a blush from him, at any rate, when he 
 opens to it. Think of making him blush in public ! but we 
 must be very demure — it would not do for us to smile even, 
 or we should be detected." 
 
 By the time Ada had finished her caution, the sheet of 
 note-paper was fastened snugly in the middle, and the book 
 returned to its resting-place on the handkerchief. 
 
 A more mellow, rich-toned voice, than Jem Fletcher's, I 
 never heard ; and, on that evening, it was modulated to its 
 utmost capacity for melody. I had entirely forgotten Ada's 
 mischievous prank, and so had she, I doubt not, before he had 
 turned over three leaves. The sentiments, too, and the happy 
 
92 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 
 
 mode of adorning them ! Oh ! Jem Fletcher deserved success 
 for his industry, if not for his honesty ! Suddenly, while 
 Fletcher's tongue was thrilling beneath a whole tide of elo- 
 quence, and hearts were beating, and eyes flashing before him, 
 he made an abrupt pause. Placing his right hand upon the 
 page, he raised the other to his eyes hastily, as though brush- 
 ing away some intruding vision — but no, it was there yet. 
 Jem tried his handkerchief, but it did no good. Something 
 had evidently planted itself before him that he did not wish 
 to see. He turned over leaf after leaf confusedly, and back 
 again, while the red blood seemed ready to burst from his 
 forehead, and we could almost fancy that we saw his hair 
 raising itself in consternation above. 
 
 " I did not mean to embarrass him so much," whispered 
 Ada in my ear. 
 
 At that moment, Fletcher's" eye fell upon us, and such an 
 eye ! Mortification, distress, anger — everything painful was 
 there ; and no doubt our blazing faces, with the attempt at a 
 smile, which we both of us instinctively made, betrayed the 
 whole. Fletcher gave but one glance at us, one at the curious 
 audience, now in a buzz of wonder; and, snatching his hat 
 from the seat behind him, he bounded for the door. The con- 
 gregation was astounded ; and poor Ada and I trembled like 
 two leaves in a storm. Slowly, and one by one, the people 
 went out ; and that night a light was kept burning in every 
 house for fear of the mad tutor. 
 
 " Do you know what was the matter with Mr. Fletcher last 
 evening ? " inquired Deacon Palmer of his daughter, while at 
 the breakfast-table. Ada's face took on the hue of a full- 
 blown peony. " Then you have seen this before ? " and the 
 deacon pulled from his pocket the little book tied with the 
 blue riband. 
 
 " I am sorry, papa ; indeed, I am very sorry. I did not 
 intend to mortify Mr. Fletcher so much — I only slipped in 
 that paper for a frolic ;" and poor Ada actually burst into 
 tears. 
 
 *' Then you have not read it ? " 
 
A CASE CF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 93 
 
 " Oh, no, papa ! you could not think I would be so mean ? " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Fletcher thought you had. I found this by 
 the church-door, where he dropped it. If you do not know 
 what paper you slipped in for a frolic, you may read it now." 
 
 Ada's eyes grew larger and larger as she perused the precious 
 document which had turned Jem Fletcher into a madman ; 
 and such a volley of laughter as she closed it with, had never 
 before burst even from her merry heart. 
 
 No wonder that poor Jem was mortified past redemption ; 
 for the note, which he supposed Ada had perused, gave a full 
 account of his plans and prospects to his friend Tom ; and 
 closed with a characteristic eulogium on pretty damsels in 
 general, and moneyed pretty ones in particular. 
 
 Jem Fletcher has never been heard of since at Alderbrook 
 and many a good lady, to this day, often expresses the hope, 
 that the poor dear young man has found shelter in some 
 unatic asylum. 
 
94 
 
 THE GREAT MARCH HOLIDAY. 
 
 The boisterous, bustling, blowing, chilling month of March 
 Ugh ! it makes me shiver to think of it ! Even its smiles are 
 undesirable — mud-producers as they are. But yet it brings, 
 like every other part of the year, its own peculiar pleasures. 
 It is, indeed, a season of the utmost interest and importance to 
 a large class, quite as likely to supply us with future states- 
 men as college walls or city boundaries. It is strange how 
 much, and yet how little, we are indebted to position and edu- 
 cation for what we afterward become. The pale student, with 
 his classic face, soul-beaming eye, and graceful step, bows 
 himself from our presence on commencement day ; while our 
 hopes and good wishes follow him on what we believe will 
 be a bright career ; and we never hear of him again. The 
 awkward, square-shouldered country lad comes trudging into 
 town with his grain, perhaps, and at evening slips away to the 
 .ecture-room. We observe neither his coming nor his going, 
 but if we did we could scarce see the strong intellect burst- 
 ing its rough kernel. Years pass, and suddenly a great 
 man rises before us — a kind of intellectual miracle. The dis- 
 trict school was the nursery of this intellect ; a country news- 
 paper lent its aid to foster it; books, old dry books, that those 
 acquainted with modern literature would never think of read- 
 ing, hedged it round v/ith common sense ; occasional visiters 
 and occasional visits added to the fund of information which 
 the newspaper supplied ; thought, driven to feed upon itself 
 for want of other food, wrought itself into a giant ; and so the 
 wonder grew. 
 
 So the district school is a very important thing ; and hence 
 we are not disposed to undervalue the holyday at its close — • 
 
THE GREAT MARCH UOLYDAY. 95 
 
 a great and important day, not to be surpassed by Fourth-of- 
 July independence or Christmas feasting and frolic. The 
 :losc of the winter school is very much like the breaking up 
 Df a half-tamed menagerie. As some of the more loving sort 
 of animals linger around their keeper, for old affection's sake, 
 10 Lucy or Tommy hang, finger in mouth, upon the door- 
 atch, or creep, pussy-like, near the desk, half-ashamed, yet 
 oat.h to go without the farewell smile. Others stand undis- 
 iturbed and unmoved, like sturdy bruin or Moses Meecham ; 
 Ic a few of the wildest, including the whole catalogue of 
 ipes, enter upon some mischievous prank, as Zeke Brown re- 
 moves the door-step, or Fred Lightbody purloins the schocl- 
 nastcr's spectacles, and kindly adjusts his wig on one side of 
 lis head. But by far the greater part of these freed prisoners 
 [from both menageries) scamper as though for dear life ; and 
 scarce knowing whether their feet are in the air or on the 
 rround, give such an idea of Babel as your imagination never 
 onjuredup. Oh, those are very desperate hopefuls that in 
 March break from the bondage of the district school ! 
 
 I once had the pleasure of spending a Avinter where sleigh- 
 ides and apple-bees, and spelling schools and grammar schools, 
 ;onstituted a very delightful complement of the useful and or- 
 lamental, and made the weeks and months go by with the 
 •apidity of a season in town, with the advantage of coming 
 "rom the %vinter's dissipation with added freshness and vigor. 
 Dur school-house was a little square box of a thing, tucked 
 lown at one corner of a piece of woodland — not for the ad- 
 '^antage of shade — oh no ! All the trees that would be likely 
 o keep off the broiling sun in summer, or in winter prevent 
 he snow from drifting eave-high before the door, were care- 
 ully cut do^\^l and cleared away. It must be owned that this 
 vas not the best situation for the school-house, but Squire 
 ^ones wanted it in the eastern part of the district, and Doctor 
 liVTiite was determined that it should be in the western ; so, 
 settle the difficulty, the puzzled managers, who were ex- 
 >ecting nearly all the funds from these two titled personages, 
 iecided on what they considered a central position, measuring 
 
96 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 off equal distances from each hearth-stone. The result was, ' 
 both great men were offended, and refused to relax their in- 
 sulted purse strings. But the school-house was built at last 
 — a little " teenty taunty " nut-shell of a " concarn," the roof 
 making a rather steep inclined plane from ridge-pole to eaves,- 
 which latter just overtopped an ample row of good-sized, well- 
 glazed windows. People seem to have discovered an intimate 
 connexion between physical and intellectual light, imagining 
 probably that there is some kind of a filter in the brain, by 
 which the eye-blinding stream is converted into a yet more 
 subtle fluid — the inner light, that it is shockingly transcen- 
 dental to furnish with a name. Our school-house, which was 
 fifteen feet square, was furnished with eleven full-grown win- 
 dows ; from some one of which a pane of glass was alwaj^s 
 broken, and its place supplied by hat or shawl. Between two 
 of these windows was the mouth of the little den, and, all around 
 it, the walls were ornamented Avith carved work, displaying the 
 artistic developments of many a youthful master of the jack- 
 knife. 
 
 You must not imagine that none but very small children 
 attend the district school; for the winter brings together a 
 motley assemblage of all ages, from the sturdy little chap in 
 his linsey-woolsey and checked apron, to the merry maiden 
 of sixteen, who decorates the parlor of a Sunday evening for 
 the reception of a lover, and the comely youth whose strong 
 arm in summer guides the plough and swings the scythe. It 
 is a happy place, that district school ; overflowing Avith the 
 genuine cream of fun ; gay, busy, mischief-hatching, and 
 gloriously mischief-executing. A very happy place is it ; and 
 I cannot imagine what creates the undefinable longing for the 
 " last day," which seems to be the prevalent feeling among 
 the young tyros, any more than I can imagine why, in our 
 highest state of happiness, we are ever looking forward to the 
 morrow. Whatever may be the reason, the arrival of the 
 " last day " is carefully watched for ; and, despite the old 
 adage, it comes at last ; while, with smoothed aprons and 
 cleaned faces, and ah bedecked in holyday finery, the future 
 
THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 97 
 
 Statesmen and (provided success attend some of the reformers 
 of the present day) stateswomen, sally forth to the place of 
 action. 
 
 I have hitherto neglected to describe the interior of the 
 Maple Bush school-house ; but while the young belles are 
 peeping at each other over the tops of their books to see which 
 ib best dressed, the beaux penning their last doggerels, and 
 the younger lads and lasses alternately sitting bolt upright, 
 toes to the crack and arms twisted on tlie breast, like a Hol- 
 land dough-nut, and lolling half over to the floor in forgetful 
 laziness, we may get time for a glance. 
 
 Yet, now that I think again, you will not need a descrip- 
 tion, for I am on an old theme ; and the ranges of seats, the 
 schoolmaster's throne, with its "might-makes-right" corner, 
 appropriated to crumbled ginger-bread, half-eaten apples, bro- 
 ken jack-knives, strings, whip-lashes, tops, and spring-colored 
 love-letters, the pine floor which is scrubbed twice a year, the 
 evergi-eens, the ferule, and the rod are no new things to you, 
 particularly if you have ever happened to meet with " The 
 District School as it Was." One thing, however, has been 
 changed since those days. The old-fashioned fire-place, 
 which formerly yawned on one side beneath the stick chim- 
 ney, has within the last dozen years been superseded by a 
 rusty, smoking stove, on the top of which the children roast 
 the apples and cheese for their dessert. You would wonder, 
 if you were acquainted in the Maple Bush district, how such 
 an innovation was ever admitted into a place where all are 
 such sticklers for ancient customs. It was done, as most 
 things are in this world, whether good or bad, from a spirit 
 of opposition. Nobody had a stove, or dreamed of having 
 one, until an old man of our vicinity, who had been paying a 
 visit in town,- happened to get into a rage one day about 
 "these new-fangled notions for picking honest folks' pockets." 
 Then, as in duty bound, to prevent a man's storming for 
 naught, and wasting his eloquence on the empty air, there 
 rose up a number of his neighbors to oppose, and thereby (est. 
 his opinions. It became, therefore, absolutely necessary for 
 
 VOL. II. 9 
 
yS THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 every man of the stove party to be in possession of the article 
 in question ; and so absolutely did these men bear sway, that 
 at last the offensive stove found its way even to the very 
 school-house. Never was there a greater warfare about old 
 and new measures than was carried on in this case ; but the 
 stove men had strong limbs and powerful voices, and, above 
 all, their chief speakers had, if not full purses, full granaries ; 
 so they came off victorious. The result was, the anti-stoveitea 
 gave due notice that they should withdraw their patronage 
 from the school; kept their word; and, in process of time, 
 removed to some more congenial neighborhood, where, if they 
 were obliged to look now and then upon a stove, nobody would 
 know that the sight was at all offensive. 
 
 Well do I remember my last day at the Maple Bush school. 
 The grand event had been anticipated for a long time previous; 
 and, for a whole month, scarce anything had been tallced of but 
 the last day, and what would be fitting and proper for it. We 
 had conned the spelling-book, grammar, and geography, till the 
 contents of our juvenile works were at our tongues' ends, and 
 could be rattled off as a pedler rattles over his assortment of 
 " pins, needles, scissors, thimbles, gloves, silks, laces, black 
 ladies' hose, shoe-strings," &c., &c. Not that we pretended 
 to know the meaning of the words which rolled over our pout- 
 ing lips so glibly : we had never dreamed that loritten words 
 tvere " signs of ideas." A class of young mathematicians had 
 managed, without the aid of the now essential black-board, to 
 sliow a passable acquaintance with DaboU's Rules; (rules, by 
 the way, not intended to explain the after process, but set up 
 to be explained when practice had made their meaning dedu- 
 oible ;) the " first class" had read for the twentieth time, "Ad- 
 ilress to the Young," and " Oh, solitude, romantic maid ! " 
 from the English Reader; and the principal spelling-class 
 nad practised on " Michilimackinac," " phthysic," and the 
 changes of " ail-to-be-troubled-table," until quite out of breath. 
 But Jack Winslow and Peter Quim ! ah, they were the boast 
 of the school, and to their histrionic powers the proud heart 
 of Mr. Linkum owed its highest swellings. Nothing could 
 
THE GREAT MAKCII HOLYDAY. 99 
 
 equal the grace wilh which they flourished hands and feet, or 
 the grenadier style of their strut, as they paraded up and down 
 the little corner which had been allotted to their scenic per- 
 formances. To be sure it was a very small corner, but then 
 it required fewer blankets to partition it off, and much less 
 time and talent to decorate it with proper scenery. Never 
 was a school better prepared for the final ordeal ; and never 
 was a teacher better satisfied with the success of his drilling 
 than our honored Mr. Linkum. 
 
 Fond of mental display as we were, it is not to be expected 
 that we should neglect every other kind ; and, for more than 
 a week, we had employed every leisure moment in decorating 
 the walls with evergreens, consulting with each other how our 
 simple furniture should be arranged, and practising bows and 
 courtesies. Anxiously had we Avatched the clouds for many 
 days, fearful of a March storm; but with what joyous heart- 
 boundings did we hail the morning of our gala-day. The air 
 had that rich, pleasing softness, which, although it makes the 
 earth seem about to melt away beneath our feet, we welcome 
 so gratefully, loving to feel its delicious kiss on cheek and 
 forehead. Here and there the snow had melted off, exposing 
 little patches of faded green, where nestled the spicy blossoms 
 of the trailing arbutis, amid piles of withered leaves, blown 
 together by the winds of the preceding autumn. Then, on 
 one knoll peculiarly favored by the sun, the little pink-eyed 
 claylonias had actually congregated in tribes, and amid the 
 moss in the centre — no, I was not mistaken — the hcpaticu 
 itself! That snowy white, variegated by the faintest tints of 
 pink, and blue, and purple, was more familiar than the alpha, 
 bet ; for it was in that fragrant alphabet that I had taken my 
 first life-lesson. Oh, that bright, rich March morning ! 
 Gladness was in the sky, and on the air, and upspringing 
 from the earth. And those were light hearts, indeed, which 
 came out to welcome it. 
 
 The sun had crept up the sky but a little way before we 
 were congregated about the door of the school-house at the 
 corner of the woods ; and the commingling of merry voices, 
 
100 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 if not quite as musical as that of the summer birds, was cer 
 tainly as glad. And what was the source of all this gladness? 
 We loved dearly to be together, loved our good Mr. Linkum, 
 loved our sports, and some of us loved our books — and we 
 had come together for the purpose of parting. How could we 
 be .glad? Oh, a bright day was before us, and it was quite 
 too early to begin to grieve. Surely children, with their de- \ 
 tcrmined joyousness, in the face of shadows, and tears, and 
 death itself, are the true philosophers of this world. A kind 
 Providence has so mingled our cup that the sweet is always j 
 beside the bitter ; the wise man sips at the bitter, and mur- 1 
 murs constantly ; the child drinks down the sweet, and never ' 
 looks at the other. 
 
 The " last day" passed pleasantly with us all. Fathers and 
 mothers, older sisters and brothers, fond, chuckling grand- 
 papas, and aunties still more fond, came crowding in, and 
 listened with rapt attention to the doings of the youthful 
 prodigies. Then two grave gentlemen rose slowly from their 
 seats and made some flattering remarks; suggesting, however, 
 as ballast for their praise, that the girls might have read a little 
 louder, and the boys a little slower, and that by the- copy-books 
 they had discovered a prevailing propensity for crooked-backed 
 t's, and finger-prints done in ink. This accomplished, the 
 company retired, and then the grand treasure was unlocked. 
 Did you ever, dear reader, did you ever stand on the tip-toe 
 of expectation, the blood tingling in your veins away down tc 
 the tips of your fingers, and your eyes sparkling with the 
 briramings of a heart crowded with pleasure, while the blue, 
 and red, and green, and yellow treasures were scattered 
 among your companions ? Then, when your own turn came 
 and the bow and " thank you, sir," were given with shame^ 
 faced exultation, and you had lifted the cover and found pre- 
 cisely the thing you were hoping for ! " Little Red Riding 
 Hood," perhaps; or maybe the " Children in the "Wood," al 
 dons in the quaintest of rhymes, with the quaintest of cuts tt 
 illustrate them — ah ! do you recollect that day ? and do jox 
 ever expect or wish to be happier ? 
 
THE GllEAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 101 
 
 In addition to the gifts usually made on such occasions, it 
 had been the practice of teachers at the Maple Bush to award 
 a prize to the pupil who had made the greatest proficiency. 
 This plan is doubtless ill-judged, being productive of many 
 evil consequences ; but it was formerly extensively practised, 
 and may be none the less so now. The result of the harmful 
 spirit of rivalry thus excited, is usually a period of contention, 
 and finally a settled dislike, which strengthens into hatred, for 
 the successful candidate. This hatred is often too deeply 
 rooted to yield to the influence of time ; and with some it 
 mingles as a bitter ingredient in the cup of their after life. 
 It was not, however, so at the Maple Bush ; though justice 
 and equity had but little to do Avith keeping off the evil. We 
 very well understood (no disrespect to our half-year monarch, 
 whose taste and judgment cannot be too highly commended) 
 that the prize was not awarded to literary merit — for some- 
 how the. good schoolmaster, by a process of reasoning un- 
 known to some of us then, though we are all wiser now, con- 
 trived to have some favorite bear away the prize. I say the 
 process was unknown to us then; for we had not learned how 
 strangely a pretty face (or even a face that is not pretty, if one 
 can only Imagine it is) distorts the mental vision, and invests 
 those favored with our partiality with all the qualities we wish 
 them to possess. 
 
 Dolly Foster, a dark-eyed, roguish-lipped, merry-hearted 
 specimen of bright sixteen, with more mischief in her than 
 erudition, and more of kindness than either, had so often won 
 the prize at the hands of admiring schoolmasters, that it had 
 become quite a matter of course ; and certainly no one had 
 reason to suspect a failure on the part of the belle of the Maple 
 Bush this season. 
 
 " I wonder what the prize will be — somethhig nice, of 
 course." 
 
 "Ah, catch Mr. Linkum giving anything not nice — eh, 
 Dolly?" 
 
 And then Dolly would blush; and then such a shout! 
 Laughing is healthful ; and I have no doubt but the founda- 
 
 VOL. II. 9* 
 
102 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 tion for manj a good constitution was laid in that school-house 
 at the Maple Bush. 
 
 The winks and inuendoes by which pretty Dolly Foster 
 was so nearly demolished, were not altogethei the result of a 
 love of teasing. There was something to tease "little cherry- 
 cheeks" for. Every girl and every boy in our school remem- 
 bered how, on one occasion, a whole party of disobedient sliders 
 had been most unexpectedly forgiven; and when, in a state 
 of pleased wonderment, they looked about them isr the. cause, 
 there stood Miss Dolly, the foremost of the transgressor^, close 
 by the soft-hearted Mr. Linkum, looking up, oh so pleadingly ! 
 and he, the drollest combination of would-be severity and em- 
 barrassed relenting that ever was seen. The little community 
 said nothing ; but there was an instantaneous illuniination of 
 countenance, as though an idea worth having had flashed in 
 upon them ; and henceforth Miss Dolly became a sort of scape- 
 goat for the whole. 
 
 Then, on another occasion — ah! Dolly had dared too 
 much then ; it was an act of downright disobedience, and 
 could not be tolerated. She took her stand beside the mas- 
 ter's desk with a kind of abashed sauciness ; confident, yet 
 timid ; evidently a little sorry that there was quite so much 
 roguery nestled in the curve of that pretty h'p of hers, or 
 that being there it could not keep its niche without creep- 
 ing down to the naughty little fingers, and at the same 
 time pleased with the opportunity of testing her power. At 
 first she called to her aid her ever-ready wit, and endeavored 
 to turn the whole affair into ridicule ; then she pouted, trotted 
 her little foot in anger, and looked sulky ; but Mr. Linkum, 
 though evidently distressed, was not to be thus baffled. My 
 readers must remember that some dozen years ago, " govern- 
 ment by moral suasion" was not so fashionable as at the pres- 
 ent day ; and no age or sex was exempt from birchen-rod or 
 cherry ferule. Dolly could go a little further than anybody else ; 
 but there were bounds even to her liberty, or the dignity of 
 the schoolmaster would be sadly compromised. Dolly must 
 be punished, that was certain — and neither laughing nor 
 
THE GRfcAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 103 
 
 pouting could save her. The poor schoolmaster, the greater 
 sufferer by far, was not the only one in the room who would 
 have taken a hundred blows to save her pretty hand one ; and, 
 as we saw him eyeing his huge ferule with evidently murder- 
 ous intent, a strange silence reigned throughout the circle. 
 Even the girls, after slightly fluttering the leaves of their 
 ^books, and shuffling their feet carelessly, as much as to say, 
 " Who cares ? What better is her slim little contrivance of a 
 hand than ours ? " seemed to partake of the general intercs't. 
 Mr. Linkum eyed the ferule sternly — a kind of desperate 
 sternness like that the timid sheriff feels when he adjusts the 
 fatal knot ; then seized it resolutely, and petrified us all by the 
 low, terrible words — " Give me your hand !" All were petri- 
 fied but Dolly herself; she, poor child, was meekly, hopelessly 
 heart-broken. Timidly the pretty hand was extended; but 
 there was a heart-throb in every dear little finger, which poor 
 'At. Linkum niust have been insane to think of withstanding 
 Oh, there is a witchery in a hand, in some hands ; and the 
 soft, beseeching touch of Dolly's, all quivering as it was with 
 agitation, went (I cannot say precisely how, but doubtless 
 Neurologists might tell) to Mr. Linkum's heart. He sudden- 
 ly turned very red, as though that delicate touch had pressed 
 all the blood from his heart ; then very pale, as though it had 
 called home the crimson tide and buried it there — and the 
 hand clasping the raised ferule dropped helplessly by his side. 
 Sweet little Dolly (her head had been drooping on her bosom 
 for the last half minute) raised her soft blue eyes pleadingly to 
 the master's face, and the next moment they overflowed — 
 the big tear-drops gushed from their sunny fountain and fell 
 in a sudden shower upon her own hand and His. Poor Mr. 
 Linkum ! what a savage he felt himself ! It was too, too 
 much. 
 
 The poor fellow turned suddenly to his desk — Dolly, among 
 the dozen seats which were offered her, sought the nearest 
 and hid her burning face in a neighbor's apron, while a sim- 
 ultaneous titter went around the room ; and there was a gen- 
 eral tossing of pretty heads and ominous shakes of would-be; 
 
104 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. , 
 
 wise ones. Fred Lightbody (but then Fred was a wag, and 
 was seldom more than half believed) asserted that when Mr 
 Linkum turned from the desk, where he stood for several min- 
 utes intenlly examining a book which chanced to be open at a 
 blank page, his eye had a singular dewiness about it, and we 
 all observed a tremulous faltering in his voice when he ordered 
 us to our books. We remarked, too, that he did not look at 
 Dolly again that day — and that unusual flashes of red spread 
 now and then across his face, as though his anger were quite 
 uncontrollable. 
 
 That was the last time Dolly Foster ever transgressed. 
 She was just as mischievous, just as full of fun and frolicking 
 as ever; and at the spelling-schools, singing-schools and 
 apple-bees, she played off a thousand pranks on wise, sober 
 Mr. Linkum — but in the day school pretty Dolly was as 
 demure as a kitten. 
 
 All these things were called to memory on the mormng of 
 the " last day ;" and who of us could doubt but Dolly Foster 
 would receive the prize ? She had won it before, when there 
 were not half as many indications of partiality. 
 
 '* I wonder what the prize will be ? " 
 
 The same wonder had been expressed a hundred times that 
 winter. 
 
 " Something handsome, of course." 
 
 " Oh yes, of course." And then a merry burst of laughter 
 went the rounds. 
 
 " What can make Dolly Foster so late ? " 
 
 " What can make Dolly Foster so late ? " was echoed and 
 reechoed, as the hour of nine drew near. We knowing ones 
 were of the opinion that she was detained by some toilet diffi- 
 culties ; that her beautiful hair had taken a fancy just now, 
 when it should have been most pliable, not to curl, or that the 
 mantuamaker had ruined her dress. But these were trifles 
 to Dolly Foster, and we were confident that they would not 
 keep her away from school. What, then, was our disappoint- 
 ment, our consternation, nay, our vexation, (people are always 
 vexed when they guess vn-ong,) when not only on the morn- 
 
THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 105 
 
 ing but afternoon of the last day, it was found that Miss Dolly 
 had absented herself. It was perfectly unaccountable. She 
 was not ill, for she had been seen flying from one part of the 
 spacious farm-house to another, by those who had passed 
 there, as blithe and happy as a bee ; and when her brother 
 Dick was questioned about the matter, he laughed and looked 
 at the master, while the master blushed and looked out of the 
 window. 
 
 As I have said before, the last day passed off finely, except 
 that Mr. Linkum made some mistakes, such as calling Fred 
 Lightbody Dolly — and when he was asked the time, saying 
 eight o'clock instead of three. And, as I have not said before, 
 the prize was this time really a reward for application. It 
 was won by Abraham Nelson, the great awkward but perse- 
 veringly studious son of Nelson, the day-laborer ; and Abra- 
 ham Nelson was persecuted forever after. It was not strange. 
 Vanity is undoubtedly everywhere the same reprehensible 
 thing ; but the vanity of a pretty girl has something rather 
 fascinating in it, while that of a great lubberly boy is unen- 
 durable. Abraham Nelson's vanity took on the most disa- 
 greeable form, and so both parties were sufTerers. 
 
 Mr. Linkum was a general favorite, notwithstanding his 
 partiality in a particular case, and I believe the " big boys " 
 of our school (that is, all the hopefuls between fourteen and 
 twenty-one) never felt more inclined to be sadly serious than 
 as the hour of four drew near on that long-expected, long- 
 desired March holyday. They gathered around the master 
 — each one dreading to give the good-bye shake of the hand 
 — and I remember that for one I felt exceedingl}'- vexed by 
 his seeming indifference. He was evidently embarrassed , he • 
 half wished to appear serious, as became the dignity of his 
 station ; and yet there was a look of mirthful exultation sur- 
 mounting all, which made the expression of his face irresisti- 
 bly comical. He saw that all were imbibing his spirit, and 
 finally he broke away from the circle with a " Never mind, 
 boys, we will have fine times yet ;" and jumping upon a pass- 
 ing sleigh, he was carried out of sight. Mr. Linkum did not 
 promise without cause. 
 
106 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 
 
 There was a wedding at the Maple Bush that evening — a , 
 quiet, cozy, family affair ; and the pretty belle of the district, 
 though quite as pretty and quite as mischievously attractive, 
 was a belle no longer. Bright, witching Dolly Foster ! what 
 a dear little neighborhood blessing she had always been, with 
 her sunny face and sunny heart and open hand ! And what 
 a charming little bride of a Madam Linkum she made ! How 
 everybody loved her ! How the old ladies praised her docility 
 and teachableness ! and how the young ladies doted on 
 her as a model of taste and socialness ! Oh, Dolly Foster 
 was the flower of the Maple Bush; but bewitching Mrs. 
 Linkum was its gem — its lamp — its star. 
 
107 
 
 NOT A POET. 
 
 I AM a little maiden, 
 
 Who fain would touch the lyre 
 But my poor fingers ever 
 
 Bring discord from the wire. 
 'T is strange I 'm not a poet ; 
 
 There 's music in my heart ; 
 Some mystery must linger 
 
 About this magic art. 
 
 I 'm told that joyous spirits, 
 
 Untouched by grief or care, 
 In mystery so holy 
 
 Are all too light to share. 
 My heart is, very gladsome ; 
 
 But there 's a corner deep, 
 Where many a shadow nestles, 
 
 And future sorrows sleep. 
 
 I hope they 'II not awaken 
 
 As yet for many a year ; 
 There 's not on earth a jewel, 
 
 That 's worth one grief-born tear. 
 Long may the harp be silent. 
 
 If Sorrow's touch alone, 
 Upon the chords descending. 
 
 Has power to wake its tone. 
 
 I 'd never be a poet, 
 
 My bounding heart to hush 
 And lay down at the altar 
 
 For Sorrow's foot to crush. 
 
108 NOT A roET. 
 
 Ah, no ! I '11 gather sunshine 
 FoT coming evening's hours ; 
 
 And while the spring-time lingers, 
 I '11 gamer up its flowers, 
 
 I fain would learn the music 
 
 Of those who dwell in heaven 
 For woe-tuned harp was never 
 
 To seraph fingers given. 
 But I will strive no longer 
 
 To waste my heart- felt mirth ; 
 I will mind me that the gifted 
 
 Are the stricken ones of earth. 
 
109 
 
 TWO NIGHTS IN THE "NIEUW 
 
 NEDERLANDTS." 
 
 It was on the night of the 25th of February, 1643, that a 
 middle-aged man, with an honest, frank, sun-browned face 
 and a powerful frame, sat and warmed himself by the kitchen 
 fire in the Governor's house at Fort Amsterdam. He was 
 singularly uneasy ; every now and then clenching his fist and 
 moving his nervous arm as in angry gesticulation ; while his 
 fine eye turned from one object to another with a kind of 
 eager dread, and his naturally clear, open countenance was 
 drawn into a scowl compounded of various strong emotions. 
 He was alone, and bore himself much as though belonging to 
 the household ; for he certainly could not have been greatly 
 inferior to its master in point of dignity. All within doors 
 was perfectly silent — painfully so, it seemed to the stern 
 watcher — and within, the heavy, monotonous tread of a sen- 
 tinel, at a little distance, gave the only evidence that the pulse 
 of the young city had not ceased its breathings. At last the 
 man drew from his pocket a massive " Nuremburg egg" and 
 held it up to the light. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock — five — almost ten minutes past ! Thank 
 God, if their hellish plan has miscarried ! " 
 
 A long, loud, terrible shriek, as of a multitude of voices 
 combining their agony, came up from the distance even as 
 he spoke ; and, dropping the watch upon the stone hearth, the 
 listener sprang with an exclamation of horror to his feet. 
 
 " God forgive me, if I curse my race and nation ! It is a 
 deed worthy of the devil — and they call themselves men and 
 Christians ! " 
 
 He strode up and down the long kitchen, his brows knit 
 and his hand on the hilt of his sword, muttering as he went, 
 
 VOL. u. 10 
 
110 TWO NIGHTS IN THE ' 
 
 " Without the consent of the committee ! — m the face of my 
 protestation as its head! — the bloody-minded littleness of the 
 assassin! — creeping upon the defenceless at midnight ! — why, 
 their savage doings at Swanendael and Staten Island were 
 Christian deeds to this ! If evil come, if evil come of it, 
 Wilhelm Kieft, thou shalt be the first sufferer, if there be 
 strength in the hand. of Pieterszen de Vries to push thee from 
 thy kennel. Dog! base dog! Nay; I belie the brute to 
 name thee so, cowardly blood-sucker that thou art ! " 
 
 He opened the door, and, walking forth, mounted the para- 
 pets. The cries of suffering and terror had entirely ceased ; 
 but the noise of fire-arms came from Pavonia, and gleams of 
 light flashed from the opposite shore and gilded the waters of 
 the bay. 
 
 " A mighty feat, indeed ! ' worthy the heroes of old Rome ! ' 
 Noble Kieft ! thy employers shall have a full account of these 
 brave doings." . 
 
 The speaker felt a hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Ha, De Heer ! I am glad to see you." 
 
 " But you should have slept, my good Lilier ; you will 
 have cause to think lightly enough of your adopted home, 
 without seeing this." 
 
 " What means it, De Vries?" 
 
 " Our gallant Director is desirous of making himself fa- 
 mous ; and so has concocted a piece of villany that no bucca- 
 neer captain on the high seas would stain his honor withal." 
 
 " I thought an enemy had been surprised, and — " 
 
 " An enemy ! no, Lilier, a friend ! Let us go in — the uix 
 smells of murder, and I cannot bear it." 
 
 ' I do not understand you. What is it ? " 
 
 •'Treachery. More than one hundred of our friends and 
 neighbors, Indians from Tappaen and Wickquaesgeck, lay 
 down in sight of the fort to-night, never dreaming of harm ; 
 and they have all been murdered in their sleep." 
 
 " Not by white men ? " 
 
 " By Kief's soldiers." 
 
 " Dastardly ' Such things should not be suffered." 
 
NIETIW NEnr.RLANDTS. Ill 
 
 ■" How are they to be avoided ? The Company care but 
 little for our interests, farther than our prosperity has a bear- 
 ing on their commercial enterprises." 
 
 " They ought to be made to listen ; for if a better and more 
 prudent man be not selected to take charge of the colonies, the 
 abuses of Van Twnller, as you used to recount them to me 
 hi Holland, will find more than a parallel." 
 
 " Wouter Van Tmller was a thrice sodden fool ; yet he 
 had a man's heart in his bosom, and his errors were the result 
 of weakness, not vice ; he had no taste for lapping up human 
 blood. We have men to govern us in the East Indies, but 
 here they give us nothing but blockheads and serpents." 
 
 By this time the two men had gained the kitchen fire, and 
 the light was shining full upon their faces. The companion 
 of the patroon was a very young man, of slight figure and 
 delicate features, and withal a high-bred air, which denoted 
 his patrician origin. His leading characteristic seemed to be 
 extreme gentleness ; and certainly there was nothing in the 
 large blue eyes and bright golden curls that fell about his 
 neck, instead of being gathered into a queue alter the fashion 
 of the Hollanders, (if the observer could but shut his eyes on 
 •an occasional drawing in of the lip and swell of the nostril,) 
 indicative of superior manliness. Yet, (and the bold voyager 
 knew it and loved him for it,) in that very bosom slept mate- 
 rials for a hero. So might have looked the voluptuous king 
 who dallied away his time among fountains and flowers and 
 singing girls; but became a lion in the hour of peril, and, 
 building his owm funeral pile, clung to his throne till holh 
 were ashes. Yet the comparison is not a fair one, for Lilier, 
 if gentle as a girl when there was no cause for the exercise 
 of deeper qualities, was also as pure. With a spirit deeply 
 imbued with religious feeling, he had early enibraced the sen- 
 timents of the Huguenots ; and when a mere boy had turned 
 to Holland, the asylum of the persecuted of all creeds and 
 nations. There he had met with De Vries, then master ot 
 artillery in the service of the United Provinces, and after- 
 wards the hardy voyager and discreet colonist. There was 
 
112 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 something in the bold chivalrous character of this enterprising 
 man, to whom, as the historian Bancroft has it, Delaware ' 
 owes its existence, that made him a kind of lion-hearted 
 Eichard to the Frenchman. Hence a warm friendship 
 sprang up between them ; for which the impulsive romance 
 of the one and the steady sternness of the other, offered , 
 ample materials. De Vries seemed ever ready to regard his "" 
 young friend with the affectionate interest of a parent ; while, 
 at the same time, particularly in the presence of strangers, he 
 preserved towards him a deference of manner which men 
 were ready enough to set down to the account of high birth. 
 
 The Hollander had spread open his broad, tough palm to 
 the genial blaze, and was watching in gloomy silence the 
 flickering light coquetting with the rafters above his head, 
 apparently without a thought of his companion, who leaned 
 pensively against the pictorial tiles in the chimney, when the 
 door was suddenly pushed open, and two persons sprang into 
 the centre of the kitchen. The first was a tall savage, nearly 
 naked, his face painted with colors of red and black, a snake- 
 skin bound around his forehead, a tuft of coarse plumes on 
 his head, and tomahawk in hand ; the other was a female. 
 She cast a timid glance about her as she entered, and glided 
 quietly into the shadow of the chimney, as though shrinking 
 from the bold glare of the light. Not so the man. Eecog- 
 nizing the patroon, he planted himself at once before him and 
 unhe^tatingly claimed his protection. They had come from 
 beyond the Tappaen, he said, he and his brother warriors, 
 with their women and children, and encamped at Pavonia ; 
 but the Maquas, their enemies from fort Orange, had come 
 upon them in the night, and murdered all while sleeping. 
 
 " No ! by heaven, Lickquequa," exclaimed the honest 
 patroon, " you shall not so belie the Maquas. The fort is no 
 place for a skin of the color that you wear ; you have run 
 your neck into the trapper's njose. It is the Swannekins 
 themselves that have murdered your warriors." 
 
 The Indian laid his hand upon his tomahawk, and his eyes 
 glittered. 
 
NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 113 
 
 " Do j'ou understand me ? Your enemies are here — 
 tvithin these very walls — they will send you to a better hunt- 
 ing-ground than Wickquaesgeck." 
 
 " Lickquequa will take a scalp with him," said the Indian, 
 with a grim smile. 
 
 " Ay, take it ! " answered the palroon, lifting a mass of 
 giizzled hair from his forehead, and showing a tempting line 
 of white that presented quite a contrast to the bronzed com- 
 plexion below, " take it, and avenge the foul wrong you have 
 sufTered to-night." 
 
 The muscles in the face of the Indian relaxed just suHl- 
 ciently to evince his admiration, without compromising his 
 reputation for dignified indifference ; but Lilier had too little 
 knowledge of Indian character to read the emotion correctly. 
 
 " You are mad, De Heer," he exclaimed earnestly ; " you 
 never consented to this murder ; you are the Indian's friend, 
 and will get this man in safety from the fort. Come, we will 
 convey him through the back door, and along " 
 
 " We will convey him openly. Lickquequa is my neigh- 
 bor, and entitled to my protection. I will not skulk and 
 creep about for fear of Kieft and his blood-hounds ; I will go 
 out openly, with this man beside me ; and, if any one attempts 
 to interfere, I will shoot him." 
 
 The Frenchman saw that it would be useless to dispute 
 the point, for De Vries' blood was heated ; and he followed 
 the two men in silence. As they passed out, and were about 
 closing the door, the woman who had escaped with Lickque- 
 qua, slid silently through the opening and crept along in the 
 shadow cast upon the ground by the group before her. The 
 young man beckoned her to draw nearer, for it was prudent 
 to make the party as small as possible ; and, shrinkingly, the 
 woman obeyed. That was a beautiful face which raised 
 itself beaming with gratitude to Lilier's, but in the next 
 moment it was nearly hidden in the embroidered mantle 
 folded over her bosom ; for the Indian maiden was either 
 very modest or very timid. The gate was unguarded, and 
 they passed on without a challenge. 
 
 VOL. 11. 10^ 
 
114 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 Lilier's sympathies had at first been strongly enlisted in 
 the cause of humanity; and now that cause was scarce 
 likely to lose anything by uniting youth and beauty with it. 
 There was a deep cast of romance in his character, and this 
 incident had sufficient romantic interest in it, to combine with 
 the witching hour and the glittering moonlight in giving to 
 hiy thoughts a color which he would have been ashamed to 
 show De Vries. Thus it was that his manner to the fugitive 
 Indian girl, while studiously attentive, yet put on a delicate 
 reserve, which Avould have been peculiarly appropriate had an 
 honorable cavalier suddenly found himself the escort and pro- 
 tector of one of the fairest dames of Europe. Human nature 
 is everywhere the same, of whatever hue the cheek may be ; 
 and understands the language addressed to it, though the 
 tongue may use a strange jargon ; but it was difficult to dis- 
 cover whether the courtly manners of the young Frenchman 
 were in this instance appreciated. 
 
 When they had crossed a corner of the -woods and set 
 their fugitives safely on their way to Tappaen, De Vries pro- 
 posed taking leave of them and returning to the fort. 
 
 " Go," said Lickquequa, coldly. 
 
 The maiden raised again her finely-sculptured head, and as 
 she did so, a bright moonbeam came glancing downwards, 
 revealing the rich complexion, the large, mournful eyes, the 
 finely-arched brows, and the luxurious lips. It was imme- 
 diately lowered again, and she followed in the track of Lick- 
 quequa. 
 
 " She must not go alone, so unprotected," exclaimed 
 Lilier, looking at De Vries for approbation. 
 
 The patroon smiled. 
 
 " She is a woman, and the Indian takes no notice of her." 
 
 " She does not want his notice, nor ours. She is in her 
 own palace now, and is growing quite the queen. Look ! 
 see how freely and proudly she steps. She does not crouch 
 vjow, and would laugh at the very word protection. See ! her 
 path leads away from Lickquequa's. God grant that she has 
 no father's, or brother's, or lover's death to avenge; for, 
 
NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 115 
 
 Lilier, it is proud blood that flows in those veins, and, if she 
 would, she might light a train with it that Nieuw Neder- 
 landts would feel to its centre. I know by her dress that she 
 is the daughter of one of their sagamores." 
 
 " But woman's words have no weight in the council." 
 •' Certainly not. These people, however, have such broad 
 ears when the cry is for vengeance, that a word whispered in 
 the wigwam may call into action a thousand tomahawks." 
 
 Lilier looked after the retreating figure of the Indian mai- 
 den, and thought of Zenobia ; then he remembered the 
 glimpses he had of her face, and he walked back to the fort 
 by the side of De Vries without speaking a word. 
 
 The treachery of the whites, as might have been antici- 
 pated, met with a deadly vengeance. The exasperated sava- 
 ges scoured the whole country from Nieuw Amsterdam 
 nearly to fort Orange ; and houses, barns and haystacks 
 made merry bonfires for them in the dead of winter. Grain 
 and cattle were destroyed ; men stripped of their scalps and 
 left bleeding at their hearth-stones ; and women and children 
 dragged, shrieking, from the ruins of their homes and the 
 corses of the slain, to encounter cold, fatigue, and not unfre- 
 quently death, with their unfeeling captors. In this state of 
 things, De Vries applied to the governor for soldiers to pro- 
 tect his estate, but received only a promise. 
 
 " I will go myself," said the indignant patroon to his 
 friend ; " one arm without dishonor is worth more than a 
 score of these paid murderers ; and though they only obeyed 
 orders, poor fellows ! I believe an honest man's hearth is 
 better without them. Come with me, Lilier, in God's name, 
 and we two shall be enough for Vriesendael." 
 
 A long and unsatisfactory conversation with the governor 
 delayed the departure of De Vries beyond the appointed hour ; 
 but, at last, all was arranged, and the two friends set off in a 
 little boat together. The sun was brightly beautiful, winter 
 though it was. The trees, all decked out in trappings of crys- 
 tal, set ofT with brilliants of every hue, leaned over the bank 
 
116 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 
 to see themselves in the mirror below ; and pencils of liglij 
 seemingly splintered by contact with the cold air, scattered 
 showers of scintillations on the sheets of ice that bordered the 
 little sea, on the shivering water, and the snow-covered shore. 
 Evening came on, and the boat, notwithstanding a floating 
 block of ice that now and then threatened to upset it, shot like 
 a winged bird over the crisp water. A dip, a glimmer of sil- 
 ver as the moonlight came to kiss the uplifted pinion, a broken 
 chain of pearls — and down again went the disappointed 
 wing, to bear up with it the same shattered treasures, and 
 again and again to seek them, till that little boat, with its 
 steadily plying oars, became a struggling, living thing, bear- 
 ing within it a restless human spirit. On sped they thus, till 
 about the time of midnight's coming, they shot into the swifter 
 current formed by the mingling of the waters. , Rounding a 
 miniature cape covered with gigantic trees, they came sud- 
 denly in sight of Vriesendael. 
 
 " Good God ! " burst from the lips of the patroon ; and, 
 leaping from the boat, he dashed through the water, and 
 sprang, sword in hand, upon the bank. Lilier was scarce a 
 step behind him. 
 
 "Hold, De Vries ! stay! listen — listen to reason, De 
 Heer!" 
 
 " Reason ! and my property on fire, my people murdered, 
 and perhaps my own family ! Curses on the bloody policy 
 of Wilhelm Kieft ! It is his own hand that has set fire 
 to Vriesendael." 
 
 A fearful conflagration was indeed sweeping over the little 
 valley. The houses of the tenants, barns, haystacks — every- 
 thing combustible was now in a broad blaze ; and, with the 
 crackling Df the flames, the crash of falling timbers, and the 
 occasional discharge of fire-arms, mingled the triumphant yell 
 of the maddened and revengeful savages. The first impulse 
 of De Vries lasted but a moment, and then he collected all the 
 energies of his powerful mind, and looked upon the scene with 
 . the eye of a brave man accustomed to danger, and prepared 
 to meet just such a crisis as this. The fury of the savages 
 
NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 117 
 
 was now all directed towards his own dwelling, a strong 
 block house witli embrasures ; and, from the firing, it was 
 evident that some of his people had taken refuge there. If 
 this could be reached, under his direction the vengeance of 
 the foe might be baffled ; and to reach it unobserved, and 
 effect an entrance, became now the all-important object. 
 Keeping within the shadow of the woods, they crept along, 
 nearer and nearer the glaring light, and nearer the yelling 
 savages, treading do\vn the frozen snow and snapping the 
 brittle twigs fearlessly ; for it must have been a heavy sound 
 indeed that would have attracted attention at that terrible 
 hour. As they passed a jagged rock, casting a deep shadow 
 on the ground, a light tread, scarce heavier than that of a 
 squirrel, attracted the attention of De Vries ; and, at the same 
 moment, he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. 
 
 " White chief, stay ! no — no go ! Lickquequa — he save ; 
 stay — stay ! " 
 
 There was plenty of light to see the beautiful face of the 
 Indian girl, as these words with difficulty broke from her 
 lips ; her warm, dark eye, with all its pleading earnestness, 
 turning from one face to the other ; timidity, everything but 
 the touching interest of a grateful heart, entirely banished ; 
 and her whole countenance eloquent with truth and nobleness 
 of purpose. De Vries half paused to answer ; but as he did 
 so, a shriek rang out from his own dwelling — a woman's 
 voice. In the same instant a glittering tomahawk glanced 
 past him ; there came a savage yell, and two dark forms 
 sprang into the red glare cast at his feet by the burning build- 
 ings. He heard the wild, terrified scream of the Indian girl, 
 a groan, and a crackling of the underbrush as of something 
 falling ; and then with two or three bounds he left the whole 
 group far behind him. That other shriek ! — the voice was 
 dearly familiar, and it drowned, for the moment, every thought 
 of the mere friend. 
 
 The tomahawk, that had caught the eye of De Vries, struck 
 the temple of Lilier. He reeled, clutched with both hands at 
 the vacant air, and plunged into the crusted snow, stunned 
 
118 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 
 
 and bleeding. In a moment his foes were upon him in a II 
 their savage fury ; but the heart of a friend is quicker and 
 stronger than the vengeful hand of an enemy, even though 
 there be a broadsword in it. The arms of the grateful Indian 
 girl were thrown about him — a beautiful defence ; and her 
 cheek, crimsoned with his blood, rested protectingly upon his 
 forehead. How earnestly simple was the tale she told, her 
 soul-full face looking up from the hair all matted with the red 
 gore ! And how eloquently she pleaded for her saviour 
 The savages paused, with their hands uplifted, clutching fast 
 the instruments of death ; and bestowing a single glance on 
 the girl, turned in astonishment towards the block-house. 
 The firing had entirely ceased, and not a single savage yell 
 was to be heard. In his o\vn opened door stood, strongly 
 relieved by the full light, the herculean figure of the hardy 
 and courageous patroon ; and before him, within arm's reach, 
 an Indian, seemingly engaged in a parley. The strange 
 silence also arrested the attention of the girl. She raised her 
 head, and a cry of joy broke from the lips, and left them 
 parted with a bright smile. 
 
 " Go ! " she said in her own musical tongue, " go ! it is 
 Lickquequa, and the white men are saved." 
 
 She was right. The Indian, whom De Vries had led from 
 the fort on the night of the massacre, had represented the 
 patroon as a friendly chief, who loved his red neighbors ; and 
 the Indians had already slung their bows over their shoulders, 
 and lowered their tomahawks by their sides. The two sav- 
 ages looked again on the scalp of the wounded man greedily ; 
 but it was half-sheltered by the beautiful person of his pro- 
 tectress"; and they turned away and joined silently the dark 
 body retreating from the besieged house. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, the girl bent tenderly over her 
 charge, putting her cheek close down to his lips, to see if she 
 could catch a breath upon it, and trying to win, by the pressure 
 of her slight fingers, a single answering flutter of the heart. 
 It came at last — a light, faint tremor; and radiant was the 
 flash of joy that lighted up her face, radiant, and yet half-sub- 
 
NIEUVV NEDERLANDTS. 119 
 
 dued, as though the breath of a smile might be too strong for 
 tne faUering wing of the half-reluctant spirit just poising 
 Kself upon the outer verge of life. Hastily she unbuckled the 
 aword at his side, slid his head from her knees, and stole up 
 vhe hill-side, among jagged rocks and broken wood and 
 crusted snow, till her practised eye recognized the spot she 
 «ought. Then kneeling down and digging with her unwonted 
 weapon into the bank, she labored patiently until she reached 
 the ground. It was covered with green leaves ; and snatch- 
 ing a handful hastily, she hurried back with them to her 
 charge. Again raising his head to her bosom, she washed 
 the wound with the soft snow gathered from beneath the 
 crust ; and, warming the leaves between her hands, laid them 
 gently upon it, and bound them with her own girdle of wam- 
 pum. Then removing the mantle from her shoulders, she 
 folded it softly about his ; and now clasping his icy hands, 
 now watching the uncertain breath that seemed every moment 
 ready to flit from his lip, she bent over him as tenderly as a 
 mother over the cradle of her first-born. And her care was 
 rewarded ; for, long before De Vries could leave his alarmed 
 family and go out in search of the corse of his friend, the 
 languid eyes of the awakened Frenchman had turned help- 
 lessly to the dark, tearful ones watching his slumbers ; and he 
 had closed them again, more than content with his resting- 
 place. He slept, to dream of that same beautiful face ; and 
 she looked upon his closed lids and dreamed too ; such dreams 
 as our first mother must have had when she opened her eyes 
 on Eden. It was not an easy thing for the poor girl to resign 
 her charge when the white men came and took him from her j 
 for she felt as though she had a claim upon that life which 
 her tenderness had won back to earth after the last cord was 
 loosened and the spirit's wing lifted heavenwards. 
 
 Two centuries have passed, and the colors of by-gone events 
 are so blinded and dimmed, and in some instances glossed 
 over by modern falsehood, that little more than the crimson 
 may be recognized. The heart of truth, the eve of love, and 
 
120 TWO NIGHTS IN THE NIEITW NEDERLANDTS. 
 
 the brow of beauty, are things that fade from the earth, to write 
 their names on the pages of heaven. So is a holy lesson 
 lost ; for though truth and purity yet dwell with us, there is 
 a poison in the breath of the world that keeps them forever 
 hidden. Thus two beings who lived long j 
 
 " 'Mid trees and flowers and waterfalls, | 
 
 And fountains bubbling from the moss, 
 And leaves that quiver with delight, 
 As from their shade the warbler calls," 
 
 who lived and loved in a luxurious wilderness, and passed in 
 the golden autumn of their days, like the beautiful, rich things 
 about them, can find no historian. Let their memories rest 
 with them — the halo has fallen on some heart. Yet would 
 any look upon a quiet, simple picture, let them spend a day 
 among the Helderburgs. I have seen there a doting old lady, 
 who loves to talk of the flowery dell where she was born, and 
 the happy generations that have moved among those flowers. 
 If you could induce her to pass down the river with you, she 
 would point you to an ancient tree, beneath whose young 
 shade a French Huguenot, of high birth and higher virtues, 
 plighted his faith to the daughter of a proud Sagamore living 
 among the hills. And the old lady loves well to boast of the 
 French and Indian blood in her veins. 
 
121 
 
 LUCY BUTTON. 
 
 It was an October morning, warm and sunny, but with 
 even its sunshine subdued into a mournful softness, and its 
 gorgeous drapery chastened by a touch of the dreamy atmos- 
 phere into a sympathy with sorrow. And there was a sor- 
 rowing one who needed sympathy on that still, holy morning 
 
 — the sympathy of the great Heart which beats in Nature's 
 bosom — for she could hope no other. Poor Lucy Dutton ! 
 
 There was a funeral that morning — a stranger would have 
 judged by the gathering that the great man of the village was 
 dead, and all that crowd had come out to do his ashes honor 
 
 — but it was not so. Yet the little, old-fashioned church was 
 filled to overflowing. Some there were that turned their eyes 
 devoutly to the holy man that occupied the sacred desk, receiv- 
 ing from his lips the words of life ; some looked upon the 
 little rofTm that stood, covered with its black pall, upon a table 
 directly below him, and perhaps thought of their own mortal- 
 ity, or that of their bright little ones ; while many, very many, 
 gazed with cold curiosity at the solitary mourner occupying 
 the front pew. This was a young creature, in the very spring- 
 time of life, — a frail, erring being, whose only hope was in Him 
 who said, " Neither do I condemn thee — go, and sin no more." 
 There was a weight of shame upon her head, and woe upon 
 her heart, that together made the bereaved young mother cower 
 almost to the earth before the prying eyes that came to looic 
 upon her in her distressing humiliation. Oh ! it was a jnti- 
 ful sight! that crushed, helpless creature's agonj^. 
 
 But the year before, and this same lone mourner was con- 
 sidered a sweet, beautiful child, whom everybody was bound 
 to protect and love ; because, but that she was the pet lamb 
 of a doting old woman, she was Avithout friend and protector. 
 
 VOL. u. 11 
 
122 LUCY BUTTON. 
 
 Lucy Dutton was the last blossom on a tree which had boasted 
 many fair ones. When the grave opened to one after another 
 of that doomed family, till none but this bright, beautiful bud 
 was left, she became the all in all, and with the doting affec- 
 tion of age was she cherished. When poverty came to Granny 
 Dutton's threshold, she drew her one priceless jewel to her 
 heart, and laughed at poverty. When sorrows of every kind 
 compassed her about, and the sun went down in her heaven 
 of hope, another rose in a holier heaven of love ; and Lucy • 
 Dutton was this fountain of love-born light. The old lady 
 and her pretty darling occupied a small, neat cottage, at the > 
 foot of the hill, with a garden attached to it, in which the child ' 
 flitted all day long, like a glad spirit among the flowers. And, 
 next to her child-idol, the simple-hearted old lady loved those 
 flowers, with a love which pure natures ever bear to the beau- 
 tiful. It was by these, and the fruit produced by the little 
 garden, that the twain lived. Many a fine carriage drew up 
 before the door of the humble cottage, and bright ladies and 
 dashing gentlemen sauntered beneath the shade, while the 
 rosy fingers of Lucy adjusted bouquets for them, her bright 
 lips wreathed with smiles, and her sunny eye turning to her 
 grandmother at the placing of every stem, as though for appro- 
 bation of her taste. Not a child in all the neigborhood was 
 so happy as Lucy. Not a child in all the neighborhood was 
 so beautiful, so gentle, and so good. And nobody ever thought 
 of her as anything but a child. Though she grew to the 
 height of her tallest geranium, and her form assumed womanly 
 proportions, nobody, not even the rustic beaux around her, 
 thought of her as anything but a child. Lucy was so artless, 
 and loved her dear old grandmother so truly, that the two 
 were somehow connected in people's minds, and it seemed as 
 impossible that the girl should grow older, as that the old lady 
 should grow younger. 
 
 Lucy was just booked for fifteen, W/th the seal of innocence 
 upon her heart, and a rose-leaf on her cheek, Avhen " the 
 Herman property," a fine summer residence that had been for 
 years unoccupied, was purchased by a widow lady from the 
 
LUCY DUTTON. 123 
 
 metropolis. She came to Alderbrook early in the spring, 
 accompanied by her only son, to visit her new possessions, 
 and finding the spot exceedingly pleasant, she determined to 
 remain there. And so Lucy met the young metropolitan ; 
 and Lucy was beautiful, and trusting, and thoughtless ; and 
 he was gay, selfish, and profligate. Needs the story to be 
 told? 
 
 When the Howards went away, Lucy awoke from her 
 dream. She looked about her, and upon herself, with the 
 veil taken from her eyes ; and then she turned from all she 
 had ever loved ; for, in the breaking up of those dreams, was 
 broken poor Lucy's heart. 
 
 Nay, censor, Lucy was a child — consider how very young, 
 how very untaught — oh ! her innocence was no match for 
 the sophistry of a gay city youth ! And young Howard stole 
 her unthinking heart the first day he looked in to purchase a 
 bouquet. Poor, poor Lucy ! 
 
 Before the autumn leaves fell, Granny Button's bright pet 
 knelt in her little chamber, and upon her mother's grave, and 
 doAvn by the river-side, where she had last met Justin Howard, 
 and prayed for death. Sweet, joyous Lucy Button, asking 
 to lay her bright head in the grave ! Spring came, and shame 
 was stamped upon the cottage at the foot of the hill. Lucy 
 bowed her head upon her bosom, and refused to look upon any- 
 thing but her baby ; and the old lady shrunk, like a shrivelled 
 leaf, before this last and greatest of her troubles. The neigh- 
 borhood had its usual gossip. There were taunts, and sneers, 
 and coarse jests, and remarks severely true ; but only a little, 
 a very little, pity. Lucy bore all this well, for she knew that 
 it was deserved ; but she had worse than this to bear. Every 
 day she knelt by the bed of the one being who had doted upon 
 her from infancy, and begged her blessing, but in vain. 
 
 " Oh ! that I had laid you in the coffin, with your dead 
 mother, when all around me said that the breath had passed 
 from you ! " was the unvarying reply ; " then my gray hairs 
 might have gone down to the grave without dishonor from the 
 
124 
 
 LUCY DUTTON. 
 
 child that I toolc from the gate of death, and bore for years 
 upon my bosom. Would you had died, Lucy ! " 
 
 And Lucy would turn away her head, and, in the bitterness 
 of her heart, echo, " Ay ! would that I had died ! " Then 
 she would take her baby in her arms, and, while the scalding 
 tears bathed its unconscious face, pray God to forgive the 
 wicked wish, and preserve her life for the sake of this sinless 
 heir to shame. And sometimes Lucy would smile — not that 
 calm, holy smile which usually lingers about an infant's cradle, 
 but a faint, sicklied play of the love-light within, as though 
 the mother's fond heart were ashamed of its own throbbings. 
 But, before the autumn passed, Lucy Dutton was fearfully 
 stricken. Death came ! She laid her last comfort from her 
 bosom into the coffin,, and they were now bearing it to the 
 grave, — she, the only mourner. It mattered but little that 
 the grandmother's forgiveness and blessing came now ; Lucy 
 scarce knew the difference between these words and those last 
 spoken ; and most earnestly did she answer, " Would, would 
 that I had died ! " Poor, poor Lucy ! 
 
 She sat all through the sermon, and the singing, and the 
 prayer, with her head bowed upon the side of the pew ; and 
 when at last they bore the coffin to the door, and the congre- 
 gation began to move forward, she did not raise it until the 
 kind clergyman came and led her out to take a last look at 
 her dead boy. Then she laid her thin, pale face against his 
 within the coffin, and sobbed aloud. And now some began 
 to pity the stricken girl, and whisper to their neighbors that 
 she was more sinned against than sinning. Still, none came 
 forward to w^hisper the little word which might have brought 
 healing, but the holy man whose duty it was. He took her 
 almost forcibly from the infant clay, and strove to calm her, 
 while careless eyes came to look upon that dearer to her than 
 her own heart's blood. Finally, curiosity was satisfied ; they 
 closed the coffin, screwed down the lid, spread the black cloth 
 over it, and the procession began to form. Minister Green 
 left the side of the mourner, and took his station in advance, 
 accompanied by some half dozen others ; then four men fol- 
 
LUCY DDTTON. 125 
 
 lowed, bearing the light cofRn in their hands, and all eyes 
 were turned upon the mourner. She did not move. 
 
 " Pass on, madam," said Squire Field, who always acted 
 the part of marshal on such occasions ; and, though little 
 given to the weakness of feeling, he now softened his voice 
 as much as it would bear softening. " This way — right be- 
 hind the — the — pass on!" 
 
 Lucy hesitated a moment, and many a generous one longed 
 to step forward and give her an arm; but selfish prudence for- 
 bade. One bright girl, who had been Lucy's playmate from 
 the cradle, but had not seen her face for many months, drew 
 impulsively towards her ; but she met a reproving eye from 
 the crowd, and only whispering, " I do pity you, Lucy !" she 
 shrunk back, and sobbed almost as loud as her erring friend. 
 Lucy started at the words, and, gazing wildly round her, tot- 
 tered on after the coffin. 
 
 Loud, and slow, and fearfully solemn, stroke after stroke, 
 the old church-hell doled forth its tale ; and slowly and 
 solemnly the crowd moved on with a measured tread, though 
 there was many a careless eye and many a smiling lip, turn- 
 ing to other eyes and other lips, with something like a jest 
 between them. On moved the crowd after the mourner ; 
 while she, Avith irregular, labored step, her arms crossed on 
 her bosom, and her head bent to the same resting-place, just 
 kept pace with the body of her dead boy. Winding through 
 the opened gate into the church-yard, they went trailing slow- 
 ly through the long, dead grass, while some of the children 
 crept slily from the procession, to pick up the tufts of scarlet 
 and yellow leaves, which made this place of graves strangely 
 gay; and several young people wandered off, arm in arm, 
 pausing as they went, to read the rude inscriptions lettered on 
 the stones. On went the procession, away to the farthermost 
 corner, where slept the stranger and the vagabond. Here a 
 little grave had been dug, and the coffin was now set down 
 beside it, while the long procession circled slowly round. 
 Several went up and looked into the dark, damp cradle of the 
 dead child ; one observed to his neighbor that it was very 
 
 VOL. II. 11* 
 
126 LUCY DUTTON. 
 
 shallow ; and another said that Tom Jones always slighted his 
 work when there was nobody to see to it ; anyhow, it was not 
 much matter, the child would stay buried ; and another let 
 drop a jest, a hard, but not very witty one, though it was fol- 
 lowed by a smothered laugh. All this passed quietly ; noth- 
 ing was spoken above a low murmur ; but Lucy heard it all ; 
 and, as she heard and remembered, what a repulsive thing 
 seemed to her the human heart ! Poor Lucy Button ! 
 
 Minister Green stood at the head of the grave and said a 
 prayer, while Lucy leaned against a sickly-looking tree, alone, 
 and pressed her cold hands against her temples, and wondered 
 if she should ever pray again — if God would hear her if she 
 should. Then they laid the little cofRn upon ropes, and 
 gently lowered it. The grave was too short, or the men were 
 careless, for there was a harsh grating against the' hard earth, 
 which made Lucy start and extend her arms ; but she instant- 
 ly recollected herself, and, clasping her hands tightly over her 
 mouth-, lest her agony should make itself heard, she tried to 
 stand calmly. Then a handful of straw was thrown upon the 
 coffin, and immediately a shovelful of earth followed. Oh ! 
 that first sinking of the cold clod upon the bosom we have 
 loved ! What a fearful, shivering sensation, does it send to 
 the heart and along the veins ! And then the benumbing 
 faintness which follows, as though our own breath were strug- 
 gling up through that damp covering of earth ! Lucy gasped 
 and staggered, and then she twined her arm about the body 
 of the little tree, and laid her cheek against its rough bark 
 and strove hard to keep herself from falling. 
 
 Some thought the men. were very long in filling up the 
 grave, but Lucy thought nothing about it. She did not, after 
 that first shovelful, hear the earth as it fell ; and when, after 
 all was done and the sods of withered grass had been laid on, 
 Minister Green came to tell her, she did not hear his voice. 
 When she did, she pushed back the hair from her hollowed 
 temples, looked vacantly into his face, and shook her head. 
 Others came up to her — a good-natured man who had been 
 kind to her grandmother ; then the deacon's wife, followed by 
 
LUCY BUTTON. 127 
 
 two or tKree other women ; but Lucy only smiled and shook 
 her head. Glances full of troubled mystery passed from one 
 to another ; there was an alarmed look on many faces, which 
 those more distant seemed to comprehend ; and still others 
 came to speak to Lucy, It Avas useless — she could find no 
 meaning in their words — the star of intellect had gone out — 
 the temple was darkened. Poor, poor Lucy Dutton ! 
 
 They bore her home — for she was passive and helpless — 
 home to the sick old grandmother, who laid her withered 
 hand on those bright locks, and kissed the cold cheek, and 
 took her to her bosom, as though she had been an infant. 
 And Lucy smiled, and talked of playing by the brook, and 
 chasing the runaway bees, and of toys for her baby-house, 
 and wondered why they Avere all weeping, particularly dear 
 grandmamma, who ought to be so happy. But this lasted 
 only a few days, and then another grave was made, and yet 
 another, in the poor's corner ; and the grandmother and her 
 shattered idol slept together. The grave is a blessed couch 
 and pillow to the wretched. Rest thee there, poor Lucy ! 
 
128 
 
 MYSTERY. 
 
 Life is all a mystery. The drawing of the breath, the 
 Dealing of the pulse, the flowing of the blood, none can com- 
 prehend. "We know that we are sentient beings, gifted witn 
 strange powers, both intellectual and physical; capable of act- 
 ing, thinking, feeling, comparing, reasoning, and judging; 
 but we do not know by what means we perform these differ- 
 ent functions, not even so much as to comprehend how the 
 simplest thought is originated. The mind of an idiot — of 
 one of the lower animals even — is a study too deep for us. 
 " The goings forth of the wind," the " balancing of the clouds," 
 the living leaf bursting from the dead brown stem, all pro- 
 cesses of nature however common or simple, are beyond the 
 grasp of human intellect. Each of us is a mystery to self 
 and to the friends that look upon us. We raise alRarm, and 
 we know that in that simple movement a thousand little 
 assistants are required ; but we do not fully understand the 
 philosophy of their application ; and we are totally ignorant 
 of the grand principle, without which they are cold, unfeeling 
 clay. Our friends, too, are complete mysteries to us. They 
 are always acting as we were sure they would not ; and they 
 move about complete embodiments of mystery ; with hearts 
 almost wholly unexplored, heads full of strange theories, and 
 natures subject to incomprehensible impulses and caprices. 
 Within, without, around, we can comprehend nothmg ; we 
 cannot solve even the simplest thesis of nature, whether writ-' 
 ten on the human constitution, or this earth builded by the 
 great Architect for our use. The past to us is chaos ; the 
 present is a waking dream, in which " seeing we see not, and 
 hearing we hear not ;" and the future is wrapped in the deep- 
 est, the most impenetrable obscurity. We know neither hov 
 
MYSTERY. 129 
 
 lior for what purpose we exist ; nor what is to be the destiny 
 of that principle within us which every heart-throb proclaims 
 to be eternal. When we pause to think, our own shadows 
 may well alarm us ; and when we turn our dim, weak eyes 
 on our own ignorance, even to our partial selves so palpable, 
 we shall not dare to sneer at the wildest vagary that the hu- 
 man mind has ever engendered. Sneer ! why, what know 
 we, poor, puny, imbecile creatures that we are ! of truth or 
 falsehood, save that moral truth which stamps us the oflfspring 
 of the Eternal; that unswerving trust which is our only 
 safety — our anchor while drifting on these dark, unknown 
 waters ? There is none to solve the deep mystery of the things 
 about us ; but we feel in the darkness the clasp of a strong 
 Hand. Oh, may we never strive to cast that Hand from us ! 
 In the far, far distance burns one Star. Oh, may we never raise 
 a cloud between its light and our bewildered eyes ! May we 
 never, never forget, in the midst of the mystery by which we 
 are encompassed, that " we are not our own," that we are not 
 gifted with the power of guiding ourselves ; and may we 
 yield th^^ust of childhood to the sure foot, the strong arm, 
 and theipl-seeing eye of Him who made us what we are, 
 and is leading us to the place where we may learn what we 
 have been and shall be. 
 
130 
 
 THE PRIEST'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 AN EXTRACT. 
 
 It is even so, thought the good old man, as the door closed 
 behind the misguided misanthrope ; this is a beautiful world 
 of ours, but it is the gilded cage of many a fluttering spirit 
 that, nevertheless, would shrink from freedom if it were 
 offered. Keyling is miserable, more miserable than the poor 
 wretch crouching amid rags, and filth, and loathsomeness, 
 (for such suffering can bear no comparison with mental ago- 
 ny,) and yet he knows not why. What matters it to him 
 that the earth is green, and the heavens surpassingly magnifi- 
 cent ? He knows that the impress of his foot will ere long 
 disappear from the one, and his eye close upon the other. 
 He knows that the flowers will bloom, the birds sing ; that 
 summer will flush the fields, and winter bring ■pturn its 
 peculiar attractions, when his heart is pulseless and his tongue 
 mute ; but he does not know that in the dissevering of the,sil- 
 ver cord is gained the freedom for which the spirit pants. This 
 world is too narrow for his soul to expand in, and he feels 
 cramped and chained ; yet, if the door of his cage were flung 
 open, he would tremble at sight of the unknown space beyond, 
 and would not venture out, but cling to the gilded wires until 
 torn away by the resistless hand of death. Earth never sat- 
 isfied an immortal mind ; the " living soul," which is nothing 
 less than the breathing of Deity himself, can be satisfied but 
 with infinity — infinity of life, action, and knowledge. Its 
 own feeble glimmer is enough for the fire-fly ; and its wing 
 and voice, with the free heavens and beautiful earth, for the 
 bird ; they were formed by the Almighty's hand, but their 
 life is not an emanation of his life, and their little spirits " go 
 downward to the earth." But what can satisfy the deathless 
 
THE TKIEST's soliloquy. 131 
 
 80ul immured in a clay prison, with but clouded views of the 
 finite beauties around it, and wholly unconscious of its divine 
 origin and final destiny ? No wonder Keyling is miserable ; 
 for he is blinder than the untutored savage who " sees God 
 in clouds and hears him in the wind." For years he has 
 been struggling for a meteor ; while it receded, he never 
 paused or wearied ; but, when his hand closed over it and he 
 grasped a shadow, the truth dawned upon his spirit ; and, in 
 the bitterness of its first perception, he cursed himself and 
 cursed his destiny. He hates the world, and himself and 
 mankind, and talks madly of the death-damps, the grave, and 
 the slimy earth-worm, as though superior to their horrors ; 
 but yet he is in love with life, as much as the veriest devotee 
 of pleasure in existence. It is this panting for immortality, 
 this longing for a wider range, that makes him sometimes 
 imagine, in his impatience, that he is anxious to lie down to 
 his eternal rest and never wake. If his spirit could but 
 understand its heavenward destiny, if he would learn to look 
 beyond these narrow boundaries, if, in despising the worth- 
 less, he^j^ld properly estimate the high and imperishable, 
 poor KiPIRg would find that even on earth there are inex- 
 haustible sources of happiness. Alas for the weakness of 
 human nature ! What a very wreck a man becomes when 
 left to his own blindness and folly ! The loftier the intellect, 
 the higher its aspirations, and the more comprehensive its 
 faculties, the lower does it descend in darkness, if the torch 
 of religion has never been lighted within. It is misery to 
 feel the soul capable of infinite expansion, and allow it a 
 range no wider than this fading, ever-changing earth ; to taste 
 the bliss of life, mingled with the bitter draught of death ; to 
 love the high and holy, and never look toward the fountain 
 of holiness — deep, deep, and mingling in its pure tide the 
 richness of all wisdom and knowledge. Oh, how depressing 
 must be the loneliness of such souls ! How awful the deso- 
 lation ! Too high for earth and knowing naught of heaven ! 
 Even the good in their natures is perverted, and adds to the 
 chaos of darkness within. When they see the strong oppress 
 
132 
 
 THE PRIEST S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 the weak, vice triumph over virtue, innocence borne down by 
 care and poverty, and guiU elevated to a throne, they say 
 this is enough to know of Him who holds the reins of such 
 a government ; and, in their folly, deem themselves more 
 merciful than the Father of mercies. Making this world the 
 theatre of life, and the years of man its sum, they fix upon 
 this inconceivably small point in comparison with the whole ; 
 and, from such a limited view, dare to tax the Ruler of the 
 universe with injustice. Unable to comprehend the policy 
 of the divine government, and misapprehending the object 
 and tendency of earthly suffering, they lose themselves in the 
 mazes of sophistry, and become entangled in the net their own 
 hands have spread. 
 
 Poor Keyling ! he has drunk of the poisonous tide of infi- 
 delity, and every thought is contaminated the moment it 
 springs up into the heart. This gives its coloring to the 
 earth and sky, to life and death. It breaks the chain that 
 binds the world of nature to its Creator, dissolves the strong- 
 est fascination of the beautiful things around us, and renders 
 meaningless the lessons traced by the finger o^fiod upon 
 everything he has made. It removes the prop fro^Bie bend- 
 ing reed, and the sunlight from the heart; it binds down the 
 wing of hope, and turns the upraised eye earthward ; it offers 
 only " the worm, the canker, and the grief," and points the 
 fluttering soul to a grave of darkness and oblivion. 
 
133 
 
 AUNT ALICE. 
 
 To people who look on one side of Aunt Alice's character, 
 she appears a saint ; sinless as those who have gone home to 
 heaven ; a ministering angel of light. To people who look 
 on the reverse of the picture, and see spots of this shining 
 through, all distorted by the unhappy medium, she is a 
 miserable, canting hypocrite. Both are wrong ; Aunt Alice 
 is neither, though much nearer saintship. A third class of 
 people, having a wholesome contempt for extremes, and 
 intending to be very generous in their estimate, call Aunt 
 Alice a singular character; and, moreover, affirm that she 
 loves to be singular, and pursues her somewhat eccentric 
 course more for the sake of attracting attention and exciting 
 remark, than from a love of it. They, too, are wide of the 
 mark, ^^t Aunt Alice performs a vast amount of good is 
 not to iJBInied ; and that she goes about, her left hand often 
 destroying her right hand's work, is equally certain. 
 
 Aunt Alice is a widow ; and, all her children being mar- 
 ried, she has nothing to detain her from what she considers 
 her duties. Is there a sick bed in all the neighborhood, she 
 is there. Her own hand administers the cordial ; her own 
 bosom supports the sufferer's head ; her own lips whisper con- 
 solation, and breathe balm upon the wounded spirit. Then, 
 Aunt Alice is a ministering angel ; and, to see her untiring 
 devotion, her ready self-sacrifice, and her humble piety, you 
 would wonder that she was left upon the earth where she had 
 not a sister spirit. She holds the dying hifant in her arms, 
 receives its last sigh, wraps it in its little shroud, and lays it in 
 the coffin. Then she turns to the bereaved mother, and tells 
 her that her cherished bud is only transplanted to be better 
 watched over and cared for ; and Aunt Alice never goes away 
 until she sees a clear light breaking through the tears in the 
 
 VOL. II. 12 
 
134 AUNT ALICE. 
 
 mourner's eye, and knows that the stricken spirit has learned 
 to love the Hand that but bore its treasure before it to Para 
 dise. But it is only to the poor — the wretchedly, miserably 
 poor — that Aunt Alice goes thus. It is only to them that her 
 hand is extended, and her purse and heart opened. The rich 
 have many friends ; she knows they do not need her, and she 
 camiot waste her precious time upon mere civilities. So 
 deeply is this impressed upon the mind of Aunt Alice, that 
 she too often neglects the lesser charities of life — the ready 
 smile, the encouraging word, and the kindly glance, so 
 expressive' of sympathetic interest — and thus incurs distrust, 
 and builds up a high wall for her own influence to pass over 
 before it can reach the heart of the worldling. Moreover, she 
 has seen so much of real suffering — that which tears the 
 heart, shrivels up the muscles, and withers the spirit within 
 the bosom — that the sorrow which cannot be traced back to a 
 cause, and an adequate one, (some real, palpable cause, whose 
 length, breadth, and entire bearing she can measure,) meets 
 no sympathy from her. She feels a contempt for those minor 
 ills born of delicacy and nursed in the lap of li^^y. She 
 does not know how deeply the cankering iron i|^ eat inio 
 the spirit, when she cannot see it protruding beyond ; she does 
 not know that the Angel of Woe has a seat which he sonie- 
 times occupies by every hearth-stone, and that his visitation is 
 always heaviest when he comes disguised. So Aunt Alice 
 never pities those who cannot write down some fearful calam- 
 ity ; never even does she pity those who can, and are not wil- 
 ling to deserve her pity by opening to her its most secret fold. 
 Sensitiveness she calls pride, and pride is one of the faults 
 which she never forgives. Yet, Aunt Alice is very forgiving ; 
 her charity, indeed, " covereth a multitude of sins." The 
 most sinful, those who have widest erred — the poor, forsaken 
 victim of shame and misery and guilt, she ever takes by the 
 hand, whispering kindly, " This is the way ; walk ye in it." 
 Among those whom crime has made outcasts from society she 
 .abors unceasingly ; and many rescued ones can point to her 
 as the parent of their better natures. Yet there is no one so 
 
AUNT ALICE. 135 
 
 severe on foibles as Aunt Alice. Does her neighbor wear a 
 gayer bonnet than pleases her taste ; is any one so dazzled by 
 the fascinations of society as to err in world-loving ; are men 
 entangled in the net of pleasure and lured to sin, instead of 
 being pushed into it by want and woe ; for them Aunt Alice 
 has no sympathy. 
 
 Yet, again, a current saying among the poor is, that the 
 good lady has no clasp upon her purse ; it is told by others 
 that she has a hard and griping hand. In truth. Aunt Alice 
 values money highly ; but she values it only so far as it gives 
 her the means to benefit her fellow-men. From every penny 
 appropriated to another purpose she parts grudgingly. She 
 studies economy for the sake of the suffering; and, not con- 
 tent with economizing herself, she endeavors to compel those 
 with whom she has dealings to do so also. Aunt Alice will 
 bandy words a half hour with a tradesman for the sake of a 
 few shillings ; and, turning round, she Avill double those shil- 
 lings in charity. It is not that she prefers generosity to jus- 
 tice, but her view of things is contracted. Her errors are of 
 judgment^ot feeling. 
 
 I do nWfvonder that people call Aunt Alice a hypocrite — 
 but I do wish that they could look into the bosom where rests 
 the meek and quiet spirit which they falsify. Oh ! Aunt 
 Alice has a true and generous heart — a heart panting to be 
 like His who loved the sinner, while hating all sin. A gen- 
 erous heart has she ! Pity that it should be curbed, half its 
 fervor checked, and many of its best pulsations hushed, by the 
 narrow mind which is its guide and governor ! 
 
136 
 
 MY FIRST GRIEF. 
 
 AN EXTRACT. 
 
 I LAUGHED and crowed above this water, when I was a 
 baby, and, therefore, I love it. I played beside it, when the 
 days were years of summer-time, and the summers were 
 young eternities of brightness, and, therefore, I love it. It 
 was the scene of my first grief, too. Shall I tell you? 
 There is not much to tell, but I have a notion that there are 
 people above us, up in the air, and behind the clouds, that 
 consider little girls' doings about as important as those of 
 men and women. The birds and the angels are great level- 
 lers. 
 
 It was a dry season ; the brook was low, and a gay trout 
 in a coat of golden brown, dotted over with criB|M)n, and a 
 silver pinafore, lay, weather-bound, on the half-dr"tones, all 
 heated and panting, with about a tea-spoonful of lukewarm 
 water, turning lazily from its head, and creeping down its 
 back at too slow a pace to afford the sufferer hope of emanci- 
 pation. My sympathies — little girls, you must know, are 
 made up of love and sympathy, and such like follies, which 
 afterwards contract into — nHmporte! I was saying, my 
 sympathies were aroused; and, quite forgetting that water 
 would take the gloss from my new red morocco shoes, I 
 picked my way along, and laying hold of my fine gentleman 
 in limbo, succeeded in burying him, wet face and all, in the 
 folds of my white apron! But such an uneasy prisoner! 
 More than one frightened toss did he get into the grass, and 
 then I had an infinite deal of trouble to secure him again. 
 His gratitude was very like that of human's, when you do 
 them unasked service 
 
MY FIRST GRIEF. 137 
 
 When I had reached a cool, shaded, deep spot, far adown, 
 where the spotted alders lean, like so many self-enamored 
 narcissuses, over the ripple-faced mirror, I dropped my apron, 
 and let go my prize. Ah ! he was grateful then ! He must 
 have been ! How he dived, and sprang to the surface, and 
 spread out his little wings of dark-ribbed gossamer, and 
 frisked about, keeping all the time a cool, thin sheet of sil- 
 ver between his back and the sun-sick air! I loved that 
 pretty fish, for I had been kind to it ; and I thought it would 
 love me, too, and stay there, and be a play-fellow for me ; so 
 I went every day and watched for it, and watched until my 
 little eyes ached ; but I never saw it again. That was my 
 first grief; what is there in years to make a heart ache 
 heavier ? That first will be longer remembered than the last 
 I dare say. 
 
 VOL. II. 12* 
 
THE MIGNIONETTE 
 
 I KNOW there is an angel in some bosoms — an angel 
 which the Redeemer leaves to guard his own peculiar jewels 
 — which will touch most delicately the keys of love and 
 truthfulness, whatever nets the world without may be weav- 
 ing to cripple its pure wings. But, in general, we are imita- 
 tive creatures, and we copy from our surroundings. We 
 catch the tricks of the leaves, and the breezes, and the flower- 
 buds, when we make our homes among them ; and, when 
 we congregate on hot pavements, the air we breathe is sear- 
 ing to the spirit, however you may tell us it affects the spirit's 
 casket. It is belter to be a " God-make" than a " man-make," 
 as the little deaf mute, Jack, would say; and men will re- 
 fashion God's doings, even in our own natures, if we do not 
 prevent them. For this reason, it seems to me not only 
 peculiarly silly, but wicked; to transplant the early spring 
 violet from the brook-side to your conservatory. A gay, 
 fashionable man, with a touch of poetry, and more of worldli- 
 ness about him, attempted it a few years ago ; but he spoiled 
 his flower. Poor Minna Gray! She was a pure, gentle 
 creature ; but when she was removed from the influences of 
 home, with so much to attract, so much to wonder at and 
 bewilder, was it strange that her young heart should grow 
 stagnant to any but the thrilling touch of the magic world 
 that accorded so well with her dreams of fairy-land ? No ; 
 if the world-weary man would have the wild violet in its fra- 
 grance, and freshness, and purity, he must go and live beside 
 it ; It is well worth the sacrifice, and will droop in any other 
 soil. We have a strange notion in this strange world, of 
 fashioning pure things to our own hands, instead of fashion- 
 ing ourselves to them. 
 
 i\ 
 
TUE MIGNIONETTE. 
 
 139 
 
 In the days when all the moveless dumb things on the 
 earth talked and walked about, a Thistle grew down in the 
 corner of a neglected garden, in the midst of other Thistles, all 
 proud of their purple blossoms and brave defences. But 
 there was one thing about the porcupine-like armor of the 
 Thistle family, which did not quite please this gallant 
 knight. They were all bristling with prickles ; and they 
 could not draw near each other with the loving confidence 
 displayed by the little bed of Mignionette close by ; so, in 
 the midst of kindred and friends, the Thistle felt alone. Per- 
 haps, if he had cast off his own armor, and wheedled from the 
 air some of the sweetness it had rifled from his fragrant neigh- 
 bors, the others might have imitated him ; but, instead of 
 that, like many a poet of the present day, he stood up in all 
 his exclusiveness ; and, from dawn to dew-fall, sighed for 
 companionship. At last he began to throw loving glances 
 towards the Mignionette ; and one little, fragrant, dewy blos- 
 som saw him, and blushed, hiding her meek head behind her 
 companions. From that day the knight resolved to woo the 
 little trembler, and fashion her beautiful spirit for his own 
 happiness. " She shall grow close beside me," he said to 
 himself; "her roots shall twine with mine down in the dark 
 earth, and her slender, delicate stem I will support and train 
 upwards, and she will cling lovingly to me forever." So he 
 expended a few more tender glances, and sent some gallant 
 speeches by the little wind-messengers ; and at last pretty 
 Mignon slept from the midst of her sisters, and laid her fra- 
 grant head on the bosom of her mettlesome wooer. For a 
 little time, whose life so bright as that of Knight Thistle ? 
 But sometimes the sharp thorns in his armor wounded his 
 gentle bride, and then came tears and chidings ; sometimes, 
 when he bent his head to touch her bright lip, there seemed 
 a strong scent of the Thistle in her breath, instead of the fra- 
 grance which had made the whole garden rich ; and some- 
 times, at midnight, when the wind was a little noisier than 
 usual, and the tall Thistle-heads hissed a response, he fan- 
 cied that another hiss arose close beside him, and he did not 
 
140 THE MIGNIONETTE. 
 
 love his Mignon more for growing so like himself. Finally, 
 after a year or two had passed, the Thistle found, to his dis- 
 may, that the roots of the Mignionette were so interwoven 
 with those of her stout neighbors, that they were in no wise 
 distinguishable ; then thorns grew from her sides, and wounded 
 as his had done ; she put a purple crown upon her head, and 
 became a Thistle. It was not very strange, for she had lain 
 upon his heart, and its throbbings were not good for her ; she 
 had listened to his whispers, and in them had forgotten the 
 pure, sweet converse of her sisters, though her fainting 
 spirit longed for it ; and she had breathed the air that thq 
 Thistles breathed, until her whole nature was contaminated. 
 
 But from that day to this, the whole family of Thistles 
 (which has since become very numerous, and does not 
 always wear the purple) declare the modest little Mignionette 
 to be no purer, no gentler, no sweeter or more loving than 
 themselves ; and they firmly believe that there are no such 
 virtues as these in the wide world, and those who seem most 
 to practise them, are only the most adroit deceivers. 
 
 Ah ! pretty Mignionettes, sweet Violets, bright Minna 
 Grays; beware of the world — nestle in your seclusion — 
 guard well your simple, trustful hearts; your innocence is no 
 match for the strong continual influence which always enters 
 by the purest door of your natures to desecrate your trea- 
 Bures. 
 
141 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS 
 
 Mother, has the dove that nestled 
 
 Lovingly upon thy breast, 
 Folded up its little pinion, 
 
 And in darkness gone to rest? 
 Nay ; the grave is dark and dreary. 
 
 But the lost one is not there ; 
 Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper, 
 
 Floating on the ambient air ? 
 It is near thee, gentle mother, 
 
 Near thee at the evening hour ; 
 Its soft kiss is in the zephyr. 
 
 It looks up from every flower. 
 And when, Nighi's dark shadows fleeing 
 
 Low thou bendest thee in prayer, 
 And thy heart feels nearest heaven. 
 
 Then thy angel babe is there. 
 
 Maiden, has thy noble brother. 
 
 On whose manly form thine eye 
 Loved full oft in pride to linger, 
 
 On whose heart thou couldst rely, 
 Though all other hearts deceived thee, 
 
 All proved hollow, earth grew drear, 
 Whose protection, ever o'er thee, 
 
 Hid thee from the cold world's sneer,— 
 Has he left thee here to struggle, 
 
 All unaided on thy way ? 
 Nay ; he still can guide and guard thee, 
 
 Still thy faltering steps can stay : 
 Still, when danger hovers o'er thee, 
 
 He than danger is more near ; 
 
142 MINISTERING ANGELS. 
 
 When in grief thou 'st none to pity. 
 He, the sainted, marlis each tear. 
 
 Lover, is the light extinguished, 
 
 Of the gem that, in thy heart 
 Hidden deeply, to thy being 
 
 All its sunshine could impart ? 
 Look above ! *t is burning brighter 
 
 Than the very stars in heaven ; 
 And to light thy dangerous pathway 
 
 All its new-found glory 's given. 
 With the sons of earth commingling, 
 
 Thou the loved one mayst forget ; 
 Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving. 
 
 May have power to win thee yet ; 
 But e'en then that guardian spirit 
 
 Oft will whisper in thine ear. 
 And in silence, and at midnight. 
 
 Thou wilt know she hovers near. 
 
 Orphan, thou most sorely stricken 
 
 Of the mourners thronging earth, 
 Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine. 
 
 Sadness mingles with thy mirth. 
 Yet, although that gentle bosom. 
 
 Which has pillowed oft thy head, 
 Now is cold, thy mother's spirit 
 
 Cannot rest among the dead. 
 Still her watchful eye is o'er thee 
 
 Through the day, and still at night 
 Hers the eye that guards thy slumber, 
 
 Making thy young dreams so bright. 
 O ! the friends, the friends we 've cherished 
 
 How we weep to see them die ! 
 All unthinking they 're the angels 
 
 That will guide us to the sky ! 
 
143 
 
 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 
 
 "Would you believe it, "Bel" — that there is poetry in a 
 woodpile — genuine, unmitigated poetry, dipped up from the 
 very heart of Helicon ? Would you believe it ? Well, there 
 is ; and, what is better still, it is not a moth born of the sun- 
 shine ; but a genuine bird of Parnassus, dashing rain-diamonds 
 from its wings, and weaving rainbows, and turning rain-clouds 
 into — whatever you choose — the friar's cowl and gown, or 
 the ermine and velvet of St. James, as your taste suggests. 
 But it is a Niobe ; or rather a Venus bathing in an upper sea ; 
 for the muse of the woodpile, you must know, is a rain-divin- 
 ity. To illustrate. We have had a week — 0, such a week ! 
 If I possessed any mechanical skill it would have made a 
 Noah of me, six dap ago. Drizzle, drizzle ! patter, patter ! 
 from darkness to darkness ; for the day is one continued twi- 
 light, the damp light coming in and going out at its usual 
 hours, as though it acted only from a sense of duty — sick 
 and dizzy enough, meanwhile, to prefer being alone. The 
 night, too — but nights never hang heavily on my hands, 
 thanks to the little people from Dreamland. 
 
 Did you ever spend a rainy day in the country, " Bel ?" 
 You will say, yes ; for now I have asked, I recollect one or 
 two when you were with us. But Walter was here then ; 
 so, of course, your sun shone. Once imagine those rainy 
 days without a lover, " Bella ;" and then think of seven of 
 them all in a row, so near alike that you cannot distinguish 
 one from its twin ; and you must keep an almanac in your 
 hand to prove to yourself that yesterday has not come back 
 again to cheat you into living a stale day. By the way, what 
 a fresh life we have of it ; forever using new time, moments 
 just coined from stray fragments of eternity, soiled by nobody's 
 breath, and thrown by as soon as tarnished or embalmed by 
 
44 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-BIAKEK. 
 
 ours. Not quite thrown by, either. They are following after 
 us, a line of strange things strangely broidered over, to buoy 
 us heavenward, like the tail of a kite, or drag us down, a chain 
 of lead. " Revenons a nos moutons." 
 
 The woodpile. There it stands, with the water drip, drip- 
 ping from it — all motionless, and meek as Mooly "midway 
 in the marshy pool;" (you admire musical sounds, "Bel;" 
 and there is alliteration for you, worthy of the fair Laura 
 Matilda herself.) Drip ! drip ! there 's something chiding in 
 that woodpile — a dumb reverence for what is, which makes 
 me ashamed of wi'shing for the ninety-ninth time, as I was on 
 the point of doing, that the rain '^tvould be over and gone." 
 Resigned to the decrees of Providence! 0, it z's a hard thing, 
 " Bel." Think of our hopes, as they are first formed, with a 
 heart-throb in every tiny bud ; then think of them as they 
 begin to expand, blushing, brightening, bursting out from the 
 envious green, fresh and glorious — our gay, gorgeous hopes; 
 think of them in their glad beauty, and watch the coming 
 of the rain-storm. How they strive to stand, poor perishable 
 things ! How they wave, and quiver, and wrestle ! and then 
 see their bright petals swept downward and scattered, gem- 
 ming the wet ground, before one sun-ray had given them a 
 baptismal kiss. Lost before named ! Poor hopes ! Pitiable 
 hopers ! 
 
 Not poetry, did you say? Well, it is philosophy, then, 
 and I am by no means sure that there is the difference of a 
 maple and an elm stick between the two. I am inclined to 
 believe that the same divinity presides over both. To be 
 sure, poetry shows the dimpled foot, mantled only by the hem 
 of a lady's robe ; while philosophy strides off in buskin and 
 hosen ; but you may see them step behind the scenes at any 
 moment, and exchange attire. 
 
 I have gained quite an affection for that Avoodpile, since I 
 have had nothing else to look at ; and it went to my heart 
 this morning to have a heavy armful transferred to my room, 
 for the purpose of correcting the dampness of the atmosphere. 
 I felt as though committing a kind of sacrilege ; worse still. 
 
THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 145 
 
 burning my monitor, because perhaps its teachings chid me. 
 And then, when the wild flames were all raving around it, 
 how could I help, " Bel ; " unclasping a clasp, and looking 
 into the morrow of a little trembler, who would fain cling 
 a life-long to the present ? My life has been one track of 
 roses ; I have imbibed their freshness, and drunk their per- 
 fume ; my smiles have been heart-born, and every tear has 
 had a rainbow in it. I have led a happy, happy life, " Bel" 
 — thank God ! who has granted every blessing to a hoping 
 mother's prayers. But a wiser than the hoping has said, " If 
 a man live many years, and rejoice in them all, yet let him 
 remember the days of darkness ; for they shall be many." 
 Not entire darkness, " Bel ; " for I know of stars that will al- 
 ways sparkle, of lamps that will always burn ; but still there 
 are days of trial awaiting me — perhaps in the distance, per- 
 haps very near, even at the door. I cannot die till my lip 
 has pressed the bitter. Heaven help me, then ! and not me 
 alone, but all of us. 
 
 I wish you could sit by me this morning, and see my fire 
 burn. There is John Rogers himself, with his picket fence 
 of little people, to keep him from running away, just as he 
 stands in the primer ; and there is the veritable hero, Jack- 
 the-giant-killer, if I am to judge by the enormous club he 
 carries, three times the size of himself; and there — there, as 
 I live, is your oa\ti Broadway, the genuine article, the shops 
 all tricked out in finery, and the passers-by in the same way 
 bedizened — all walking show-cases. And now the fire-scene 
 changes, and I look into a magnificent palace, — my foot is 
 aching just to press that gorgeous carpet, and — there, a stick 
 has rolled down upon it, and my palace is in the condition of 
 many another one that I have builded. That big stick of 
 maple seems to me like a martyr, suffering for opinion's sate. 
 Certainly it is the very stick that I saw yesterday turning its 
 bleached face heavenward with a submissiveness which had 
 no sigh in it; and, with its last year's green for a text, it 
 preached mc a long sermon. It was not a very agreeable one, 
 however. Shall I tell you a few things it wrote on my heart « 
 
 VOL. n. 13 
 
146 THE RAIN A TIIOUGHT-MAKEK. J 
 
 I never afflicted myself much at the decay of empires— 
 never gave half as many tears to the downfall of all the mighty 
 mourning places of the old world combined, as I shed over the 
 grave I dug in childhood for a poor broken-winged robin I 
 bad striven to win back to life. My heart is not big enough 
 for that kind of sympathy ; and there is no use in trying to 
 convince me that there is a place in the world of quite as 
 much consequence as Alderbrook. If I should wake some of 
 these mornings, and find the houses all turned into stacks of 
 chimneys, (we have feAV Grecian pillars, and such like un- 
 necessaries, so our ruins would not be very romantic,) and the 
 direction of the only nice street we have, such a disputable 
 thing that the antiquarians of Crow-hill would wrangle about 
 it forever after ; I say, if I should awake and find changes 
 like these, I should probably weep a few such tears as have, 
 during the lapse of centuries, bathed the ruins that claim the 
 world for mourners. But, after all, it would be nothing in 
 comparison with seeing a new grave dug over the white stile 
 yonder, among the cypresses. The decay of life, the extin- 
 guishing of the lamp lighted by the hand of God, — 0, there 
 is something in that which I can feel ! I do not know what 
 kind of life there was in that maple-tree last summer — how 
 high, how glorious, how much like this which is now swel- 
 ling in my veins and bubbling at my heart — but I do 
 know that there was life in it. And life, of whatever kind, is 
 a mysterious, a fearfully m^ysterious thing. But it is gone 
 now ; and the living tree, which gloried in the sunlight, and 
 wrestled with the winds of heaven — that had veins and arte- 
 ries, through which the life-current wandered as through mine, 
 is degraded to the impassiveness of the stone — below the stone 
 in its early perishableness, as the human frame is below that 
 in a more revolting dissolution. Sometimes I fancy, as the 
 stick lies smouldering in that crust of gray ashes, that the 
 principle of life has not yet departed from it ; for, the unwil- 
 ling yielding to the flame, the occasional brightening up, as 
 though a hoping soul looked through it, the half-mirthful 
 crackle, and the low, mournful song, like its own requiem, all 
 
THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 147 
 
 eeem to speak of an inner life, which the axe of the woodman 
 failed to reach. I observe, too, as I watch it, fragments 
 crumbling back into ashes ; while, above, floats oft' a blue 
 wreath, waving and curling — winging its way heavenward 
 with all the gladness of an emancipated spirit. Will you be- 
 lieve with me, *' Bella," that this is the same spirit which ani- 
 mated the living leaves of the maple tree, when they coquet- 
 ted with the summer sun-light, and folded the wind genii in 
 their green arms, and whispered, with their fresh lips, of 
 things, which, I suppose, the birds know more about than we. 
 Why should it not be ? I have no objection to the Indian's plan 
 of taking dogs, and horses, and other lovable things, to hea- 
 ven ; though 1 am not sure that I should like to see him chase 
 the " spotted Fomen," or put a veto on the flourish of bright 
 wings ; but I think all these will be a study for us there. Our 
 natures have become contracted in this cramped-up breathing- 
 place, where we are hustled about, and jostled against each 
 other, till self-protection — self, seZ/'-everything — is the one 
 j chord vibrating to our every breath. We have arranged a 
 book of nature, and put ourselves in as a frontispiece ; {the 
 picture — other living things, only the border;) but the whole 
 may be reversed in heaven. 
 
 " Just as short of reason he may fall, 
 
 Who thinks all made for one, as one for all." 
 
 And what egotism to believe our own the only deathless 
 spirits to pass from this bright earth to a brighter Paradise .' 
 Ourselves alone gifted with the true life — all things else 
 cursed with a mockery, a semblance, like the iris-hued bubble 
 to the sun. 
 
 But, "Bell," I do hope this maple stick is as insensible as it 
 seemed on the wood-pile yesterday ; for I have no great fancy 
 for playing the executioner, though it did teach me an ugly 
 lesson. What that lesson was, I have only hinted at yet ; it 
 is scarce a thing to repeat to one so bright and joyous as you 
 are. Perhaps you never think of the dark phantoms that 
 trouble the existence of other mortals — but O, " Bell," death 
 is a thing to dread ! And then it is such an ever-present thing , 
 
148 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 
 
 we are so reminded of it every moment of our lives ! There 
 is no hour so sacred, no place so secure, but we cast a look 
 over the shoulder at the fearful shape following us. At dawn 
 and at dew-fall, at noon-tide blaze, and in the star broidered 
 midnight, it is all the same. 
 
 When day is dying in the west, 
 
 Each flickering ray of crimson light, 
 The sky, in gold and purple dressed, 
 
 The cloud, with glory all bedight, 
 
 And every shade that ushers night, 
 And each cool breeze that comes to weave 
 Its dampness with my curls — all leave 
 A lesson sad. 
 
 Last night I plucked a half-shut flower, 
 
 Which blushed and nodded on its stem; 
 A thing to grace a Peri's bower; 
 
 It seemed to me some priceless gem, 
 
 Dropped from an angel's diadem ; 
 But soon the blossom drooping lay, 
 And, as it withered, seemed to say. 
 
 We 're passing all ! 
 
 I loved a fair-haired, gentle boy, 
 
 (A bud of brightness — ah, too rare !) 
 I loved him, and I saw with joy ;^ 
 
 Heaven's purity all centred there ; 
 
 But he went up, that heaven to share ; 
 And, as his spirit from him stole. 
 His last look graved upon my soul. 
 
 Learn thus to die ! 
 
 I 've seen the star that glowed in heaven. 
 When other stars seemed half asleep, 
 
 As though from its proud station driven, 
 Go rushing down the azure steep. 
 Through space unmeasured, dark, and deep j 
 
 And, as it vanished far in night, 
 
 I read by its departing light. 
 
 Thus perish all .' 
 
 I 've, in its dotage, seen the year. 
 
 Worn out and weary, struggling on, 
 Till falling prostrate on its bier. 
 
 Time marked another cycle gone ; 
 
 And as I beard the dying moan. 
 
THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 149 
 
 Upon my trembling heart, there fell 
 The awful words, as by a spell, 
 
 Death — death to all ! 
 
 They come on every breath of air, 
 
 Which siglis its feeble life away ; 
 They 're vhispered by each blossom fair, 
 
 Which folds a lid at close of day ; 
 
 There 's nought of earth, or sad or gay, 
 There 's nought below the star-lit skies, 
 13ut leaves one lesson as it flies — 
 
 Thou too must die! 
 
 And numberless tliose silvery chords, 
 
 Dissevered by the spoiler's hand, 
 But each in breaking still affords 
 
 A tone to say we all are banned ; 
 
 And on each brow by death-damps spanned. 
 The pall, the slowly moving hearse, 
 Is traced the burden of my verse, — 
 
 Death — death to man ! 
 
 Ah ! the strong, the mighty may well turn pale, and quake, 
 and shrivel, and mewl, even as an infant in its swaddlings, 
 with that skeleton finger stealthily winding itself among the 
 warm, bloodful veins, turning them to ice as it goes. With 
 that dark sovereign of a darksome hour looking into his eyes 
 and counting through these faithful mirrors the pulsations of 
 the heart below ; scattering, one by one, the sands from his 
 ; glass, and stealing, drop by drop, the life from its fountain, the 
 ! brave, strong-souled man may measure courage with the timid 
 I maiden, and never blush to find an equal in heroism. To 
 I have those Avho have loved, caressed, and watched over us 
 i with sleepless attention, turn loathingly from us and hustle us 
 I into the earth, among the stones and festering germs of poi- 
 sonous weeds, with the frozen clods upon our bosoms, to 
 moulder in darkness and gloom, to be trod upon and forgotten ; 
 while beautiful beings that we could love, 0, so dearly ! are 
 flitting above us; and the light is glancing ; and birds, drunk 
 Avith joyousness, wheeling and careering in the sunbeam ; and 
 all the world going on merrily, as when our hearts went with 
 it — Oh ! what has man's courage, man's strength, man's stent 
 self-control, to offer against such an overwhelming certainty ! 
 VOL. II. 13* 
 
150 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 
 
 There is so much in this dear, beautiful world, too, for the 
 heart to cling to ! What is there in the sad catalogue of 
 human suffering like wrenching away 
 
 That holy link which first 
 
 Within the soul's rich mine was moulded ; 
 
 When life awoke, and love's pure wing 
 
 Another nestling close enfolded ? j 
 
 We turn to the hearth-stone in the hour of pain, and nestle 
 back upon a mother's bosom ; and we say, we cannot leave it 
 — Ave cannot die ! A father's proud eye is on us — ambition 
 blossoms in our hearts beneath it ; and then, how stiflingly 
 steal over us thoughts of the coffin and the grave ! How can 
 we die in the dew of our morning, with all those glowing vis- 
 ions unrealized ! How can we pass in age, when the thousand 
 chains which we have been our life-long forging, are all 
 linked to the bright, beautiful things here, which we can but 
 love ! Father in heaven, teach me trust in Thee ! As 
 these chords, which Thou hast strung, lose tone, and canker 
 against thy cunning workmanship, gather them into thine own 
 hand, and attune them anew to accord with the harps of 
 angels. Teach me trust in Thee ; that when the cofRn-lid 
 shuts out the sunshine, and the green-bladed grass springs 
 between my breast and the feet of the living, I may still be in 
 the midst of light, and joy, and love — love measureless as 
 eternity. 
 
 I had quite forgotten that I was \vriting a letter, " Bel," and 
 have jotted doAvn the thoughts as they came tumbling to the 
 point of my pen, with a merciless lack of consideration for 
 you, who are probably basking in the mirth-giving brightness 
 of a sunny morning. But by this you will discover that a 
 rainy day in the country is not without its uses. It gives us 
 thinking- time, and that lengthens our lives ; — none live so 
 fast and have so few way-marks as the butterflies. Besides, 
 thought is the father of action — so, to that great sheet of mist, 
 and the dripping rain, and the beaded grass, and the streets, 
 many a good deed may owe its parentage. But now my stick 
 of maple is nearly charred, and my eyes are trying to hide 
 
THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 151 
 
 themselves behind pairs of fringes which are nearing each 
 other for an embrace. I will to sleep, " Bel," with a looking- 
 glass in the window, to give me intelligence of the first strip 
 of blue that disengages itself from the prisoning clouds. 
 Adieu, my bright cousin ! All good attend you, and no more 
 rain visit New York than may be needed as a thought-maker. 
 
152 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 There is a melancholy pleasure in turning over the records 
 of genius, and familiarizing ourselves with the secret workings 
 of those minds that have, from time to time, made memorable 
 the ages in which they lived, and ennobled the several na- 
 tions which gave them birth. But it is not the indulgence of 
 this feeling which makes such a study peculiarly profitable to 
 us : from these records we may learn much of the philosophy 
 of the human mind in its most luxurious developments. 
 Genius seems to be confined to no soil, no government, no 
 age or nation, and no rank in society. When men lived in 
 wandering tribes, and could boast no literature, the bright 
 flame burned among them, although wild and often deadly its 
 ray ; and the foot of oppression, which crushes all else, has 
 failed to extinguish it. Hence it has rashly been inferred 
 that this peculiar gift, possessed by the favored few, may be 
 perfected without any exertion on their part, and is subject to 
 none of the rules which in all other cases govern intellect ; 
 but that, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, it must burst forth 
 when and where it will, and be burned up in the blaze of its 
 own glory, leaving but the halo of its former brightness 
 upon the historic page. This inference, however, is alike 
 erroneous and dangerous. Though genius be an unsought 
 gift, a peculiar emanation from the Divine Mind, it was not 
 originally intended as a glorious curse, to crush the spirit 
 which it elevates. Perchance the pent-up stream within the 
 soul must find an avenue ; but he who bears the gift may 
 choose that avenue, — may direct, control and divert; he may 
 scatter the living waters on a thousand objects, or pour their 
 whole force upon one ; he may calm and purify them, by this 
 means rendering them none the less deep, or he may allow 
 
GENIUS. 153 
 
 them to dash and foam until, however they sparkle, ihe dark 
 sediments of vice and misery thus made to mingle, may be 
 found in every gem. 
 
 Let us turn to the oft-quoted names of Byron and Burns 
 -names that can scarcely be mentioned by the admirers of 
 genius without a thrill of pain. To the poor ploughman on 
 the banks of the Doon was sent the glorious talisman, and 
 Avith it he unlocked the portals of nature, and read truths even 
 in the flower overturned by his ploughshare, unseen by com- 
 mcfii eyes. But mark his veering course ; think of his (com- 
 paratively) wasted energies. He could love the wild flowers 
 in the braes and the sunlight on the banks of his " bonny 
 Doon ;" he could, at least at one time, smile at his lowly lot ; 
 and he ever contended against fortune with a strong and 
 fearless hand. But while the polished society of Edinburgh 
 owned his po\(fer, and he swayed the hearts of lads and lass- 
 es of his own degree at will, he could not control hivnelf ; 
 and many of those light songs, which are now on gladsome 
 lips, might, could we enter into the secrets of the poor bard, 
 be but the sad way-marks of the aching heart, as it grew each 
 day heavier till it sank into the grave. Burns, the light- 
 hearted lover of his " Highland Mary," and Burns, the care- 
 worn exciseman, were very different persons; but neither 
 outward circumstances nor the genius that characterized both 
 alike, Avas the cause. The world has been blamed in his case ; 
 but the world, after it first noticed, could have done nothing 
 to save. The poet, had he known his moral strength and 
 cared to exert it, could have saved himself, as his superiority 
 to many of the foibles and prejudices of human nature and 
 his manly independence on many occasions evinced. 
 
 Byron, like his own archangel ruined guiding a fallen son 
 of clay in his search after mysteries, has delved among hidden 
 treasures and spread before us the richest gems of Helicon ; 
 but scarce one of these but is dark in its glory, and, although 
 burning with all the fire of heaven-born poesy, sends forth a 
 mingled and dangerous ray. But had a mother whispered 
 her pious counsels in his ear in boyhood ; had a friendly finger 
 
154 GENIUS. 
 
 pointed out a nobler revenge when that first cutting satire was 
 penned • and had a better, a holier sentiment than the mean 
 passion of revenge urged him on to action and governed his 
 after aspirations, think you that the archangel of earth would 
 have stood less glorious? No. Byron's spirit had a self- 
 rectifying power, and he could have used it, but he did not; 
 and, although he has well won the laurel, a poison more bit- 
 ter than death is dropping from every leaf. 
 
 It was not an ungrateful public that spread the death-couch 
 of Savage in a debtor's prison, or dug the suicidal grave* of 
 " Bristol's wondrous boy." They were themselves ungrate- 
 ful ; they guarded not well the gift they bore, and fell victims 
 to their own misdirected powers. 
 
 The common mind, never tempted, may wonder at the way- 
 wardness of genius and despise the weakness of its possessor ; 
 and the generous one that sees the struggle and mourns the 
 wreck, may pity and apologize ; and both are in some degree 
 right. While we admire and pity, we must wonder at the 
 weakness of the strength that, subduing all else, failed beneath 
 its own weight. We know that the gifted ones of earth often 
 have stronger passions, more irresistible wills, and quicker ' 
 and more dangerous impulses than other men ; and for this 
 very reason should they cultivate more assiduously the noble 
 powers by which these passions and impulses are governed. 
 Each individual possessas them ; but they must be cultivated. 
 
 It is our conception of the mysteries of this gift which leads 
 us to look back with such peculiar interest upon the infancy 
 of a man of genius, expecting there to discover at least some 
 flashes of the divine ray which lighted up his after life. The 
 dusty memories of nurses and village oracles are ransacked 
 for anecdotes, which oftentimes neither the additions sug- 
 gested by pride and partial affection, nor the transforming 
 medium of the past, through which they are viewed, can swell 
 into anything like superiority to the sayings and doings of 
 other children. He who will watch an intelligent child 
 through one day, will be astonished at the bright flashes of 
 untaught intellect which, could they be abstracted from the 
 
6EN1US. 155 
 
 childish notions in which they are almost entirely buried, 
 would be thought, by any but him who found them in such 
 amusing vicinity, the sure precursors of greatness. 
 
 True, real genius often shows itself in childhood ; but that 
 it always does, or that such a development is desirable, may be 
 seriously questioned. The child who writes verses at six, or 
 gives other indications of a genius surpassing his years, may 
 be wondered at and admired as a prodigy ; but the parent 
 ought to tremble to observe the premature fruit bursting 
 through the petals of the not yet unfolded bud. There is an 
 evidence of disease in this, which, in one way or another, 
 almost always proves fatal. This unnatural power wears out 
 itself or the frame of its possessor ; either the mind or the 
 body must fail under such a rapid development. 
 
 The village pedagogue in his old age may look about him 
 wonderingly ; for it is not unlikely that the least promising of 
 all his flock takes the highest stand, while his bright, ever- 
 ready favorite, that he was sure would become a great man, 
 does not rise above mediocrity. There is nothing strange or 
 capricious in this. It is the sure result of natural causes, and 
 has its counterpart in all the works of nature — even in the 
 human frame. Rapid growth produces weakness in the bones 
 and sinews ; and, in some cases, this growth has been so rapid 
 as to become an actual disease, and carry its victim to the 
 grave. Many are the instances of intellectual growth so 
 rapid as to weaken the mind and sink it even below medioc- 
 rity, or, on the other hand, to produce premature death. For 
 examples of this last result we need not go to the tombs of 
 the early dead in the old world, nor is it necessary to visit 
 the banks of Saranac, where drooped the fairest buds that 
 ever shed the fragrance of heaven upon earth. We can find 
 them in our own midst. Many are the gifted little beings, 
 who, after basking in the sunshine and rejoicing among the 
 flowers for a few short summers, pass away all unknown to 
 the world — leavnng only the frail memorials of their early 
 genius to soothe, yet sadden even in the moment of soothing, 
 the hearts that cherished them 
 
156 GENIUS. 
 
 It would be going too far to censure those who have the 
 guidance of such minds ; but it would save worlds of disap- 
 pointment, did they know that such promises are deceitful 
 and deserving of but little confidence. And sometimes, 
 doubtless, the poor victim might be saved years of pain and 
 disease, and, perchance, be spared to the world through a 
 long life, were not the powers of the mind forced by unnatural 
 means to expand too soon — before either the mind or body 
 had acquired the strength and hardiness necessary to its own 
 healthy existence. Many have seen this evil, and endeavored 
 to remedy it by checking such unnatural growth ; but this is 
 perhaps the most fatal error that could be committed. The 
 mind, when it first becomes conscious of its own capabilities, 
 puts no limits to them, and will only be urged onward by each 
 barrier thrown in its way ; but a judicious hand may direct 
 its course, calm its turbulence, soothe its sensitiveness, and 
 teach it to be its own supporter, without endangering in the 
 least degree its freshness and originality. The power of con- 
 trolling its own impulses does not render a nature tame; but 
 as it is necessary to every person, how much more so to him 
 who has a strong, high spirit, that cannot be subdued by oth- 
 ers ; that, spurning the control of him who should be its mas. 
 ter, OA'er-masters him, and is left unprotected. 
 
157 
 
 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 About five miles from Alderbrook there is a handsome red 
 school-house, with a portico in front, shaded by an immense 
 butternut ; white window-shutters, to keep out rogues at night, 
 but of no use at all during the day ; and a handsome cupola, 
 in Avhich is a bell of sufficient power to be heard, particularly 
 on still days, all over the district. This specimen of architec- 
 ture, being intended to serve the double purpose of church and 
 school-house, is the pride of the little community ; and, indeed, 
 it well may be, for there is not its equal in the whole country 
 round. When the school-house was first built, the neighbors 
 all resolved to support a " first-rate school ;" and, for many 
 years, they employed teachers who came well recommended, 
 and claimed a large salary. Squire Mason said no pains were 
 spared, — everything was done that man could do ; yet, some- 
 how, no teacher seemed to give general satisfaction ; and so 
 many left, either in indignation or disgrace, that " the Mason 
 school" gained the reputation of being the most ungovernable 
 in the county. If truth must be told, this was not Avithoul 
 reason; for people who build new school-houses must, of course, 
 listen to new doctrines, and most of the families in " the Mason 
 district "had imbibed somewhat extensively the notions preva- 
 lent among reformers of the present day, who think that Sol- 
 omon was only joking when he recommended the rod. At 
 last, after some renegade youngsters had summarily dismissed, 
 with a broken head, a dark, square-shouldered, piratical look- 
 ing man, who, in a fit of desperation, had been chosen for his 
 enormous strength, people became quite discouraged, and the 
 principal men of the district, old Farmer Westborn, Deacon 
 Martin, and Squire Mason, called a meeting to discnss affairs. 
 Some proposed whipping all the boys round, and commencing 
 
 VOL. II. 14 
 
15S LILIAS FANE. 
 
 a new school ; others thought it best to shut up the housft 
 entirely, and set the young rebels to cutting wood; while 
 Deacon Martin was of the opinion that if some of the " worst 
 ones" could be kept at home, there would be no difficulty 
 with the rest. Upon this hint others spake ; and the meeting 
 at last decided on obtaining a female teacher to take charge 
 of the little ones, the " big boys " being entirely voted out. 
 Squire Mason himself had a son who was considered a 
 " rollicking blade," up to all sorts of mischief; -id of the half- 
 dozen shock-headed Westborns, there was not one that had 
 failed to give the former master blow for blow. Affairs were, 
 however, now to assume a calmer aspect ; and the meeting 
 proceeded forthwith to appoint a school-committee, consisting 
 of Deacon Martin, who had no children of his own, and was 
 consequently expected to take a great interest in those of his 
 neighbors ; Mr. Fielding, a quiet bachelor of thirty-five or 
 thereabout; and one or two others, who were selected for the 
 sake of making the numbers strong, and not for anything 
 that they were expected to do. The principal duty of the acU 
 ing part of the committee was to obtain a teacher ; but they 
 were also to manage all other affairs thereunto pertaining. 
 
 Luckily, a lady had been recommended to Deacon Martin, 
 during the preceding autumn, as a perfect prodigy ; and, as 
 our school-committee men were quiet sort of people, who did 
 not like to make unnecessary trouble, a letter, superscribed 
 " Miss Lilias Fane" was thrown into the post-office box, which, 
 in due time, brought as favorable an answer as could be 
 desired. 
 
 It was a cold, stormy morning in December, when the pub- 
 lic stage-coach set down the new schoolmistress at the door 
 of Deacon Martin's house. A bundle of cloaks ana blankets 
 rolled from the opened door into the hands of the good deacon, 
 who Avas obliged to support, indeed almost to carry, an invis- 
 ible form into the house, where his good dame stood ready to 
 divest it of all unnecessary incumbrances. At first, a large 
 blanket was removed, then muff and cloak, and yet shawl, 
 nood, and veil remained ; and Mrs. Martin could not help 
 
LILIAS FANE. 159 
 
 conjecturing how precious must be the nut which was blessed 
 with so mucli shell. The task of untying- strings and remov- 
 ing pins being accomplished, a volume of flaxen ringlets 
 descended over a pair of tiny white shoulders, and a soft blue 
 eye stole timidly from its silken ambush up to the face of Mrs. 
 Martin ; but meeting no sympathy there, it retreated behind 
 the drooping lid ; and little Miss Fane, blushing up to the 
 pretty flaxen waves that just shaded her forehead, smiled, and 
 courtsied, and then crouched by the blazing fire like a petted 
 kitten. Mrs. Martin retreated involuntarily; and the deacon 
 parted his lips, drew up his eye-brows, and shrugged his 
 shoulders, between astonishment and contempt. What ! that 
 child assume the duties and responsibilities of a school teacher 
 and, above all, in such a school ! Why, Susan Harman could 
 put her out of the door with one hand, and the very littlest boy 
 overmaster her. There sat the new schoolmistress, and there 
 stood the deacon and his dame, gazing at her, perfectly speech- 
 less, when Mr. Fielding drove up to the door ; it being con- 
 sidered his especial duty to introduce new teachers, and 
 particularly lady teachers, to the school-house. Now the 
 bachelor had some very fine notions of tall, elegant figures, 
 and dignified manners ; indeed, he had a rule for everything, 
 stepping, looking, and even thinking ; and, consequently, he 
 was taken quite by surprise when his eye first lighted on the 
 unpretending little school-mistress. Her figure was slight, and 
 exceedingly fragile, and her face the very perfection of infan- 
 tile sweetness. This was all that Mr. Fielding had an oppor- 
 tunity to observe, as she stood before him in graceful confusion, 
 replying to his very formal salutation, and answering his still 
 more formal questions about the weather, the state of the roads, 
 and the time of her arrival. The bachelor, however, was con- 
 fident that Miss Fane was a very incompetent school-teacher ; 
 and Miss Fane was quite as confident that the bachelor was 
 a very incompetent beau. First, he gave her what the little 
 lady considered an impertinent stare, as a school-committee- 
 man has a right to do ; then he made a great many common 
 place remarks, as a man that wishes to appear very dignified 
 
160 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 Avill do ; and then he desired to see Deacon Martin in private, 
 as a man when he wishes to let you know that he is about to 
 discuss your character should do. Poor Lilias Fane ! with 
 all her simplicity she was not deficient in discernment, and 
 she felt piqued at the manners of the people, particularly Mr. 
 Fielding, whose real superiority she instantly detected, despite 
 of the clumsy awkwardness behind which he managed to hide 
 himself. So, tossing back her sunny curls, and calling for 
 hood and shawl, in spite of all Mrs. Martin's entreaties to the 
 contrary, she was half-way to the school-house before the gen- 
 tlemen decided that they could do nothing less than give her 
 a trial. It was with the utmost surprise that the bachelor 
 heard of the flight of his bonny bird ; for he was the greatest 
 man in the district, and every one was but too much delighted 
 to gain his notice. He owned a fine cottage close by the Maple 
 Grove, with beautiful grounds about it, and every elegance 
 that wealth could command and taste dictate within ; and there 
 he resided, with his mother and a little nephew, in very envi- 
 able quiet. It was evident that his knowledge of the world 
 was thorough, and he had, probably, at some period of his life, 
 taken a part in its tumult; but the retirement of private life 
 best suited him, and he had for several years buried the most 
 perfect specimen of a gentleman of the old school extant among 
 the rural luxuries of Grove Cottage. Here, however, none of 
 the punctilios, on which he set so high a value, were omitted, 
 for he was too thoroughly a gentleman to throw aside the 
 character when behind the scenes ; and all honored him for 
 his strict integrity, as weU as intellectual superiority. Mr. 
 Fielding had not a particle of misanthropy in his composition ; 
 so, notwithstanding a secret touch of exclusive feeling, arising 
 probably from a consciousness of possessing but little in com- 
 mon with those around him, he mingled with the people of 
 the neighborhood as though nothing but a certain degree of 
 coldness and personal dignity prevented him from being on a 
 perfect equality with them ; and he exhibited so much tea 
 interest in all that concerned their welfare, that he possessed 
 their entire confidence. 
 
LILIAS FANE. 161 
 
 When Mr. Fielding learned that the little lady had gone 
 away alone, he looked surprised ; but, recollecting how bashful 
 she had appeared when standing in his august presence, he 
 at once saw the matter in a more pleasing light ; so, calling 
 on Deacon Martin to bestow his burly corpus in the seat 
 intended for pretty Lilias Fane, the two committee-men pro- 
 ceeded leisurely toward the school-house. 
 
 In the mean time poor Lilias Avas trudging through the snow, 
 her nethe-- 'in pouting after the most approved style of angry 
 beauties, and her little heart throbbing with a variety of con- 
 tending emotions, none of which were actually pleasurable, 
 except the one excited by a little pile of silver which she saw 
 in prospect — the fruit of her own labor. At thought of this, 
 she brushed away the tear that sparkled on her lashes, and, 
 drawing up her slight figure with an air of determination, 
 stepped boldly and decidedly into the portico and placed her 
 hand on the latch of the door. This done, she paused ; the 
 little heart, but a moment before so resolute, fluttered tumul- 
 tuously, the head drooped, the eyes brimmed over, and the 
 fingers extended so firmly, now quivered with agitation. Poor 
 Lilias Fane ! what would she not have given to feel her 
 mother's arms about her, and weep on her sympathizing 
 bosom. 
 
 Farmer Westbprn, and Squire Mason, and the rest of the 
 school-meeting men, were in earnest when they decided that 
 the "big boys" should not be allowed to attend school; but 
 they had been in earnest a great many times before ; so the 
 boys knew perfectly well what it meant, and were now on 
 hand, preparing for the reception of the new teacher. Little 
 did poor Lilias Fane imagine what stout hearts awaited her 
 entrance, or her courage would not have been prompt to return ; 
 but the thought of home, her widowed mother, and helpless 
 little brothers and sisters, in connection with the all-important 
 salary, nerved her up. Again she erected her head and wiped 
 away the tears ; then, throwing open the door, she walked 
 quietly and firmly into the room. What a spectacle ! children 
 of all sizes, from the little aproned chap, hardly yet from the 
 
 VOL. II. 14* 
 
162 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 cradle, up to the height of the new schoolmistress, and youths 
 towering far above her, in almost the pride of manhood, turned 
 their faces toward the door, and stood gaping in silent aston- 
 ishment. There were Susan Harman, and Sally Jones, and 
 Nabby Woods, all older than the schoolmistress, and several 
 others who were larger; and at the extremity of the room 
 stood Alfred Mason, a man in size if not in form, surrounded 
 by the six shock-headed Westborns, Bill Blount, Philip Clute, 
 and Nehemiah Strong, all school rowdies of the first water. 
 Well might they stare, for such a vision never met their eyes 
 before; and well might bright Lilias smile at the locks of 
 wonder that greeted her at every turn. A smile, if it is a 
 perfectly natural one, full of mirthfulness, and slightly spiced 
 with mischief, is the best of all passports to a young heart ; 
 and not a face was there in the whole room but caught the 
 infection, and answered with a bashful grin the twinkle of the 
 little maiden's eye and the curl of her lip. Oh ! sadly did 
 naughty Lilias compromise the dignity of the schoolmistress ; 
 but what she lost in one respect was more than made up in 
 another. Nabby Woods went about brushing the slippery 
 dried peas from the floor, lest the smiling fairy of a new school- 
 dame should be made their victim, as had been duly planned 
 for a week beforehand ; and Philip Clute, first glancing at 
 Alfred Mason for approbation, stepped awkwardly forward and 
 put a whole chair in the place of the broken one that had been 
 stationed before the desk for the benefit of the new teacher ; 
 thus making himself the first to receive her cheerful salutation. 
 Philip had never been knowoi to shrink before birchen rod or 
 cherry ferule ; but Lilias Fane, with her merry blue eye and 
 face full of kindness and gentleness, half-hidden in the mirthful 
 dimples which played over it — sweet Lilias Fane was a dif- 
 ferent thing. She could not be looked upon with indifference, 
 and poor Philip twisted himself into as many shapes as a 
 cloud-wreath in a tempest, or a captured eel, and turned as 
 red as the blood-beets in his father's cellar. On passed the 
 bright-faced Lilias around the room, nodding to one, smiling 
 to another, and addressing some cheerful remark to those who 
 
LILIAS FANE. 
 
 163 
 
 seemed a little afraid of her, until she reached the group over 
 which the redoubtable Mason presided. By this time she had 
 gained all hearts ; for had n't she said we when talking to the 
 " big girls," as though she did n't feel herself a bit above 
 them? and hadn't she patted the heads of the younger ones 
 with her pretty little hand, in a way which proved beyond the 
 possibility of a doubt, that she was a decided enemy to hair- 
 pulling? Alfred Mason had seen it all, and, to prove to the 
 new schoolmistress that he was a little superior to the West- 
 boms & Co., he advanced three steps and made a bow as 
 much like Mr. Fielding's as he could. This done, he passed 
 his fingers through his shining black hair, twitched his shirt- 
 collar, and elevated head and shoulders after a very manly 
 fashion, as though silently resolving not to be afraid of any- 
 thing this side of fairy land, though appearing in the shape of 
 Titania herself. But bewitching, roguish, naughty Miss 
 Fane did bewilder him notwithstanding; for, having always 
 considered himself a rascally scape-grace of a boy, bound to 
 do as much mischief as he could, he suddenly found himself 
 transformed into a man ; and a beautiful creature, with a child's 
 blushes and a woman's smiles, asking him questions in the 
 most respectful tone, hoping that she should be seconded by 
 the young gentlemen before her in all her efforts, and insinu- 
 ating, very gracefully and very sweetly, how much she relied 
 upon them for success in her present undertaking. The 
 smile, the tone of voice, the manner, combined with the flat- 
 tering address, were perfectly irresistible ; and Alfred Mason, 
 after perpetrating another bow, addressed a few whispered 
 words to his companions, and walked away to a seat. His 
 example was immediately followed by the whole school, and 
 Mi3S Fane was left standing in the midst of subjects as loyal 
 as any sovereign would care to reign over. At this agreeable 
 crisis the door opened, and it may well be believed that in 
 every dimple of Lilias Fane's young face lurked a roguish 
 smile, as her eye lighted on Mr. Fielding and Deacon Martin, 
 The bachelor observed it, and he was " the least bit in the 
 world " disconcerted, while the deacon raised his eye-brows 
 
164 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 and shrugged his shoulders more emphatically than ever, but 
 not contemptuously. If the two committee-men had been 
 astonished before, they were doubly so now ; and it was with 
 a much more respectful air than he had at first assumed, that 
 Mr. Fielding saluted the little lady, and apologized for his pre- 
 vious neglect. 
 
 " You have undertaken a very heavy task, Miss Fane," he 
 remarked, in a tone which, from the proximity of the audience 
 on the seats, was necessarily low, and thus seemingly confi- 
 dential. 
 
 Thoughtless Lilias ! she shook her head and smiled. " It 
 is a dreadful responsible station," chimed in the deacon. 
 
 A shade of seriousness flitted over the face of Lilias, and 
 then she smiled again. 
 
 " Our school is considered a very difficult one,." observed 
 the bachelor. 
 
 " I apprehend no difficulty at all," Lilias replied, in a tone 
 of gayety. 
 
 " But, Miss Fane," persisted the deacon, " it is my duty to 
 undeceive you as to the character of our school." 
 
 Still the little lady smiled confidently. 
 
 " Very difficult to manage, I can assure you," added the 
 bachelor. 
 
 Lilias glanced around the room with a triumphant, incred- 
 ulous air, as much as to say, " It seems to me just the easiest 
 thing in the world," (the saucy little gypsy !) — but she did not 
 say it. Her only reply was to beg the privilege of consulting 
 two such able advisers, should she chance to meet with unex- 
 pected difficulties. The deacon received the comphment gra- 
 ciously, not probably observing a touch of sarcasm, more dis 
 coverable in the dancing blue eye than in the voice ; but Mr. 
 Fielding looked displeased, bowed stiffly, and, after a few 
 formal words, took his leave, followed by the worthy deacon. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," remarked Deacon Martin, after they 
 were seated in the sleigh, "I shouldn't wonder if this little 
 Miss Fane made a pretty good teacher after all. It's won- 
 derful that the children should be so orderly this morning." 
 
LILIAS FANE. 165 
 
 Mr. Fielding gave his head a twitch, something between a 
 .shake and a nod, and looked knowing. It was evident that 
 he could say a great deal if he chose. This non-committal 
 movement is Wisdom's favorite cloak ; and so much in vogue 
 is it, that it sometimes even passes current when the cloaked 
 is missing. 
 
 For that day at least Lilias Fane was happy. She smiled 
 and was smiled upon. And she began to think it was just 
 tfte pleasantest thing in the world to be the presiding genius 
 of such a place, exercising uncontrolled power, dispensing 
 smiles and sunshine at will, beloved and loving. But her day 
 of darkness was to come. Scarce a week had passed before 
 there were indications of a revolt among some of her subjects ; 
 and she was alarmed to find that there were difficulties 
 which a smile and a loving word could not heal. At home, 
 her dear delightful home, she had been taught to believe them 
 a universal balm — oil for the wildest wave, a hush for the 
 deadliest tempest. But yet, never Avas schoolmistress idol- 
 ized like darling Lilias Fane. Even the hearts of the West- 
 boms began to melt beneath the glances of her beaming eye, 
 and Alfred Mason was her never-failing friend and champion. 
 Poor Alf Mason ! Sad was the reputation he bore in the 
 district ; and nobody would believe he was in earnest when 
 he behaved properly ; but he was in reality more given to 
 mirth than malice, fonder of fun than real mischief — and he 
 could see no fun at all in annoying sweet Miss Fane. But 
 she was annoyed nevertheless, not so much by her pupils, as 
 by remarks which were constantly reaching her concerning 
 her youth, inexperience, and consequent inefficiency. It was 
 said that she was a child among the children ; and so she was, 
 liut how could she help it — the bright pet Lilias ! Scarce 
 sixteen summers had burnished her fair locks, and her heart 
 was full of childish impulses. It was said that she had no 
 dignity of manner, and stood among her pupils as one of them 
 — faults which she was but too conscious of possessing. As 
 well might you look for dignity in a humming-bird, or a fawn, 
 as in Lilias Fane — the darling ! She loved her pupils 
 
166 
 
 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 dearly, and could not but betray her interest. She had too 
 many sympathies in common with them to stand aloof in joy 
 or sorrow ; and in the loved and the loving were merged the 
 teacher and the taught. It was even said that her voice had 
 been known to mingle in the merry shout that sometimes 
 arose from the school-room ; and there must have been some 
 truth in the report; for her pupils could not have had the 
 heart to laugh when she was serious. In truth, Lilias Fane 
 was a strange teacher ; though she may have taught the lore 
 most needed — those heart-lessons, richer than all the theories 
 of all the schools united. In her other lessons she was capri- 
 cious. She taught what she loved, and that she made her 
 pupils love ; but what was dry and difficult she passed over, 
 as in studying she had been allowed to do by her too indul- 
 gent governess. Yet she was unwearied in her efforts, and 
 never thought of self when the good of her pupils was con- 
 cerned ; and so, despite the faults in her system of education, 
 her school made rapid improvement. But no degree of 
 improvement was sufficient to satisfy those who detected these 
 faults ; and soon the war of words ran high for and against 
 the poor schoolmistress, whose only offences were too much 
 beauty, too immature youth, and a too kind heart. These 
 things could not occur without Miss Fane's knowledge ; for 
 her young friends, in their mistaken zeal, repeated every word 
 to her, and she (poor simple-hearted child !) was undignified 
 enough to listen to their representations, and receive their 
 expressions of sympathy. They were all the friends she had. 
 Thus passed one third of Lilias Fane's term of service, in 
 alternate storm and sunshine, till at last Farmer Westborn 
 took a decided step ; and, in spite of yoimg shock-heads' 
 remonstrances, removed all of his six children from school. 
 Sad was the face poor Lilias Fane exhibited on this occasion ; 
 and all of her flock were sad from sympathy. Looks, some 
 of sorrow and some of indignation, were exchanged among 
 the elder pupils ; and the younger ones gazed in silent won- 
 der on the flushed face and tearful eye of her, who, neverthe- 
 lesS; wculd now and then give them a smile, from sheer habit. 
 
LILIAS FANE. 
 
 167 
 
 At last the day ended, and sad, and low, and kinder even than 
 usual, were the good-nights of the sympathizing group, as, one 
 by one, they disappeared through the door, till the poor little 
 school-mistress was left alone; and then she covered her face 
 with her hands and wept. 
 
 " I wouldn't mind it, Miss Fane," said a timid, but sympa- 
 thizing voice close by her ear. 
 
 " How can I help it, Alfred ? " asked weeping Lilias, with- 
 out raising her head ; " Mr. Westborn must have a sad opinion 
 of me, or he never — " 
 
 " Mr. Westborn is a fool ! the meanest man — " 
 
 " Alfred !" 
 
 " You don't know him, Miss Fane, or you would say so too 
 But don't cry any more — don't ; come over and see Mary 
 — you have true friends. Miss Fane — you — they — " and 
 here Alfred stopped short ; for, although particularly anxious 
 to console Miss Fane, he seemed to be suffering under a most 
 painful embarrassment. The gentle, indeed touching tone of 
 voice was not lost on poor Lilias ; although there seemed to 
 be some reason why she should not listen to it ; for she raised 
 her head, and, with more calmness than she could have been 
 expected to command, replied, " You are very kind, Alfred, 
 and I thank you, but — " 
 
 " I understand you. Miss Fane," interrupted the youth, 
 somewhat proudly ; " kindness should not be too obtrusive." 
 
 " No, Alfred, you mistake me. I prize the sympathy of 
 my friends but too highly; and it is gratifying to know that 
 all my pupils, if no others, are of the number." 
 
 "Yes, they all are — yet — Miss — Miss Fane — ," and 
 Alfred stammered on, more embarrassed than ever. 
 
 " I can assure them that their kindness will be remembered 
 most gratefully, and their friendship warmly returned," added 
 Miss Fane, with a gentle dignity, which prevented familiarity, 
 while it soothed. 
 
 Alfred Mason stood for a few moments irresolute, and 
 Lilias resumed. " To you, in particular, Alfred, am I deeply 
 indebted. You have defended me in my absence, assisted 
 
168 
 
 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 me in school, hoth by your example and counsel ; and have 
 performed the thousand little services which have contributed 
 thus far to make my time here among strangers pass so agree- 
 ably. I shall never forget you, kind, generous friend that you 
 are ! And Mary, toO' — my own brother and sister could not 
 have watched more carefully over my comfort and happiness. 
 I have much to say to you of this, but not now. To-night I 
 have subjects of thought less pleasant, and must be alone." 
 
 " I shouldn't like to trouble you, Miss Fane, but I came to 
 tell you there is to be a school-meeting to-night. Oh, how I 
 wish I were a man ! in influence, I mean, for I know that I 
 have a man's soul, a — " 
 
 " What is the school-meeting for, Alfred 1 " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Fielding — cross old bachelor ! — but I won't tell 
 you anything about it — it's too provoking ! " 
 
 "I shouldn't expect any good from Mr. Fielding," said 
 Lilias, with an unusual degree of acrimony. Why so exceed- 
 ingly indignant at him, when, if he had not sympathized, he 
 surely had done thee no injury, gentle Lilias ? 
 
 " He ! no danger of his doing good anywhere — though he 
 says he 'pities the young lady' — pities! But who do you 
 think he wants to get in your place ?" 
 
 Lilias stood aghast, for in all her troubles the thought of 
 losing her situation had not occurred to her ; and now they 
 had actually planned her removal, and were about appointing 
 a successor. " Who, Alfred ? " she gasped, tremblingly. 
 
 " Would you believe it. Miss Fane — that ugly, cross, vin- 
 egar-faced Miss Digby — it is too bad! At any rate, they 
 will rue the day they get her here. What is the matter, Miss 
 Fane ? you are as pale as death." 
 
 " Nothing — go now, Alfred — you shall tell me more to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Well might young Lilias Fane turn pale, poor child ! at 
 this intelligence ; for at that very moment she held her 
 mother's last letter in her bosom ; and in that letter had the 
 fond, hoping mother rejoiced over the bright prospects of her 
 darling, called her the guardian angel of the family, and hoped 
 
LILIAS FANE. 169 
 
 that through her efforts, comfort might again be restored to 
 their little home. And now to be obliged to return in dis- 
 grace, disappoint the expectations of that doting parent, and 
 become a burden where she should be a helper, was too much 
 — more than she could bear. Alfred obeyed her, and retired 
 in sorrowful silence ; and poor Lilias, pressing one small hand 
 upon her aching head, paced the floor in a bitterness of spirit 
 that she had never felt before. We may be angels while love 
 makes an Eden for us ; but when we go out among the thorns, 
 we find another spirit rising up, and learn, alas ! that we are 
 not yet all meekness and purity. The disheartening lesson 
 was embittering still more the spirit of Lilias, as she paced up 
 and down her deserted room. But why should Mr. Fielding 
 be so unkind ? how had she offended him ? These questions 
 puzzled her most painfully ; and then, heavily and hopelessly, 
 came thoughts of the future. What should she do ? She 
 was sure of the sympathy of good-natured Mary Mason ; but 
 such a friend was scarce sufficient for the exigency. There 
 was no one to advise her, no one who, acquainted with all the 
 circumstances of the case, could say what was for the best ; 
 no one even who could be made to comprehend her feelings. 
 And she longed to pour out all her troubles in some friendly 
 bosom. Once the thought of Alfred Mason crossed her mind, 
 but she only muttered, blushing even there, " kind, silly 
 boy !" and again recurred to the one grand question — what 
 should she do ? In the midst of these reflections, a footstep 
 sounded on the threshold, and before she had time to wonder 
 who was there, Mr. Fielding stood before her. The surprise 
 seemed mutual ; but Lilias, probably from her sense of injury, 
 was the first to recover her presence of mind. She crushed a 
 whole shower of bright crystals that were in the act of 
 descending, elevated her head, and with a slight courtesy, was 
 proceeding to adjust her cloak, when Mr. Fieldhig approached 
 her. 
 
 " Excuse me, ]\Iiss Fane, for this intrusion ; I did not 
 expect to find you here, but since I have, perhaps you will 
 tivor me with a few moments' conversation." 
 
 VOL. u 15 
 
170 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 *' With pleasure, sir, in a proper place," said Lilias, keep- 
 ing down her anger with a strong effort. " I presume Deacon 
 Martin will be happy to see you ? " 
 
 " It is you that I wish to see, Miss Fane, and for that, 1 
 shall have no good opportunity at Deacon Martin's." 
 
 " Your communication must be of consequence," said 
 Lilias, endeavoring to assume an air of carelessness. 
 
 " You are right — it is of some consequence to you, and so, 
 of course, to your friends." 
 
 " Among which, I am well aware, that I havo not the honor 
 to reckon Mr. Fielding," said Lilias, provoked beyond endur- 
 ance, by this seeming duplicity. The bachelor was evidently 
 the most imperturbable of mortals. The little maiden's eye 
 flashed, and her cheeks were crimson with indignation ; but 
 not a muscle of his face moved ; he neither looked confused 
 nor angry, but in his usual tone, replied, " I will not contend 
 with you upon that point, Miss Fane, for mere professions are 
 empty things. However, it is my wish to act the part of a 
 friend by you now." 
 
 " You will have an opportunity to exhibit your friendship 
 in tile school-meeting, this evening," said Lilias, with a curl- 
 ing lip ; " and, if I am rightly informed, it is jour intention to 
 do so." 
 
 Strange to say, Mr. Fielding was not yet demolished, but 
 with increasing sa?tg froid he replied, " If you had received 
 less information from injudicious persons, it might have been 
 better for you, and most assuredly would have saved you 
 much unhappiness." 
 
 The little lady trotted her foot in vexation, for she knew 
 his remark to be true ; meantime, muttering something about 
 even injudicious friends being preferable to the most punctil- 
 ious enemies. 
 
 " There I beg leave to dissent," "^aid Mr. Fielding, with 
 perfect coolness ; " honorable enemies — " 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," interrupted Lilias, losing all patience 
 " I am not in a mood for discussion to-night, and you — it ia 
 almost time for the school-meeting-." 
 
LILIAS FANE. 171 
 
 " The school-meeting has been deferred." 
 
 " Deferred ! " Miss Fane's young face brightened, like the 
 sky with an April sun-flash, for what might not a little more 
 time do for her ? and she extended her hand involuntarily, 
 while a " forgive me" hovered on her smile-wreathed lips. 
 
 " It will not take place till next week ; and in the mean 
 time," continued Mr. Fielding, hesitatingly, " it would — if 1 
 might — if you would but have confidence in my motives, 
 Miss Fane, I would venture a piece of advice." 
 
 " To which I am bound to listen," said Lilias, gayly, and 
 turning upon the adviser a face radiant with happiness ; for 
 the week's respite had quite restored her fallen spirits. 
 
 " Bound ?" 
 
 " From choice, I mean," said Lilias, with a smile which 
 made the bachelor quite forget that she had been angry. 
 
 " Then I will talk freely as to a friend — a sister," and Mr. 
 Fielding spoke in a low tone, and hurried his words, as 
 though the ice might be beginning to thaw. " Your position 
 must be a very painful one. You have, I know, gained all 
 hearts, but the judgments of many are against you, and the 
 prejudices of more. You have many professed friends, and 
 they do indeed feel kindly toward you ; but each has some 
 petty interest to serve, some feeling of rivalry to gratify, and 
 there is not one among them, in whom you can place implicit 
 confidence." 
 
 " I know it ! I have felt it all, only too deeply, too bitterly . 
 
 but what can I do ? Oh, if my mother could be here ! " and, 
 
 overcome by the sudden re\Tilsion of feeling, Lilias burst into 
 
 tears. 
 
 ; " Then go to her. Miss Fane — go to-morrow — her disin- 
 
 I terestedness you cannot doubt." 
 
 " Nor is there room for doubt in the case of another per- 
 son," retorted Lilias, in a tone of bitterness. " You have at 
 I least the merit of dealing openly, Mr. Fielding." 
 I " You distrust me without cause, Miss Fane," said the 
 bachelor, warmly ; " it is to save you pain, that I recommend 
 this course ; and it was in the hope of inducing you to with- 
 
172 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 draw, tliat I persuaded them to defer the meeting. We hav<! 
 coarse natures here, and you must not come in contact with 
 them. Allow me to advise you, and do not enter your school 
 again." 
 
 Poor Lilias Fane ! the net was about her, and flutter as she 
 would, she could not get free. " Then they intend to dismiss 
 me ? " she asked, despondingly. 
 
 " If you give them the opportunity, I fear they will." 
 
 " What have I done, Mr. Fielding, to deserve this?" 
 
 " Everything that is good and praiseworthy ; but a district 
 school is not the place for one like you. A school-teacher 
 must not be too sensitive — she must know how to endure, to 
 return buffetings." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Fielding, I am sure it is not necessary for a 
 school-teacher to be bad or heartless. I know what unfits me 
 for the place — I have too little character — too little self- 
 dependence ; — but I should improve — I am sure I should. I 
 cannot leave my school until I am obliged to leave it ; as per- 
 haps even you wiU do me the justice to believe, I would have 
 undertaken it only from necessity'. Even a week is of impor- 
 tance to me." 
 
 " I have not felt at liberty to inquire your motive. Miss 
 Fane, but I have felt assured that it was no unworthy one, 
 and your partial failure is attended with no disgrace. Indeed," 
 and there was so much sincerity in Mr. Fielding's words, that 
 he did not think how warmly he was praising, "I have 
 watched your patience, your industrj'-, your gentleness and 
 sweetaess, with admiration; and it is to the very qualities 
 most admirable, that your want of success may be traced." 
 
 " And so I must go ! "' exclaimed Lilias, with a fresh gush 
 of feeling. " My poor, poor mother! Indeed, Mr. Fielding 
 — but you must be my friend, and I wiU do as you bid 
 me, for there is nobody in the world to say just what I ought 
 to do." 
 
 The bachelor was almost as much agitated as poor Lilias 
 Fane. Fresh interest seemed to be gathering around the 
 little school-mistress, and yet he had too much delicacy to 
 
LILIAS FANE. 173 
 
 press inquiries, which at any other time would seem imperti- 
 nent. There was, however, a better understanding between 
 the school-committee-man and the lady-teacher ; and so 
 another half hour was passed in conversation without a single 
 angry word, after which, the two emerged from the school- 
 house together, and taking a seat in the sleigh, proceeded 
 toward Deacon Martin's. 
 
 That night, bright young Lilias Fane, for almost the first 
 time ir. her life, went to her pillow with an aching heart, 
 though caused by a seeming trifle in comparison with her 
 other sources of sorrow. Nurtured in the lap of luxury, made 
 beggars by the death of a husband and father, who was an 
 object of almost idolatr}' to a loving, helpless group ; visited 
 by disappointment, neglect and sickness, the little family had 
 struggled on and been happy. They had stemmed the tor- 
 rent together. But Mrs. Fane's exertions were wasting life. 
 Lilias was the eldest child, and her only dependence. ^\Tiat 
 could the delicate, fragile young girl do, to be useful ? Plain 
 sewing yielded but slight recompense to fingers too little 
 accustomed to its mysteries, and, in the retirement which Mrs. 
 Fane had chosen, ornamental needle-work found no market. 
 True, Lilias knew something of drawing and music ; but she 
 had never thought of either as a profession, and she felt con- 
 scious that her knowledge of both was too superficial to turn 
 to account. Little did Mrs. Fane or Lilias know of a district 
 school, particularly in the winter; but they knew that teaching 
 was considered a respectable employment ; so the trial was 
 made, and bitter to Lilias was the result. 
 
 The next morning the children assembled at the school- 
 nouse as usual, but they were soon dispersed by the sad 
 intelligence that Miss Fajie had been called suddenly home ; 
 which information caused quite a sensation throughout the 
 district. Alfred Mason kicked over tlie breakfast table Mhen 
 he heard the news, declared that it was Mr. Fielding's work, 
 and he ought to be hanged, and chopped wood furiously all 
 the rest of the day. 
 
 Some people thought it quite strange that Miss Fane did 
 
 vol.. II. 15* 
 
174 LILIAS FANE. 
 
 not go home in the stage-coach, as she came, and there was 
 some little gossiping on the subject ; but Mrs. Martin said 
 Mr. Fielding had convinced her that his sleigh, with the buf- 
 falo robes, was much more comfortable, and warm, and safe, 
 and had talked so much of the inconveniences of stage-coach 
 travelling, that the good dame declared she should " be afeared 
 of the ugly things all the days of her life." 
 
 In the mean time, the lady and gentleman were pursuing 
 their way very sociably, if not very happily ; and Lilias 
 found, to her infinite astonishment, that Mr. Fielding, when 
 he threw off the school-committee-man, and had no unpleasant 
 point to gain, (such as telling a lady she is mistaken in her 
 vocation,) could be vastly agreeable. He even went so far as 
 to draw a picture of her successor, the vinegar-faced Miss 
 Digby, at which Lilias laughed so heartily that she could not 
 help wondering the next moment what had become of her. 
 sadness. Looking for sadness, or any other unwelcome visi- 
 tor, (vide the old adage,) is the very way to bring it to your 
 presence ; and so Mr. Fielding felt himself called upon to play 
 the agreeable to an unusual extent; and Lilias wondered how 
 she could be so happy, until she was obliged to explain the 
 cause of her misery, just for the sake of refreshing her mem- 
 ory. And then Mr. Fielding was sad too — oh, so sad ! And 
 then he said something in a very low tone — doubtless to let 
 her know how much he pitied herj but it must have been 
 awkwardly done, for Lilias blushed a great deal more than 
 when she was angry vidth him. Mr. Fielding blushed, too, 
 and both looked as though they were quite ready to quarrel 
 again. What a lucky circumstance that they did not arrive 
 at this crisis before, for now Lilias exclaimed, joyously, " Oh, 
 we are home ! " and the sleigh drew up before Mrs. Fane's 
 door. 
 
 It would be impossible to say whether Mrs. Fane felt more 
 gladness or surprise at sight of Lilias; and the little ones 
 gathered around her, " all clamorous," not " for bread," but 
 kisses. 
 
 Mr. Fielding glanced from the noisy, happy group to the 
 
LILIAS FANE. 175 
 
 pale, thin face of the mother, and then around upon the scanty 
 furniture; and, callous old bachelor as he was, he felt his 
 lieart swelling in his throat, and the moisture in his eye made 
 him ashamed of himself. 
 
 Mr. Fielding did not return home that day, for his horse 
 had lost a shoe, which it was necessary should be replaced ; 
 and the next day there came a snow-storm, which only a 
 madman would brave ; th'en the third day, I do not quite know 
 what detained him, but it must have been something of 
 importance, as he was the last man in the world to exchange 
 the comforts of home for the inconveniences of a village hotel, 
 without sufficient reason. On the fourth day, hoAvever, 
 toward night, he was so fortunate as to undertake his home- 
 ward journey ; but, before this, he was closeted a long time 
 with the again radiant Lilias, and afterward, with her mother ; 
 and he finally quitted them, with a face so brimming over 
 with happiness, as to show — perhaps — how glad he was to 
 get away ! 
 
 Early the ensuing spring, the cottage down by the Maple 
 Grove had a new mistress ; and another, close by, was pur- 
 chased and fitted up tastefully, for a pale, sweet widow and 
 her bright-eyed children ; the eldest of whom, Alfred Mason 
 declares a vast deal prettier than her sister Lilias. 
 
176 
 
 THE TWO FLOWERS. 
 
 A FLOWER peeped out from the folds of green 
 
 Which had long about it lain ; 
 A dainty thing in purple sheen, 
 
 Without a bUght or stain. 
 A brighter bud ne'er burst, I ween. 
 
 In bower, on hill, or plain. 
 
 And the breeze came out and kissed its lip, 
 
 And the sun looked in its eye ; 
 And the golden bee, its sweets to sip. 
 
 Kept all day buzzing by ; . ■ 
 
 There chose the grasshopper to skip ; 
 
 There glanced the butterfly. 
 
 A human soul from that young flower 
 
 Seemed glorying in the light ; 
 And when came on the mellow hour, 
 
 The blossom still was bright ; 
 And then there crept around the bower 
 
 A dark and solemn night. 
 
 Gay dawn her portals open flung, 
 
 But the floweret looked not up ; 
 There on its light-poised stem it hung, 
 
 A tear within its cup ; 
 Close to Its heart the woe-drop clung ; 
 
 And the floweret looked not up. 
 
 The winning breezes whispered round ; 
 
 Warm sun-rays came a-wooing ; 
 And bright-winged, bliss-born things were found 
 
 Beside its petals suing ; 
 But the flower bent lower to the ground, 
 
 Those petals on it strewing. 
 
THE TWO FLOWERS. 177 
 
 And when I saw the blossom dead, 
 
 Upon the dewy sod, 
 I thought of one whose bright young head 
 
 Is pillowed by the clod ; 
 Who stayed one sorrowing tear to shed, 
 
 Then bore it to her God- 
 
178 
 
 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 Sovereigns of the olden time had their jesters ; and the 
 " sovereign people" on this side the water have revived the 
 fashion, with several other useful things dug up from the 
 rubbish of the past. Every circle constituting a court, every 
 individual of which is a king, has its " queer genius ;" and 
 every little village has its privileged quizzer, its regularly in- 
 stalled jester. It is this important personage who goes about. 
 at night changing signs ; leaving the barber's pole at the door 
 of the merchant most renowned for shaving ; putting " turn- 
 ing" on the county Surrogate's office, and " fancy goods" on 
 the young ladies' seminary. The same enterprising gentle- 
 man pastes a little slip of white paper over the M, when the 
 hand-bills announce that there is to be a mass meeting ; sews 
 up the top of his bed-fellow's hose ; rings door-bells on his 
 way home from a pleasant spree at midnight ; and imitates 
 most successfully the inarticulate language of every animal, 
 from the tremulously vain crow of the novice cock, up to the 
 roar of the infuriated bull ! Oh, what a terror the humor- 
 loving wight is to adventurous children and housemaids in 
 search of recreation ! 
 
 We are not without our jester at Alderbrook, of course ; 
 as well dispense with hot coffee and muffins at breakfast. 
 Ruggles Eaffles, the gentleman who officiates in the capacity 
 of mirth-maker general to their majesties the sovereign people 
 of Alderbrook, is a fat, jolly personage, with a peculiarjy /wtz- 
 ny rolling gait when Re walks, and a way, quite as peculiar 
 and quite as funny, of putting up his feet or hands when he 
 sits. There is a laugh nestled in every curve of his big, ugly 
 fingers, whether they exercise their muscles in expressive 
 gestures, or lay themselves away to rest on his knee ; and the 
 knee itself crooks a little differently from any other mortal 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 179 
 
 knee, so that you mechanically pinch your lips together when 
 you look at it, to prevent an unseemly explosion. Some say 
 Rug Raffles never does any harm with his mischief; while 
 others as decidedly declare that such doings never come to 
 good. If our jester really occupies the innocent state of be- 
 tweenity ascribed to him, he is better off than most of us. I 
 do not know whether the sin of neglecting to do good finds a 
 fair oftset in the virtue of neglecting to do evil ; but I fancy 
 that it is rather difficult to find a nearer balancing of accounts. 
 Well is it for us all that the balancing is not in the hands of 
 blundering mortals, who, with the wise solemnity of apes, look 
 us in the face, and call evil good and good evil. I think that 
 Rug Raffles, after all, is not a man to be despised, though his 
 calling be not of the highest order. 
 
 If our jester would but confine his pranks to undignified 
 people and to six days, he would be rather more popular with 
 the respectables ; but propriety (or rather tact) is one of the 
 things for which Rug Raffles lacks the genius. So he some- 
 times exposes himself to the severity of Deacon Palmer's men- 
 tal love-pats, which he receives with all due humility. I have 
 in my memory now an occasion of this kind. There was a 
 time when some of us wearied of our good old parson Brown, 
 and desired something more modern than his pious, homely 
 simplicity. Parson Brown exercised the law of love to a great 
 extent ; and this was made to appear a crime by some uneasy 
 spirits, who thought the go-ahead system might be made to 
 operate in the church at Alderbrook as in the church and 
 world elsewhere. So our wisely gentle pastor was pushed 
 out of the place that he had occupied since Alderbrook was a 
 forest, to make room for a successor. A more suitable man, 
 was the first cry; but, Tinything for a change, soon became 
 the rule of action, though it was not exactly bodied in words ; 
 so in reality the new pastor owed his entire popularity to 
 being, as Deacon Palmer ventured to whisper, " a new broom." 
 A tall, stiff, formal man, with a loud, monotonous voice, and a 
 manner of mingled pomposity and severity, came among us, 
 to edify our elders with abstruse theories, and throw a shadow 
 
ISO RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 on the hearts of us little children, who had been fed by lessona 
 of love from his predecessor. I do not know how the congre- ' 
 gation at large looked upon the new pastor; but the children j 
 and the Rug Raffleses clung with all their hearts to the old 
 regime, and hated most cordially " sour parson Lawsley." . 
 Besides the Browns were almost broken-hearted at the indig- 
 ■ nity done them ; to say nothing of the respectable living which 
 they had lost, thus throwing them unexpectedly upon the 
 slender resources of uninitiated money-makers. And who 
 should pity them, pray, if we did not? And how should we { 
 ever expect pardon for our ingratitude, if we could find it in •- 
 our hearts to take kindly to one we believed their enemy ? 
 We could not, and we would not ; and so there was nothing 
 left us but to wage an ^ uncompromising war with parson 
 Lawsley. To be sure it was little that we children could do 
 but get tired and rustle our dresses and rattle our feet about in 
 church ; but Rug Raffles was a man of m.eans. Many were 
 the lettered strips of board which came to label the parsonage 
 m the night time, now proclaiming there was " pig iron" 
 within, and now " white-washing done" by the master of the 
 mansion; but still the Rev, Mr. Lawsley walked with the 
 same air of consequence up and down the village side-walk, 
 till Rug Raffles wished himself a fly, and thought very highly 
 of nose-tickling. Sometimes he managed to pin strips^of pa- 
 per to the Rev. gentleman's coat, with rather gay scraps of 
 songs upon them ; but these were soon removed, and, strange 
 to say, without an abatement of dignity. 
 
 Our church is an old-fashioned one, with a good fat weath- 
 ercock (that wheezes when the wind blows, as though it had 
 the asthma) upon the belfry, and big, plain glass windows, 
 guiltless of shutters, commanding a view of the whole village 
 and the farm houses upon its skirts. There is a large gallery 
 extending all around the inside, the front of which is occupied 
 by a very fine-toned organ (purchased in honor of the new 
 pastor) and a half score of vocalists, and the back, just behind 
 the pulpit, by the " boys and loafers." Among this motley 
 company Rug Raffles reigns king. Not that he exactly classes 
 
 I 
 
RUG RAFFLES. ISl 
 
 himself with either; but other people do it for him. The 
 respectables call him a loafer, and the boys are very sure he 
 belongs to them. One morning, parson Lawsley walked into 
 the pulpit as usual, read a portion of Scripture and then a 
 hymn, and sat down to examine his notes. Immediately 
 above him, peering over the gallery witli a most waggish 
 expression of countenance, leaned Rug Raffles, his fat arms 
 folded beneath his chin, and his round head wagging from 
 side to side, as though there had been a thought in it disin- 
 clined to quiet. There was a striking contrast between the 
 long chin, hollow temples, cadaverous cheeks, and severely 
 serious face below, and the puff-cheeked, peaked-eyed, mirth- 
 lipped visage peering down upon him with a ludicrous expres- 
 sion of mock gravity which sent a smile to many a lip. Soon 
 the hymn was ended, and the preacher rose and leaned upon 
 his cushioned desk to pray. The heads of the more reverent 
 part of the congregation were bowed, while Rug Raffles 
 entertained the rest. He pulled a line from his pocket, dis- 
 entangled a fish-hook from his waistcoat, and, attaching it to 
 the line, began to lower it towards the sofa in the pulpit. 
 People stared and sn^iled, for it was scarce to be expected that 
 Rug Raffles would make a good " fisher of men." But this 
 was not his object. After he had angled for some time on 
 the sofa, his eye suddenly brightened, the corners of his mouth 
 retreated toward his ears, and with a nod and Avave of triumph, 
 which very nearly convulsed the wailing congregation with 
 laughter, he suddenly brought his prize to light. He had 
 managed to catch his hook upon a thread, and the Rev. Mr. 
 Lawsley's sermon was fast approaching the gallery. An 
 involuntary titter caused Deacon Palmer and several others to 
 raise their heads ; but Rug Raffles was carefully conning his 
 notes, and the cause of the untimely mirth was undiscovera- 
 ble. The prayer ended, another hymn was sung, and the 
 preacher began to look about him for his sermon. He thrust 
 his hands first into one pocket and then in the other, exam- 
 ined the contents of his hat, turned over the leaves of the 
 Bible with irreverent haste, again rummaged his pockets, 
 VOL. u. 16 
 
182 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 looked upon the floor, and then paused to wipe the heavy 
 perspiration from his brow, little dreaming that his lost manu- 
 script was far above his head. But if he had turned an eye 
 upward, he would have seen nothing but Rug Raffles gazing 
 down inquiringly upon him, as though wondering if the im- 
 perturbable parson Lawsley had really gone mad. As for the 
 congregation, some were enjoying the joke without compunc- 
 tion, while others, according to their different dispositions, had 
 their sympathies enlisted in behalf of the distressed c.ergy- 
 man. But both classes found it difficult to restrain their 
 laughter. At last the preacher, in evident despair, opened his 
 Bible, turned over the leaves handful after handful, and, 
 finally, in a strange state of nervous excitement, paused as 
 though to calm his thoughts. Rug Raffles spread the sermon 
 before him, donned a pair of horn-mounted spectacles with the 
 glasses out, and began to look important. Parson Lawsley 
 announced his text, and Rug Raffles nodded approbatively. 
 The preacher commenced his exordium, and Rug nodded 
 again, with a patronizing air, which said as plainly as words, 
 " Good boy ! good boy ! he has his lesson nicely." In a mo- 
 ment, however, the preacher began to extemporize, and Rug 
 frowned and shook his head violently. It was too much for 
 the gravity of the initiated part of the audience, and there was 
 a half-smothered burst of laughter, which startled even them- 
 selves, and put parson Lawsley to the torture. He was not 
 accustomed to speaking extemporaneously, and he fancied he 
 had excited the laugh by his awkwardness. The preacher 
 went on, hesitatingly and tremblingly; Rug Raffles frowned 
 and shook his head, now and then giving a quick nod of appro- 
 bation ; and the audience was a most irreverently smiling one. 
 At last the strange sermon ended, and the preacher leaned, 
 over his desk to pray. Immediately Rug Raffles commenced 
 operations again. He drew a piece of twine from his pocket, 
 and tying it loosely around the pilfered sermon, began lower- 
 ing it toward the sofa. Down, down, slowly and carefully it 
 came ; then there was a sudden jerk, and the disengaged line 
 was gathered up and stowed away in the pocket of the jester. 
 
RtIG RAFFLES. 183 
 
 The clergyman ended his prayer, and turned to the sofa. 
 There lay his lost sermon, in the very spot where he had 
 placed it. He started backward with astonishment, and, un- 
 fortunately being nearer the side of the pulpit than he had 
 imagined, lost his balance on the top stair, and turned a som- 
 erset to the bottom. That parson Lawsley had surely gone 
 mad was the general impression, and the congregation scat- 
 ' tered, leaving Rug Raffles in the vestibule, chuckling over the 
 : success of his feat. After this everybody took occasion to tack 
 a SHiile to the name of parson Lawsley whenever it was men- 
 tioned, and in six months' time our dear old pastor was rein- 
 ' stalled in his ofRce and we have never wearied of him since. 
 When Deacon Palmer first heard the truth of the Lawsley 
 story, he gave Rug Raffles a serious reprimand and — pre- 
 sented him with a new coat ! This was an era in Rug's life. 
 ' His seedy, thread-bare habiliments had tried severely the 
 I affection between warp and woof; and though he was never 
 I weary of caressing the friends that had stood by him through 
 ' weal and woe, he was in truth far from heart-broken at the 
 I thought of a separation from them. 
 
 I But the deacon had not thought of one thing — that the 
 ' new coat would need shapeliness — and Rug was quite above 
 carrying about with him such tradesman-like things as dol- 
 lars and cents. Besides, there was not a tailor in Alderbroolc 
 who would trust him. Nothing daunted, however, our hero 
 shouldered his cloth and marched to every door. It was of 
 no use ; every shop was overstocked v/ith work, and poor 
 Rug was in a quandary. But at last a bright thought came. 
 He would n't have his coat made by a clumsy awkward man, 
 not he. Women's delicate fingers were far nimbler, and there 
 was not a prettier woman within fifty miles of Alderbrook 
 than the pale, sweet. creature, who occupied the tmy cottage 
 at the foot of the hill near the toll-gate. 
 
 Beautiful, indeed, was young Nelly Tinsley '■ more beauti- 
 
 I ful now than when, decked in the gayest finery the shops of 
 
 Alderbrook afforded, she moved among us without a shadow 
 
 on her brow. Now sad thoughts had drawn lines upon her 
 
184 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 face painfully intelligible ; the blue veins crossed her temples 
 with unusual distinctness ; her eyes were dimmed with nig 1 
 watching, and her small hand had grown thin and half-trai- 
 parent. How had the blithe, ruddy daughter of farmer Bly : 
 changed ; Nelly Bly had been a bright, fun-loving girl, who ^ 
 was petted and indulged until she grew wilful and spurned j 
 every rein but that of love. She yielded to her father because ; 
 she loved him ; but when a stronger love came to her lieart 
 she forgot her obedience to the first. Young Arthur Tinsley 
 smoothed back her hair, and told her how dear was every 
 golden thread to him ; pressed her pretty hand between hia 
 own ; looked into her eyes until they grew dreamy as his ; 
 kissed the smile from her bright lip ; and finally unlocked a 
 fountain of delicious tears which had till now slumbered deep 
 down in her nature. Who would not grow familiar with tears 
 must never love ; who would not love must barter all the 
 wealth of the measureless depths of the human heart for the 
 bubble which dances on its surface. The bubble went from 
 Nelly's heart, the glitter from her lip ; and up, gushing from 
 the rich depths below, came a fountain never more to be sealed, 
 not even in eternity. Love made the spirit of Nelly Bly 
 meek, but it made it strong too. So when the stubborn old 
 farmer told her that if she became the wife of the beggarly 
 artist, Tinsley, his door should be forever closed against her, 
 she turned, and, with a touching, beautiful faith, added her 
 hand to her heart's gift. What a holy thing is that love 
 which, closing the eyes upon a brilliant future, turns to low- 
 liness and clouds, and whispers to the beloved one " only thee 
 and heaven ! " I know there are men of cold theories who 
 would prove to me that Nelly Bly acted far from right, and I 
 should be speechless before them ; but when they are away 
 with their arguments I cannot remember what they have said ; 
 and so I find myself pronouncing the love of our meek-eyed, 
 white-browed neighbor, a beautiful and a holy thing. 
 
 Farmer Bly had no other child, and so, after Nelly's mar- 
 riage, the great farm-house became a desolate place, and he 
 so surly and ill-natured that children ran and hid themselves 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 185 
 
 at the sound of his voice. At first Nelly Tinsley was very 
 proud of her husband, for she knew well how to appreciate 
 his genius ; and she was delighted to find that she could aid 
 in its development by soothing and encouragement. But soon 
 pride began to lose itself in anxiety. Trials were in the way, 
 and he grew irritable ; trials increased, and he bent beneath 
 them ; still others came, and health and spirits yielded. A 
 strong man could scarce have wrestled with such a fortune ; 
 but Arthur Tinsley had the helpless simplicity of a child and 
 the sensitiveness of a woman. For a while poor Nelly strug- 
 gled on cheerfully and uncomplainingly; and then, as un- 
 complainingly, but with a heart-ache written in every line of 
 (her face, she came with her sick husband and dying child 
 ;back to Alderbrook. Oh, how changed was that bright young 
 ■face with the merry heart-glow lighting up either cheek ! 
 Could that pale, fragile creature be Nelly Ely? The rugged 
 old farmer turned from her despairing cry, and shut the door 
 against her with an oath ; and for an hour did poor Nelly lie, 
 like one dead, at the roots of the white rose-bushes among 
 iWhich she had spent her bird-like hours before she knew sor- 
 Irow. At last she arose and reeled back to the village ; not 
 'quite broken-hearted, for her husband was yet left to her ; and 
 though he was now but the wreck of the impassioned, enthu- 
 siastic, heartful Arthur Tinsley, that shattered wreck was far 
 dearer to her than the noble, scatheless structure. Her heart 
 had grown to him in their humiliation. Was she not his 
 world as he was hers? Immeasurably blest was young Nelly 
 Tinsley even in her misery; and as she knelt by the sick 
 couch of her husband that night, and soothed his aching head, 
 and listened to his low tones, sometimes querulous, sometimes 
 melting with tenderness, there was not one act of her life 
 toward him she would have recalled. Some people made 
 mention of the fact that there had been no parental blessing 
 on the union, and shook their heads, remarking that " such 
 things were always punished sooner or later;" but Nelly 
 would have stared at them in bewilderment. Surely there 
 was nothing like punishment in her lot. She had certainly 
 VOL. n. 16* 
 
1S6 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 suffered very deeply, but it was with him ; and could all her 
 father's lands buy a single hour of that time made invaluable 
 by love ? Why, there was a blessedness in her very suffer- 
 ings, consecrated as they were to a holy affection ; and while 
 she was wearing out life in poverty and lowliness, she would 
 not have exchanged for a diadem her sacred wealth of heart. 
 "Where the shadows rest the violets spring freshest and sweet- 
 est. If the sunlight must needs kiss the perfume from my 
 violets. Heaven keep me ever in the shadow. We are way- 
 ward children, and do not always know Avhat is good for us ; 
 but we have a Father above, who, when he takes from us the 
 dross and tinsel, blesses us with such things as the angels 
 have. When our first mother went out of Eden in sorrow, 
 she carried an Eden in her heart ; there are some who live in 
 an Eden now, but their hearts are barren. 
 
 Nelly Tinsley found a home with an old woman, to whom 
 she had been kind in better days ; and the villagers buried her 
 child ; and then she was comparatively forgotten. Her hus- 
 band sometimes rose from his couch long enough to toy a little 
 Avith his pencil, but the most trifling efforts were usually repaid 
 by long, dreary days of illness ; then he would become peevish, 
 talk of starving and of doctor's bills, beg them to let him die, 
 for he was all that kept Nelly from wealth and happiness, and 
 bitterly bewail his folly in ever having deprived her of a 
 home. Nelly answered cheeringly every murmur but the 
 last ; but that scarce sincere regret Avas always dissipated by 
 her tears. Then came the words of tenderness, which turned 
 Nelly's sad heart into a habitation of subdued, sorrow-shaded 
 bliss. The old woman with whom Nelly had found a home, 
 supported herself by her needle, and so the young wife was 
 soon initiated into its more substantial mysteries. 
 
 Rug Raffles had no hope of inducing dame Gaskill to make i 
 his coat, for he was quite aware that his credit was not very 
 high with her ; but Nelly Tinsley probably had many dreary, 
 unoccupied hours ; and he argued, as he wended his way to 
 her humble door, that he should be doing her a great favor 
 by furnishing her with employment. j 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 187 
 
 "Nothing like industry to keep trouble away — so I've 
 heard say;" soliloquized Rug Raffles, as he trundled his bur- 
 ly corpus over the little strip of tan-bark at the road side. 
 "Industry! ha! ha! That 's why /don't have trouble, I sup- 
 pose. Ho ! ha ! A little job for the squire to-night, just to 
 keep him from sublimating on the top of his big stilts — ura ! 
 only a trifle ;" and Rug Raffles winked and nodded, and 
 i looked about him as though he had been making confidants 
 !of the fence and bushes. "Well, / am a philanthropist; 
 i there 's no disputing that. Parson Brown is a pretty good — 
 ;a pretty good man — but he wouldn't crawl out of his bed of 
 a dark night to benefit the public in the way I do, I reckon. 
 I Yes, the pwWic — that's the word — I'm a public benefac- 
 I TOR, ha ! ha ! They say a laugh is the best medicine. I make 
 everybody laugh, and so I 'm the biggest doctor in Alder- 
 brook. So, so — this is the house. Not quite a palace, for 
 sure. Wonder if Miss Nelly Ely don't want to get back into 
 the old farm-house — seems to me that was rather more com- 
 fortable." 
 
 When Rug Raffles made known his errand, he found, as he 
 had anticipated, dame Gaskill quite overstocked with work. 
 
 " Can't make it, dame 1 " 
 
 "No; my customers — " 
 
 " Rayther queer ! " and Rug regarded the empty table and 
 work-shelf, with an expression peculiarly quizzical. 
 
 " But my customers — " 
 
 " Supposing I should wait a week or two?" 
 
 " Oh, it would make no difference ; I have pile on pile of 
 work; and my customers — " 
 
 -• Well, now. Dame Gaskill, could you find time to make 
 it next year ? " interrupted Rug, fbcing his peaked eyes on 
 her with a kind of mesmeric stare, and puffing out his full 
 cheeks ;" I like your work amazingly, dame, and I am willing 
 to be accommodating, I am." 
 
 " I think I can make it." The words came in soft, tremu- 
 lous tones, from the farther end of the long narrow room, 
 which Rug immediately whispered himself was occupied by 
 
18S RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 sweet Nelly Bly. The speaker was leaning over a couch, 
 with one thin hand resting caressingly on a brow even 
 thinner and paler than itself; and, as she turned her face to 
 speak, Rug, careless as he was, discerned the traces of tears 
 on her now flushed cheek, and knew by her eager tones that 
 his favor was duly esteemed. 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed dame Gaskill. «' Why, you never 
 made a coat in your life ! Think of stitching the collar, and 
 v/orking the button-holes, and pressing it off, and all that. 
 No, no ! You can't make it." 
 
 " If — if you would show me," began Nelly, hesitatingly, 
 " if you would show me, perhaps — " 
 
 " But I can't show you — I shall have no time for showing 
 you." 
 
 " I should like to do it, indeed !" burst from the lips of the 
 poor wife, as she clasped her pale hands helplessly over her 
 face, and the tears gushed like a shower of precious gems — 
 less precious they than those pure heart-jewels ! — from be- 
 tween her attenuated fingers. 
 
 " And you shall do it ! " exclaimed Rug, setting down his 
 foot emphatically. 
 
 A look of gratitude and a sob was the answer. 
 
 " Stitching the collar, — " began the unrelenting dame. 
 
 " The collar need n't be stitched. There is no use in 
 spoiling the young woman's eyes stitching collars. Who 
 ever looks at my collar, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " And the button-holes, — " continued the pertinacious 
 dame. 
 
 Don't want button-holes — won't have button-holes — 
 button-holes always break out and m-ake a great bother. 
 Button-holes are among the ornamentals, and I 'm principled 
 against ornamentals." 
 
 " Lud-a-mercy, Mr. Raflles ! " 
 
 " It 's no use, dame. Right about face ! hands and eyes 
 down ! The young woman shall do it." 
 
 " But, Mr. Raffles—" 
 
 * I tell ye she shall do it ! " 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 189 
 
 " It will never do to give it up so," thought Dame Gaskill; 
 though, to tell the truth, she had been watching in great anx- 
 iety all the morning for a customer ; and so she rose and 
 joined Nelly at the other end of the room. Rug did not hear 
 the first remarks ; but, after a few moments, entreatingly and 
 deprecatingly came the words, " Oh, it is necessary — it is 
 and he could n't have the heart to keep back the money from 
 me." 
 
 " Certainly not if he had it ; but Rug Raffles has n't 
 known the color of a coin this many a day, I '11 warrant me.'' 
 
 " It is a solemn fact, dame," whispered Rug to himself, at 
 the same time fumbling in his empty pockets. 
 
 " He will get the money, I am sure he will ; he looks 
 good-natured, and I will trust him ; I am certain he will 
 get it." 
 
 " If he only could, mistress pretty-lips," was the aside of 
 Rug. " but where in the name of old shoes and ragged elbows, 
 is it to come from ? That's what I should just like to know." 
 
 " You will lose it," pursued the dame. 
 
 •' Heaven forbid ! and he so ill, and so worried when I 
 take the needle." 
 
 " It is a great pity you should worry him." 
 
 " Oh, I will not. I will do it while he sleeps. He al- 
 ways has a long sleep after midnight." 
 
 " And kill yourself?" 
 
 " Oh no, I am so well and strong ! " 
 
 The dame sighed; and Rug drew the cufF of his coat 
 across his eyes — probably to shade them from the sunlight. 
 
 " But you do not need this money just now ; you paid the 
 doctor's bill yesterday, and there is plenty of arrow-root left 
 for these two or three days yet ; of course there is no danger 
 that you and I will starve. Just Avait patiently and some job 
 will come worth having before you need the money." 
 
 Nelly looked around to assure herself that the invalid 
 slept, and then answered softly, " He asked me for paints this 
 morning, and it was a hard thing to deny him. I never have 
 done that before. Medicine may drive the pain away, but he 
 
190 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 will go wild if poverty keep him from the exercise of his art 
 The paints are worth more to him than medicines." 
 
 " Why, he couldn't use them, if — " 
 
 " No .matter for that, he inust have them, if I go out into 
 the streets and beg." 
 
 " Nonsense, child ! I have no patience with you. You 
 will kill yourself to indulge his whims. You got this terri- 
 ble cough sitting up in the cold room to earn the money for 
 that canvass ; and then the ungrateful fellow pushed his foot 
 through it just because some of his figurations didn't suit 
 him. There, don't cry, child — don't cry ! I didn't mean to 
 hurt your feelings. Sick folks must be indulged, I suppose, 
 and Mr. Tinsely is n't always so ; but I must say you are a 
 nice creature to take his high-handed doings so sweetly, 
 when he is put out. And I must say it is rather hard for 
 you to kill yourself" for a whimsey." 
 
 Rug Raffles had found his chair rather uncomfortable dur- 
 ing the conference of the two women, and particularly since 
 in their earnestness they had allowed their voices to rise to a 
 hearing pitch. He put the right leg over the left knee, then 
 the left leg over the right knee, trotted his foot, drummed 
 with his hands on the crown of his hat, hitched, fidgetted, 
 whistled, and finallj'-, in the midst of a pathetic remonstrance 
 from Nelly, sprang to his feet outright. 
 
 " I '11 tell yoa what, young woman — ahem ! young woman 
 — mistress pretty-speech — I tell you, I don't want that ccat. 
 I hate new coats ; they always pinch and set a fellow up, 
 like a pound of starch, and — I should feel like a gentleman 
 in a new coat, and I object to being a gentleman ; I could n't 
 condescend." 
 
 By the time Rug had delivered himself of his speech he 
 was at the door. 
 
 " But the cloth, Mr. Raffles ! Don't go away without the 
 cloth," exclaimed dame Gaskill, following her queer customer 
 with the package. 
 
 " Don't bother me with the cloth, dame. D'ye think I 'm 
 an errand boy to be running about the streets with bundles ? 
 Out of my way, and take the cloth back into the house ! But 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 191 
 
 look'eo, old woman, some folks say I 'm the devil, so look 
 out how you put your fingers inside that bundle. It 's — 
 it 's," and by this time Rug Raffles was clambering up the 
 hill, very nearly breathless, " it 's for Nelly Bly to buy paints 
 with." 
 
 " A new coat ! " soliloquized Rug, as he seated himself on 
 the front steps of the nearest grocery : " a new coat must be 
 a terrible bore. I should n't sit down so easy-like in it as 1 
 do in you, old friend ;" and he hugged his seedy satine* as in 
 all probability he would have hugged a sweet-heart. " How 
 strangely my elbows would feel in a new coat, poor things' 
 as fixed-up as I used to feel when grandmamma took me 
 a-visiting ; and my shoulders, too — they are free-born citizens 
 and never could submit to being put in the stocks, not they. 
 But what a villain old Bly must be I The girl would actu- 
 ally have got the blind side of w.e, if I would have let her 
 — but then it is n't in the nature of us laughing philosophers 
 to mind much about the weepers. Poor thing ! how pitifully 
 she talks of that rascally husband of hers ; and he leads her a 
 dog's life, I 've no doubt. It 's a fancy some husbands have 
 to beat and bruise about, as though there was nobody in the 
 big world but themselves ; and I 'm glad I 've kept clear of 
 'em. I 'm glad, I mean, that I don't happen to have a wife 
 to tyrannize over ; for I should be a shocking bad fellow in 
 that case, I know I should. Wouldn't I flourish my shil- 
 lelah, though ? Hurrah ! " 
 
 After making a grand flourish, and explaining to the in- 
 quisitive bystanders that he was only cudgelling Mrs. Rug- 
 gles Raffles that was to be, our hero again seated himself on 
 the steps and immediately fell into a state of profound medi- 
 tation. Rug was apt to be contemplative when he was not 
 uproariously social ; and, as the result of his ponderings was 
 sure to follow close on the heels of their indulgence, no one 
 ever offered even a penny for his thoughts. When the half 
 hour was passed, Rug arose and shook himself like Samson. 
 Probably he was satisfied that his strength was with him ; for 
 immediately his face put on all its waggery ; his half-shut 
 
192 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 pointed eyes looked as though made to pilfer sermons ; his 
 mouth, which greAV astonishingly wide, held a merry thought 
 in each corner ; even his large nose had an expression about 
 it which added not a little to the comic drollery of his phiz; 
 and he alternately rubbed his hands and hugged himself with 
 infinite satisfaction. As soon as his first self-congratulations 
 were over, he began trundling him.self along the street, his 
 heavy locomotives seeming to find the utmost difficulty in 
 keeping pace with him. 
 
 Farmer Bly had been more grufT since the return of his 
 daughter than ever. He was obliged to employ men-ser- 
 vants, (or rather gentleman helps,) within doors, for no 
 woman would stay in his kitchen ; and both house and field 
 were often witnesses of desperate quarrels between employer 
 and the employed. On this day he was going his usual 
 rounds among his workmen, when, as he chanced to draw 
 near a forest, his attention was arrested by hearing his own 
 name. 
 
 " I say, uncle, I should like to own this farm of old Ely's." 
 
 " Yes, it is a fine farm ; but little good does it bring to the 
 owner. He is the most miserable old wasp in existence ; for, 
 fool-like, he thought to sting his daughter, but instead of that 
 he stung himself, and has been smarting ever since." 
 
 " But he has a grand farm for all that." 
 
 *' Yes, a grand farm ; but what good will it do him ? 
 They '11 shovel his old bones into the grave one of these 
 days, and his hard earnings will go to those who will be glad 
 the old pest is out of the way." 
 
 " Probably his pauper daughter will come in for a share 
 then." 
 
 The listener ground his teeth and clenched his fist. Per- 
 haps he was enraged at the thought of his money going to 
 poor Nelly. Perhaps the idea of his daughter's being a pau- ! 
 per was new to him. 
 
 " Not she," returned the other voice ; " she 's pretty much 
 done with money and pauperism both, I reckon; and he'll 
 soon have her ghost to worry him out of the world, I can tell 
 
 & 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 193 
 
 you. She won't come near him now though she 's starving, 
 poor thing ! but bones which have been in the grave are not 
 so nice about such matters. She will haunt the old knave, 
 night and day, I '11 warrant me." 
 
 " What a pity the miserable old Jew has n't a grandchild, 
 since he 's resolved to disinherit his daughter." 
 
 " Ay, he might have had. A finer boy never gladdened 
 mother's heart than little Harry." 
 
 Farmer Bly gave a sudden start, and his face changed to an 
 ashen hue. 
 
 " It was a strange thing enough for her to name him after 
 one who had treated her so shamefully ; but women will have 
 queer notions, and he was the very picture of his rascally 
 grandfather. That was enough to make Nelly hate him ; 
 but instead of that, she only loved him the more. Wolves 
 and tigers take care of their little ones, but old Bly left his to 
 starve. It is well though that the baby died ; for the sooner 
 such a race becomes extinct the better." 
 
 " And do you think Tinsley is really dying ? " 
 
 " No doubt of it. Three murders are a pretty heavy load 
 for one man's conscience." 
 
 Farmer Bly unconsciously uttered a groan ; but the con- 
 versationists, who seemed in no wise disturbed by the sound, 
 continued : 
 
 " I have heard that he actually refused his grandson a 
 shroud." ' 
 
 " It is true ; and I should n't wonder if that very deed con- 
 demned his own bones to rot above ground. Such things do 
 happen sometimes." 
 
 " Think of pretty Nelly Ely's being a beggar in Alder- 
 brook ! There was a time when the Blys carried their heads 
 as high as the highest ; but now they are quite down in the 
 mouth. Only two left; the one disgraced in everybody's 
 eyes by his unnatural hard-heartedness, and the other a pau- 
 •oer ! Well, it is one comfort to us poor fellows to know that 
 ve all come out about the same in the end. Any way, I 
 would rather be in my grave than old Bly's." 
 
 VOL. u. 17 
 
194 RUG BAFFLES. 
 
 " Old Antoine's would be a palace to that, I fancy." 
 
 " Does Mistress Nelly ever speak of her father ? " 
 
 " Yes ; when she hears him called a villain, as everybody 
 does call him, she takes on dreadfully, and says he was a good 
 father to her once, and she will love him now for what he has 
 been. Women are always fools about these matters, yoii 
 know." 
 
 " And Tinsley ? " 
 
 " Oh, he must indulge his pretty wife, of course, and would . 
 swear that the old rascal was an angel if it would only win a I 
 smile from her. They say he even painted a portrait of him, ' 
 from memory ; and, savage as the old rebel is, made him look 
 quite amiable. They sold everything else when they were 
 starving, but they wouldn't part with that." 
 
 A loud sob burst from the overcharged bosom of farmer 
 Bly ; he leaned for a moment against a tree, and then hurried 
 forward with almost the bound of a boy. 
 
 " He, he ! ha, ha, ha ! " The laugh was smothered, but it 
 evidently came from a very merry heart. And oh, what a 
 face was that peering above the clump of dog-wood bushes ! 
 Rug Raffles had never looked so entirely convulsed with mirth 
 before. 
 
 " I 've done him ! I 've done him ! The old fox is fast in 
 the trap ! Hurra ! hurra ! Hip, hip, hip, hurra ! The birds 
 don't know anything or they 'd split their throats a-hurraing 
 and a-laughing. A'n't I a public benefactor ? — no ; this time 
 I 'm a private one ; and should n't have let the right hand 
 know what the left one did, only that they had to talk to each 
 other. I should like to know who could do the thing up 
 neater. Pretty well for you. Rug Raffles. Come to think 
 Miss Tinsley, I reckon I '11 just take back that coat. You 
 don't seem to need it at all just now. Ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! 
 I would n't have believed that he \»"ould nibble the bait so 
 soon, the old fox; though I gave him two or three pretty 
 tough morsels, to be sure. He could n't get round that com» 
 ing down of the family ; it hurt his feelings. Ah, that 's the 
 dagger that I stabbed him with. That ' went to the witals/ 
 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 195 
 
 as the saying is. And then I come it over him with the soft. 
 Lucky enough that I heard about that picture ; that was what 
 did him at last — hurra! Hurra for fun and Rug Raffles I 
 I '11 trick dame Gaskill into making the coat, I will. As 
 though a man was any the worse for an empty pocket ! She 
 to say it too, the old owl ! and she has n't a red cent to her 
 name ! I '11 trick her ! " And down sat generous Rug Raffles 
 to devote an hour of his precious time to the prudent Mrs. 
 Gaskill. 
 
 It was a bright afternoon ; and Arthur Tinsley sat up in 
 his bed, leaning against an inverted chair. His wife, as ever, 
 was by his side, and bending over him with mingled anxiety 
 and tenderness. 
 
 " I should like some paints, Nelly, if you can get them," he 
 said in an earnest tone. 
 
 " I will try, dear ; but you must n't worry if I am two or 
 three days about it. This hand is not very strong, and it must 
 not busy itself too soon. When you are well again, I have 
 a grand scheme for you." 
 
 The invalid smiled faintly, and then, in a tone of touching 
 tenderness, answered, " I shall never be well till the sod is 
 over my bosom, Nelly. I see how all this is to end ; I am 
 growing weaker and weaker every day; but there is one thing 
 that I must do — I cannot die till it is done. There is but 
 one face for me in the wide universe — if the angels in heaven 
 do not have it, I cannot love them. I must paint your face 
 and take it into the grave with me." 
 
 " You will not die, Arthur, you cannot die ! The doctor 
 said you would get well if I could only make you happy. 
 Won't you be happy with me, Arthur ? " 
 
 " We will both be happy when we have gone home to 
 heaven, Nelly ; but here, never. Nothing has ever prospered 
 with us since the day of our marriage." 
 
 " We have loved each other." 
 
 " Ay, overwhelmingly. It has been thy curse, my Nelly 
 and when I am gone — " 
 
 A. tremendous knock at the door, and the remainder of the 
 
196 RUG RAFFLES. 
 
 sentence hung suspended on the invalid's tongue, while dame 
 Gaskill's head bobbed out of the window, and was as quickly 
 withdrawn. 
 
 " Old farmer Ely, as I live I Don't be in a flurry, children I 
 Oh ! oh ! I 'm a most scared out of my senses. Don't you 
 open the door, Nelly ; I 'm afraid he has come for no good — 
 wait a bit, wait a bit, child ; I 'd better open it myself. Lud- 
 a-marcy ! she has no fear of anything." 
 
 Nelly drew the latch-string tremblingly ; her cheek was 
 flushed, but her head erect. The first glance was enough, 
 for the rough, manly face was full of eloquence. 
 
 " My father ! " 
 
 The old man's arms were outspread; and the trembling 
 daughter nestled in them like a wearied dove. 
 
 " The old house is desolate, Nelly ; I cannot live there 
 alone any longer, and you must come back to me. "What, 
 tears! you didn't cry, Nelly, when I shut the door in your 
 face to drown what you were saying of your dead baby. But 
 I didn't shut out your voice, I heard it day and night — day 
 and night, in the house and in the field — I couldn't get rid 
 of it anywhere. Don't cry any more, Nelly — don't cry! 
 your tears make my heart ache. If you had told me that the 
 boy's name was Harry — only told me, I might — but I don't 
 know, I 'm an old tiger. Will you come and live with me, 
 Nelly?" 
 
 The daughter raised her flushed face from the pillowing 
 bosom and pointed to the bed. 
 
 " Yes, darling ; bring him with you ; the house is big 
 enough for all of us. He stole my only child, but — well, it 
 is natural — it is natural ! They say he is dying, too, but we 
 will not let him. Money gives skill to the doctors ; and you 
 shall both be well and happy. These pretty cheeks of yours 
 must get some fulness and color. Nelly Bly can't be an 
 invalid, nor — nor — curses on those who have said it — a 
 pauper ! And now, Nelly, darling, bring me the picture that 
 poor Arthur Tinsley painted, and you wouldn't part with 
 when you were starving. Ah, you did love your old father 
 
RUG RAFFLES. 197 
 
 after all, though you left him for a stranger ! That almost 
 broke my heart, and it was the heart-break which made a sav- 
 age of me ; but — but you were right, and Arthur Tinsley is 
 a noble fellow. He loved you when your own flesh and blood 
 cast you off." 
 
 " He, he ! ha, ha, ha ! " No one in dame Gaskill's cottage 
 heard tne laugh, or saw the shaggy round head peering through 
 the open window, with the eyes set corner-wise, and the lips 
 drawn up, displaying an immense gash recognizable by all 
 who had ever seen it, as the mouth of Rug Raffles. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Hurra ! hurra for fun and Rug Raffles ! 
 Taste again, old fox ! Two such strawberries don't grow on 
 every stem. Ha, ha ! Mistress pretty-lips, I reckon I '11 just 
 take that coat." 
 
 VOL. ir. 17* 
 
198 
 
 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 See, mother, see ! we are coming nearer and nearer 
 every moment. It is a beautiful town — so bright and cheer- 
 ful ! and everything looks so fresh about it ! Oh ! it does 
 one's heart good to see the land again. And that is Fort 
 James, perched on that high point, and looking down as 
 though it were the guardian of the waters. We shall be very 
 happy here, in this charming home! — You look sad, mother." 
 So spake a slight, dark-haired stripling, with the warm hue 
 of a southern sun upon his cheek : as, leaning over the ves- 
 sel's side, while she rode proudly into the harbor of New 
 York, he fixed his glowing eye upon the long hoped-for asy- 
 lum of the new world. The young queen of western com- 
 merce was indeed bright that morning ; with the pretty fort 
 for a crown, and skirts sweeping back into the green shadow, 
 all jewelled over with happy hearth-stones. Indeed, never 
 was town more finely spread out for a sea-view ; and the yel- 
 low Holland brick, of which many of the buildings were con- 
 structed, and the mingled red and black tiles which covered the 
 roofs of more, with the glow of the sunlight upon them, made 
 it as gay as a sachem's bride. The broad banner waved and 
 flaunted cheerily from the top of the tall flag-stafl^, seeming to 
 promise protection to the stranger and the defenceless ; and 
 as the ship glided majestically over the just rippling waters, , 
 long and loud were the cheers that arose from the multitude 
 collected on the shore ; and the formal salutation from the fort 
 met with a ready response from the hearty crew. All now 
 was confusion on board — a glad, joyous confusion; pleased 
 exclamations fell from one lip, only to be snatched up and 
 echoed by another ; and handkerchiefs fluttered in the air, in 
 reply to like signals from waiting friends on the land. 
 
THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 199 
 
 ' You look sad, mother," repeated the boy, lowenng his 
 voice, till its soft tones contrasted strangely with the univer- 
 sal gayety, and turning upon her a glance of tenderly respect- 
 ful inquiry. 
 
 "Ulfeli so, I should be ungrateful, my son. God has 
 guided us from a land of persecution to the garden which he 
 has planted for his oppressed. But you spoke of home, Fran- 
 cois, and I thought of our vine-covered hills, and of the sunny 
 valley, on tlie banks of the Loire, where I have left sleep- 
 ing all but you." 
 
 " Do not think of it again, my mother." 
 
 The woman pressed her hand for a moment against her 
 forehead, as though stifling, meanwhile, some deep emotion ; 
 then said, in a different tone, " If we only had that lost -cas- 
 ket, Francois ! The captain has not always been kind to us, 
 and I dread meeting him now — he has almost seemed to 
 doubt the truth of our story. Heaven help us ! but it will be 
 a long time before we can pay this passage money ! " 
 
 " Never fear for that, mother ; money comes almost by the 
 asking, they say, here, and I shall soon be a man, now. I will 
 build you a little cabin under the shelter of the trees. The 
 men have told me just how it is done, and I long to be at work 
 this very moment. I will build you a nice cabin, and I will 
 kill game which you shall cook for us two, and we will sit 
 down at evening, just as we used to sit in our pretty cottage 
 in France, before that horrible persecution, and you shall — 
 Don't look so troubled, mother; you are thinking of this ugly 
 affair of the money, now. I can trade in furs, and — do — I 
 hardly know what, but just what- the other settlers do to get 
 rich in a day. You must remember that I am not a little boy, 
 now, but can take care of myself, and you too ; and they tell 
 me that the term Huguenot is an honorable one here. Oh ! 
 we shall be very happy ! think you not so, mother ? " 
 
 " Anywhere, with thee, my noble boy ! " returned the mat- 
 ron, gazing fondly upon the eloquent young face turned so 
 earnestly to hers. " With freedom to worship God as he has 
 bidden, and with thee, my last earthly hope and trust, beside 
 me, what more could I ask or desire ? " 
 
200 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 The ship had anchored in the bay, and hurriedly the sea- 
 wearied passengers were landing. Many citizens had come 
 on board ; and, on the shore, friend grasped the hand of friend, 
 with such cordial words of greeting as the first heart-bound 
 carried to the lip. Among all glad ones, none were gladder 
 than the enthusiastic French lad. With bared head, and joy- 
 flashing eye, he stood beside his mother watching the happy 
 throng, as though in their happiness he could forget his own 
 exile. But that was not the source of his animation. He 
 was looking to the future — his young spirit buoyed up by 
 hopes as yet unintelligible to himself, but brighter for the 
 very veil which covered them ; and his heart beating with the 
 tenderness which was all centred on one human being — his 
 widowed, and, but for him, childless mother. 
 
 " Stand here a moment, and I will see where we can be set 
 ashore. I am longing to plant my foot on that spot of green." 
 So saying, the youth mingled in the crowd, and the widow 
 turned her eyes from the view of her new home, to follow, 
 with the fond pride of a mother, his graceful figure as it 
 moved, all unlike the others, about the deck. In a few mo- 
 ments he returned, the masses of raven hair, which had been 
 flung back to allow the fragrant land-breezes to play upon his 
 temples, half-shading his pale cheek, and his white lip quiv- 
 ering with agitation. 
 
 " Francois ! what is it, my son ? speak ! ' 
 
 "Oh! it is too much — too much! I shall die here, so 
 near the land ! " and the boy, forgetting his boast of manhood, 
 leaned over the railing and wept passionately. 
 
 The mother placed her hand soothingly upon his glossy cuns, 
 which shook as though the throbbing heart below had been in 
 them ; and waited patiently his explanation. 
 
 "We must stay here, mother — and I cannot live in this 
 horrid ship another night, I am sure I cannot." 
 
 " We have spent many happy nights and days in it, my 
 son," returned the widow, softly ; " but why must we stay 
 now ? Who detains us ? " 
 
 " We cannot land till the ship charges are paid — so they 
 have told me ; and that will be never r— never." 
 
THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 201 
 
 A look of troubled surprise spread itself over the widow's 
 countenance ; but still her spirit was in subjection to the care- 
 ful tenderness of the mother. " I am sorry for your sake, 
 Francois ; but cheer up, my son ! It will do them no good 
 to detain us here, and they will let us go in the morning — I 
 am sure they will." 
 
 " If they would set me on the land, I would work like a 
 galley-slave, but they should receive the uttermost farthing." 
 
 " We will tell them so — we will tell them so. Cheer up, 
 Francois, and let us look upon the city again. It is but a 
 little while till morning." 
 
 Francois seemed to make an effort for his mother's sake, 
 and raised his head ; but how changed was the expression of 
 those two faces, as they again turned towards the land ! 
 
 Only a few feet from the exiles, had stood, for the last ten 
 minutes, a person who regarded them closely, though by them 
 entirely unnoticed. His mild blue eyes, and fair, good-hu- 
 mored face, bespoke him a Hollander ; and the massive silver 
 buckles at his knees and on his shoes proclaimed him an 
 individual of some consequence, which was farther confirmed 
 by the deferential manner of those around him. A close 
 observer would have detected a strange mixture of the child 
 and the man in that face. The eye was soft and gentle as a 
 woman's, while the mouth evinced a singular degree of firm- 
 ness and decision ; and, though the very spirit of benevolence 
 rested on the retreating forehead, with its crown of half-silvered 
 hair, the bold determination, with which the broad nostril was 
 now and then expanded, contradicted the bare supposition of 
 weakness. His attention had been attracted by the interest 
 mg foreigners ; he had seen the boy bound, like a freed deer, 
 from the side of his mother, and return drooping and dispirited ; 
 and he had seen that mother stifling some deep emotion for 
 the sake of her boy. It was evident that he did not under- 
 stand their language, for he watched them as though studying 
 out the cause of their sorrow, until they turned away their 
 faces; and then, with a look of sympathy, he left them, prob 
 
202 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 ably believing them to be of the number who had crossed the 
 ocean m search of friends, to find them only in their graves. 
 
 Two days passed, and still the lone Huguenot strangers 
 were prisoners in the ship, in sight of the green earth and of 
 cheerful firesides. 
 
 " This," exclaimed the widow, as she crouched in the cabin, 
 desolate and heart-sick, " this is worse than all the rest — not 
 f6r me — J could bear it — 1 could bear anything alone; but 
 my poor poor boy ! " 
 
 She was roused by a slow, dragging step, so unlike the 
 elastic spring of her idol, that, but for its lightness, she would 
 not have recognized it. 
 
 " Mother, it is decided — I have just learned our fate ;" and 
 the fragile boy sunk, like a crushed blossom, at her feet. 
 
 The widow tried to assume a tone of encouragement. 
 " What is it, Francois ? anything is better than this close 
 ship, with the green earth and shady trees so near us. I can- 
 not bear to see you droop and pine, my love — if they would 
 but give you back the strength and pride this sorrow has 
 stolen — if I could but see your bright head erect again — " 
 
 " It never can be, mother; better that we both were dead 
 — dead in our graves in France ! Oh ! why did we ever 
 come away ? There they would give us nothing worse than 
 a dungeon or a coffin ; nere they will not let us so hide our- 
 selves — will not let us die. What think you, mother?" 
 and now, the boy, dashing the hair back from his forehead, 
 changed his mournful tone to one of mad energy. " In an 
 hour or two, we are to be exposed in their market-place, in 
 the open street — sold like their Holland plough-horses and 
 Utrecht heifers — " 
 
 The widow's life might have gone out from her, in that one 
 wild scream of heart-piercing agony. She was prepared for 
 toil— for suflfering in almost every shape. She could have 
 borne even slavery, herself; but her boy, her proud, high- 
 hearted boy ! the beautiful blossom that God had given to 
 bless her bereavement! the bird, that, if but an autumn breeze 
 shook the roof-tree rudely, had nestled in her bosom for pro- 
 
THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 203 
 
 lection! — her frail, but noble boy, so delicate, so gentle to 
 her, yet so spirited ! — should he, too, be crushed beneath a 
 foot triple-shod with iron ? Should his fair, polished limbs, 
 through which she had so often traced the flow of the red life- 
 current, which her lip had touched, and her loving eye admired, 
 canker beneath the heavy chain of a life-lasting bondage ? 
 Should that eagle eye grow cold in childhood 1 that bright 
 lip forget its smile ? that free, gladsome heart become the 
 grave of all its freshly budding wealth of feeling ? Was there 
 no appeal ? Could she not find, in the crowd which thronged 
 that busy city, a single human heart which she could excite 
 to something like sympathy ? that would be content to crush 
 Aer to the earth, wring her spirit till every cord should snap 
 asunder, and save her boy ? Alas ! what could be done by a 
 stranger, a lone, feeble woman, confined to her prison in the 
 ship ? If she could be led forth to the haunts of men, and 
 they would listen, those who could understand her language 
 were fugitives like herself, and probably nearly as helpless. 
 So the miserable Frenchwoman crouched upon the low settle 
 in entire helplessness, and moaned as though her spirit would 
 have passed on each breath. Minute after minute, minute 
 after minute of slowly moving time went by ; and still the 
 sobbing boy rested his forehead upon his mother's knees ; and 
 still the mother clasped her hands, and moaned on. 
 
 There was a quick, heavy tread, upon the cabin stairs ; but 
 neither looked up. It came nearer, and paused beside them ; 
 but the woe-laden exiles moved not ; they had no ear for any- 
 thing but their own misery. 
 
 " I have good news for you, madam," commenced a some- 
 what harsh voice, hesitatingly, "good news — do you hear 
 me-? can you listen ?" 
 
 The widow raised an alarmed eye to the face of the speaker, 
 and clung, with a desperate grasp, to her son. 
 
 The boy's apprehension was quicker. " Good news ! 
 What ? In God's name, do not mock us ! " 
 
 " I am sent by one, who cannot speak our l-mguagd, to 
 say — " 
 
204 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 
 
 The man paused a moment to note the effect of his words. 
 
 " Speak on ! " exclaimed Francois ; " you torture us." 
 
 " To say that your ship charges are paid ; and you are free, 
 free to go wherever you list." 
 
 The widow stared in eager doubt, her hand still grasping 
 firmly the arm of her boy. But Francois ! the drooping blos- 
 som of the moment previous ! How the eloquent blood came 
 rushing to his cheek, and how his dark eye flashed with, 
 awakened hope ! Not a single exclamation broke from hia 
 lip ; but he stood like a proud young eagle pluming his wings 
 for flight. 
 
 It was several minutes before the exiles were prepared to 
 listen to an explanation of their good fortune. "When they 
 did, they were told simply that a benevolent merchant, endeared 
 to the common people of New York for his many virtues, had 
 seen them on the day of their arrival, and had found his sym- 
 pathies deeply enlisted by their evident disappointment, and 
 the sorrow it occasioned. Afterwards, he lost sight of them 
 until the decision of the tribunal, which would have made 
 them slaves ; when, finding his influence insufficient to pre- 
 vent the disgraceful proceedings, he had stepped in with his 
 purse, and discharged the debt. 
 
 " You are now free to go wherever you like," continued 
 the good-natured interpreter, " but you are invited to the house 
 of your benefactor, where you will find friends, and a' home 
 until you choose to leave it." 
 
 " God bless the noble merchant ! I will be his slave for- 
 ever ! " exclaimed Francois, his heart swelling with enthusi- 
 astic gratitude. 
 
 The widow's lips moved, and warm, tears, for the first time, 
 gushed from her eyes, and rained down over her face ; but 
 her voice was too much broken by emotion to convey the sen- 
 timent she would have uttered. 
 
 By the dock stood, (his heart in hiS face and that all sun- 
 shine,) a blue-eyed, bright-haired youth, with the merchant's 
 own forehead, and a lip of lighter and more graceful mould. 
 The young Hollander was scarce inferior in beauty, as h^ 
 
THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 205 
 
 waited there to perform his most grateful task, to Francois 
 himself. The merchant had been too modest to appear as a 
 benefactor in the public street, well known as he was, and he 
 had sent his son to bring home the strangers. A snug little 
 wagon, such as was commonly used by the better sort of Hol- 
 landers, awaited them, and they were soon seated and pro- 
 ceeding on their way. As they neared the market-place, and 
 the merchant's son caught a glimpse of the crowd assembled, 
 (some, uninformed of what had occurred, to witness the sale of 
 the helpless strangers, and some to report and expatiate upon 
 the generous deed of their townsman,) he instantly gave the 
 reins to his horses, and turned his head in an opposite direc- 
 tion. There was at first a slight movement in the crowd, face 
 after face turning toward the street. Then came a low mur- 
 mur, swelling gradually higher and higher, till at last it burst 
 into a mighty and universal shout, " Long live the noble 
 Leisler ! " " Leisler forever ! " " Leisler forever ! " 
 VOL. n. 18 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 A FANTASY. " 
 
 "7 SEE rtDthing peculiar about her."' 
 
 Very coolly and complacently dropped the above words from i 
 lips which seemed to be totally unaware of the deed of death 
 they were doing ; crushing the rare fancies of love's weaving, 
 with the same indifference that your horse dyes his coarse 
 hoofs in prairie-blossoms, or the follov^'ers of the Prophet treat 
 an inconvenient beauty to a coral pillow and a silver coverlet. 
 A heart-swell, deeper than a sigh, a quick flushing over of 
 the cheeks and forehead, then a closing of the slightly parted 
 lips, a drooping of the lids, and a tenderly caressing movement 
 of the hands, followed this confession of short-sightedness. 
 Oh ! what cold, blind, unappreciative beings fathers are ! As 
 though genius never hid itself under a baby-cap! 
 
 "/see nothing peculiar about her." 
 
 The faithless father, as he repeated his observation, brushed 
 back the hair from his full, mathematical forehead, and, cast- 
 ing on his wife a glance full of pity for her 'weakness, turned 
 to a huge folio volume spread open on the table beside him, 
 and resumed the business in which he had been interrupted. 
 The mother, however, was not abashed, only silenced. She 
 passed her fingers over the vein-crossed forehead of her sleep- 
 ing child, measuring the distances on it with her lips ; then 
 took the fat little hand in her own, still following the purple 
 current till it terminated in the rosy-tipped fingers. 
 
 " Direct from the heart," she murmured ; " God help thee, 
 my Ida ! " As she spoke, the child opened wide a pair of 
 dark, burning eyes, and fixed them on her face with the far- 
 reaching expression she had often observed, and which, 
 seemed to her indicative of something like " second-sight." 
 
IDA KAVELIN. 207 
 
 " There ! " exclaimed the mother triumphantly, yet without 
 venti'ring to point a finger ; for it seemed as though the child 
 read her thoughts. 
 
 " Her eyes a^e certainly very bright ; something like yours, 
 Mary." 
 
 " Oh ! you don't see it — you don't see it ' God help her; 
 .for genius is a dangerous gift !" 
 
 j *' God help her ! " echoed the father with a half sigh. 
 j He meant his wife. 
 
 And what did bring those two strangely assorted people 
 ^together? Certainly not sympathy. It might have been a 
 trick of Dan Cupid's; but even he, with all his perverse 
 iblindness, seldom makes such a blunder as that. Besides, 
 'they did not look very much like turtle doves ; and nothing 
 less than entireness of idolatry, the wildest infatuation, could 
 ihave bidden fate to spread the roof over head's so different. 
 The marble-browed, marble-hearted philosopher, and the 
 Pythoness ! I never saw an improvisatrice ; but I dare say 
 that Mary Ravelin looked more like this wild daughter of 
 passion and poesy than any being since the days of^ the burn- 
 ing-lipped Corinna. Oh ! a superb creature was Mary Rave- 
 lin, with her dark, regal brow, and sloe-colored eyes, centred 
 by a blazing diamond. And that she, of all peerless ones, 
 should be the wife of the sluggish-hearted Thomas Ravelin ! 
 How did it come to pass ? Enough that the bird of Jove 
 does sometimes consort with the barn-yard fowl — I mean 
 when these bipeds are minus the feathers. Plumed things 
 keep up the natural distinctions, which the philosopher's 
 plucked turkey is striving with all his might to destroy. But 
 the most vexatious part of the business was, that Thomas 
 Ravelin never knew that he was the possesser of a double 
 diamond ; and really rated his wife below other women, in 
 proportion as she rose above them. Did Mary submit to the 
 thraldom ? Certainly. Like the generality of mankind, she 
 did not know herself. She might, at times, have had a kind 
 of inward consciousness that heaven had stamped her soul 
 iWith a loftier seal than others ; she certainly knew that she 
 
208 
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 felt unlike them ; and there was a depth and intensity in her 
 nature, a tumultuous sea of passion and pathos that sometimes 
 broke over all boundaries, and gave her a momentary power 
 and grandeur, acknowledged by all but one. There was 
 something in the smile between pity and contempt which 
 greeted her at such moments, well calculated to tame the 
 sybil. She feared her husband ; not because he was unkind, 
 but his glance stilled her gushing heart, and cast a strange 
 spell upon her passionate spirit. And Mary Ravelin was far 
 from being happy. No undeveloped nature is happy. The 
 inward stirring, the aimless restlessness of spirit — oh ! we 
 feel what we are, when we do not know it. Neither can a 
 misplaced nature be happy : cage the sky-lark, or bring the 
 spotted trout to your bower of roses, and see. So, though 
 flashes of her real inner self were every day breaking forth 
 like summer lightning, Mary Ravelin's higher nature was 
 undeveloped; her wings had been clipped; she had been 
 borne away out of her native element, and she was conse- 
 quently miserable. Well for her that she had one sustaining, 
 regulating- principle. But even her religion was unlike her 
 husband's. It was the deep, impassioned faith, the high- 
 wrought enthusiasm of the martyrs. It was the only field in 
 which her lofty nature might revel uncontrolled; in which 
 her power of loving might be called into action to its utmost 
 stretch; where the high and the beautiful all combined, with 
 a harmony to which her own bosom furnished an echo. It 
 was this which subdued the impatient soul of Mary Ravelin ; 
 made her the careful wife — I had almost said the uncom- 
 plaining slave — of a man who believed himself acting a 
 kindly part when he drew the chain about her spirit. Who 
 dare call this an inferior kind of martyrdom ? 
 
 Ida was romping, still in baby-frock and pinafore, among 
 the vines in the garden — now thrusting her white arm among 
 the leaves to grasp the bared shoulders of an elder sister, now 
 shaking the blossoms above her head till they rained down 
 upon her like a shower of colored rain-drops, then creeping 
 away under the deep shadows, as a hare would hide itself, 
 
IDA RAVEUN. 209 
 
 and raising her ringing voice to challenge pursuit. Ida might 
 have been a genius, but she was 'no mere spirit-child. There 
 was a love of the real, the actual, the earnest, breathing a 
 world of life in every turn of her pliant limbs, and in every 
 glance of her eye. Whatever might have been swelling and 
 shaping itself in the deep recesses of mind, there was a world * 
 without that she gloried in, loving it all the more for the key to 
 its wijndrous wealth which she bore in her bosom. And so she 
 frolicked on, clapping her hands and laughing, and scamper- 
 ing ofT on her chubby little feet to plunge headlong into the 
 fragrant thicket, or tumble into the arms of her playmates, 
 with a hearty joyousness truly refreshing. Suddenly she 
 paused in the midst of her wildest play, pressed the tip of a 
 rosy finger against the already fully developed corner of her 
 forehead, and gazed fixedly into the distance. The children 
 frolicked before her, but she did not move a nmscle ; they 
 attempted to take her hand, but she uttered a cry, as of pain, 
 and they desisted. 
 
 " There, Thomas ! " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " She sees somethi?ig." 
 
 " I should think not ; she seems to be gazing on vacancy. " 
 
 " I tell you, Thomas Ravelin, that child has a spirit in her 
 beyond the common. Whether we have cause to weep or 
 rejoice, we are yet to know." 
 
 The husband looked a little interested. " Her tempera- 
 ment certainly differs essentially from Ruth's. She must be 
 carefully educated, her tendencies checked — she must be 
 taught self-control — " 
 
 " Taught ! checked ! educated ! My poor Ida ! " 
 
 The mother said no more. She seemed to be re-perusing 
 leaves of her own life, long since turned over ; and as she 
 read she trembled. The child's future presented a dismal 
 page, for she saw it by the glooming light of her own sunless 
 past. 
 
 " So unlike other children ! " whispered the mother to her- 
 self, as she stooped among the vines, and took her idol to her 
 
 VOL. II. 18* 
 
210 
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 bosom. The child turned its dark eyes upon her wonderingly 
 passed its little hand across her throbbing temples, patted her 
 flushed cheek, twined her black tresses for a few moments 
 about its fingers, then nestled in her bosom and slept — cer- 
 tainly not unlike other children. 
 
 " Don't teach her any of your romantic notions, Mary," 
 said Thomas Ravelin one day, when Ida had again become 
 the si:bject of conversation. 
 
 " Teach her ! No, Thomas, she is taught of a Higher than 
 1 am — there is that within which may be shut, locked there, 
 but you cannot take it away. My poor Ida ! " 
 
 "Ruth is now eighteen; she is well taught and discreet, 
 with a strong judgment — " 
 Ruth is my dependence." 
 
 " You have perfect confidence in her judgment?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Sometimes you even go to her for counsel ? " 
 
 " Oh, Ruth has five times the worldly wisdom that I have." 
 
 " Give Ida to her care, then." 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 "There is something in Ida's character out of tune — let 
 her have — let her assist you in regulating it." 
 
 " She can't — she can't ! Ida has more wisdom than all 
 of us." 
 
 " Madam," interposed Thomas Ravelin, sternly, " this is 
 folly. Have done with these fancies, or the ruin of your child 
 wi'A be on your own head. Ida must be curbed and properly 
 trained — " 
 
 " Then her mother's hand shall do it," interrupted Mary 
 with proud dignity. 
 
 " As you will, Mary ; but you well know the fruits of an 
 ill-regulated imagination." 
 
 The mother crossed her arms on her breast, and raised her 
 eyes upward. She was praying God for wisdom. 
 
 "He is right — I shall make her as miserable as I have 
 been," was the burden of her reflections that evening ; " but 
 can I give up the budding intellect to another's watchings ' 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 211 
 
 No, no! the sweet task of guiding and pruning be mine. But 
 I have so many faults. He calls me a creature of impulse, 
 unreasoning, and Ruth is always so correct — always in the 
 right — I shall need her judgment. Anything for thy sake, 
 my Ida. I have reason to distrust myself, and Ruth shall 
 share the dearest of all duties with me." 
 
 Ruth did share in what should have been altogether a love 
 labor; and little Ida, though seemingly untamable, had a 
 system of thought and action prescribed, which, however in- 
 effective it might have been in the case of an inferior nature, 
 soon began to exhibit quaker-like results. Instead of devel- 
 oping her nature, it was repressed, as an ignorant man wouJd 
 try to extinguish a kindling fire by smothering it in cotton ; 
 she was carefully guarded against little outbreaks of feeling, 
 when, instead, her feelings should have been called out, and 
 directed in proper channels. And so, by degrees, the mother's 
 influence was lost; and she grew afraid to take the child upon 
 her knee, and draw out, as had been her wont, the charming 
 little fancies which form the staple of the thoughts of child- 
 hood. She Avatched it tenderly and jealously, treasured all 
 its little sayings in her heart, gazing into its deep eyes with 
 the far-reaching sight of Cassandra; but, like those of 
 Cassandra, her prophecies were unheeded. To all but her 
 mother, Ida was a pretty, frolicksome child; with nothing to 
 distinguish her from other children, except, perhaps, an unu- 
 sual flow of spirits, and those strange fits of abstraction which 
 even Ruth had not the art to cure. 
 
 " Ida ! Ida ! Ida ! " shouted Phil Ravelin. 
 
 It was useless. Ida sat upon a mossed knoll, her hands 
 clasped over her knee, and her bright face, with its parted 
 lips, and eager, weird eyes, looking out from the dark masses 
 of hair which fell, almost too luxuriantly for childhood, about 
 her beautiful shoulders. 
 
 " Ida, are you asleep ? look here, Ida ! " 
 
 The boy waited a moment, and then shook her by the 
 shoulder. Ida uttered a shriek, as though in pain. 
 
212 IDA KAVELIN. 
 
 " Ida ! look up, Ida ! I have something to tell you." 
 
 The little girl shook off his hand, and sprang, like a scared 
 gazelle, to the nearest thicket. 
 
 " I won't follow her," muttered the hoy, drawing the corner 
 of his jacket across his eyes ; " it is too bad ; and they shan't 
 make me hurt her again — indeed, they shall not. Poor little 
 Ida!" 
 
 Half an hour afterwards Ida had snuggled down in the 
 deep grass with her brother, talking with him most confiden- 
 tially, but not of her strange malady. At last Phil ventured 
 to make mention of it. There had been a long silence, and 
 he forgot that Ida's thoughts did not probably follow in the 
 same channel with his. 
 
 " What makes you do it, Ida ? " 
 
 The little girl was plucking away with tender care the 
 leaves of a buttercup, and she answered, without raising her 
 eyes, " I want to find the angel in it." 
 
 " In what ? " 
 
 "This." 
 
 " Why, angels are away beyond the blue, Ida. To thmk 
 of an angel, with its great white wings, and may be its big 
 harp, too, coming down from heaven to live in a poor little 
 buttercup ! Whew ! " 
 
 Ida smiled pityingly, as though she knew much more about 
 these things than her brother could know ; but did not care to 
 enlighten his ignorance. 
 
 " But what were you thinking of, Ida, when I came to you 
 a little while ago ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You sat looking so ;" and Phil mimicked his sister as well 
 as he could. " What did you see ? " 
 
 " Nothing, I guess." 
 
 " Now, Ida ! " 
 
 The little girl's cheek flushed, and her lips grew tremulous, 
 but she made no answer. 
 
 " Tell me, Ida, dear — just me — whisper, if you don't want 
 to speak loud. Come, put your lips close. Won't you tell 
 Ida?" 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 213 
 
 Ida looked at her brother expressively, and seemed be\vil- 
 dered, 
 
 " You are not a good girl — and I will never love you 
 any more — never — because — because — won't you tell me, 
 Idk?" 
 
 "I — I — sometimes I see a great world, not like this, and 
 hear — love me, Phil, love me; for it hurts me to tell. It is 
 very strange — I have been there some time, long, long ago 
 — and, Phil, I am not your little Ida there. Don't ask me 
 any more, but you must love me, Phil ! " and the child sank, 
 sobbing with excitement, into the arms of her brother. 
 
 Phil repeated, at home, what his sister had said ; and Ida 
 was pronounced the victim of a temporary insanity. She was 
 carefully watched over, and the subject never mentioned to 
 her again. 
 
 " Not like other children ! " repeated little Ida Ravelin to 
 herself. " I have heard that before. Oh ! now I remember ; 
 sJie used to whisper it over me when I was a baby. I wonder 
 how I differ." Ida carefully examined her feet, her hands, 
 passed her fingers along her full, white arms, bent the elbow, 
 curved the wrist, folded the fingers in the palm, clapped her 
 hands, shook them above her head, walked with her head 
 erect and foot firm, skipped, danced, tried her voice, first in a 
 shout, then in laughter at the returning echoes, then in a gush 
 of bird-like warblings, and, finally, knelt quietly beside a clear 
 pool, which mirrored her bright face. Little Ida might well 
 have been startled at the rare vision in the water. A con- 
 noisseur would not have pronounced her beautiful ; but yel 
 she was exquisitely so ; and she knew it, and smiled at it. 
 A sweet answering smile, like a visible echo, came up from 
 the water, and Ida smiled again. But the innocent vanity 
 lasted only a moment. Her next thought was, " How do I 
 differ? My hair is dark, and glossy, and curling, just like 
 Ruth's ; my nose, and chin, and lips, and cheeks — why, they 
 ire all like Phil's, only Phil's are a little darker, and not quite 
 «o soft ; my forehead is Uke mamma's, and my eyes are like 
 
214 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 mamma's, too, not so large and handsome, may be, but I am 
 a little girl yet. 1 wonder how I difler? I can talk, and — 
 may be it is the thinking. But I don't think much — I play 
 most of the time. May be it is because I see — but she 
 don't know that. Unlike other children ! What can it 
 mean ? " and Ida shook her little head, as though it were 
 oppressed by the weight of a great mystery. The subject did 
 not grow to be less important to the child by constantly pon- 
 dering on it. Her laughing eyes became daily more thought- 
 fu! but yet. as she had said, she loved her play. 
 
 Ida had crept from her bed, and stood in her night dress, 
 her little figure all bathed in the golden-hued moonlight. 
 How like a spirit she looked, poised so lightly on her tiny feet 
 that she scarce seemed to touch the carpet, her arm half 
 extended, and her lips parted, as though in converse with 
 things invisible ! With a mother's inner sense, Mary Eavelin 
 discovered that her daughter was not sleeping, and left her 
 own couch to hover near her. Drawing toward the door, she 
 lifted the latch, but paused, with suspended breath, on the 
 threshold. Was that a mortal being, shrined so gloriously, or 
 the spirit that nightly came to guard her daughter's pillow ? 
 The moonlight streamed through the open casement, and 
 gathered about her in a flood of radiance, quivering aloog her 
 white robe, striving to rest, and yet tremulous, as though 
 drunk with its OAvn glorious beauty, or agitated by the prox- 
 imity of a yet more glorious, deathless spirit. Softly crept in 
 the incense-laden breezes, dallying with the curls of the child, 
 and, now and then, casting the shadow of a lifted leaf upon 
 her. Softly and dreamily fell the shadows about the aban- 
 doned pillow ; and, far off, in another corner of the room, lay 
 heavier, darker shadows, which Mary Ravelin knew were 
 naturally produced, while yet she felt they had a deeper 
 meaning. 
 
 " There is a glory about thee, my child," she whispered, in 
 her throbbing heart, " but the world is a dark, dark place for 
 such as thou. Oh ! my God ! but for a talisman against this 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 215 
 
 foreshadowed misery I " A sob of agony accompanied these 
 last words, which called Ida from heaven. She turned, and 
 sprang to the bosom of her mother. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! I am so glad you have come ! there are 
 things I want to say to you." 
 
 Mary hfted the beautiful head from her bosom, and, hold- 
 ing it between her two hands, gazed long and fixedly into the 
 child's spiritual face. 
 
 " I will tell her what she is," she thought ; " how rarely 
 gifted, how angelic in her nature. I will tell her what she is^ 
 and warn her of the future, I will — " 
 
 The thread of thought was cut short by remembered words. 
 " Don't teach her any of your romantic notions." Mary 
 shuddered, and her eyelids drooped. She could barely artic- 
 ulate, " What is it, my love ?-" 
 
 Ida felt the chill that had fallen on her mother's spirit, 
 though she did not know the cause ; and her voice became 
 low and timid. The inspiration of a moment previous had 
 been scared away. 
 
 "Did I ever, mamma — did I ever — do — we — come 
 from heaven to live here awhile, and then go back to heaven 
 again ? " 
 
 " Come from heaven ! " Mary shook her head. 
 
 " Where then, mamma?" 
 
 " Men spring from the dust of the earth." 
 
 " The dust we walk on ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Ida mused a few moments. Then, raising her little hand, 
 she pressed back the blood till it looked white and dead ; then 
 turned it downward, and allowed the red current to rush back 
 again ; and then looked up into her mother's face, doubtingly. 
 " It is very strange, mamma." 
 
 " Everything is strange in this world, my darling." 
 
 Ida was still examining the little hand that lay in her 
 mother's. Finally, raising the other, she pressed it against 
 her heart. "Not all of dust, mamma; what makes us 
 live?" 
 
216 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 "God gives the spirit." 
 
 " Where does he get it ? " 
 
 " From himself, from — " 
 
 " Then," interrupted the child, exultingly, " it came from 
 heaven; it has lived there with Him before, and it was in 
 heaven I saw all those beautiful things ! I knew I had been 
 with the angels — I knew I had, mamma ! " 
 
 Mary clasped the child closely in her arms, and longed to 
 encourage her to be still more communicative ; but the 
 charge, " Don't teach her any of your romantic notions," 
 rang in her ears, and she tried to calm her emotion, and act as 
 her husband's superior judgment would have dictated. 
 
 " Ida, my darling, listen to me." Mary's voice was low 
 and faltering, for she was not used to the cold part she was 
 endeavoring to act. " Listen to me, Ida ; for you are a very 
 little girl, and must know that your mamma understands 
 what is for your good better than you can. You must never 
 have such fancies — " 
 
 " How can I help it ? " 
 
 " You must not lie awake thinking at night — " 
 
 " How can I help it, mamma ? " 
 
 "You must — you must. Oh! my Ida, try to be like 
 Ruth. Do as she bids you. Play with the children in the 
 fields — " 
 
 " The angels come to me there, mamma." 
 
 " Run in the garden — " 
 
 " And there." 
 
 "Play with your dolls — fling the shuttlecock — skip the 
 rope — " 
 
 " Oh ! I do all those things, mamma. I love to play , but I 
 cannot play all the time — nobody does that." 
 
 " Well, talk with your papa and Ruth — " 
 
 " Is it wrong to think, mamma ? " 
 
 " It is not best to think, unless — " 
 
 Ida waited long for the sentence to be finished ; but Mary 
 knew how incompetent she was to advise, and she scarce 
 knew what to say. The child still gazed into her face, how- 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 217 
 
 ever, as though more than life hung upon her words. 
 •' When you are older, my Ida, you will know what thoughts 
 to indulge, and what to repress ; now strive to think only of 
 the things about you — what you see — " 
 
 " What I see I Oh, I see everything beautiful, every- 
 thing — " 
 
 " What you hear talked of, I mean. Will you try, my 
 darling?" 
 
 Ida looked bewildered. 
 
 " But don't think of it now. Now you must sleep, and 
 to-morrow make yourself busy with your play and your les- 
 sons. Good-night, my love." 
 
 Mary laid the head of her child upon the pillow, pressed 
 kiss after kiss upon her lips and forehead ; and, with pain at 
 her heart, though fully believing that she had acted wisely, 
 went away to her own sleepless couch. As soon as she 
 was gone, a merry, half-smothered laugh burst from the 
 parted rose-bud of a mouth resting against the pillow; and 
 Ida clapped her little hands together and sprang out lightly 
 upon the carpet. 
 
 " So it was heaven that I came from. I have found it all 
 out now. I am glad I asked mamma. But," and Ida's lips 
 drooped at the corners, " I must n't ask her anything more. 
 I wonder if I was an angel and had wings up there, and if 
 the things I see now — I wonder — but mamma said I 
 mustn't think of these things. Why must n't I think ? How 
 can I help thinking ? " 
 
 Ida pressed her hand successively on her forehead and 
 against her heart; as though feeling after some secret spring, 
 by the moving of which she might lock away that flood 
 of thought. "How can I help thinking?" she repeated. 
 " When I am a woman maybe I can, but now the thoughts 
 tvill come." 
 
 Ah, Ida ! if the little germ fill the heart of childhood with 
 its first swelling, what will it be, in flowering and fruit-bear- 
 ing, to the nature which cherished it ? 
 
 "When I am a woman — but — why shouldn't I think 
 
 VOL. II. 19 
 
218 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 now? Is it wrong to think? Perhaps I am very foolish-— 
 perhaps I don't — " Ida's face flushed ; she stood for a moment 
 as though perplexed, stunned, and then crouched by the bed- 
 side and buried her face in the drapery. For a long time 
 she remained motionless ; and if not sleeping, she must have 
 been in thought, intense, perhaps painful thought, for mem- 
 ory is a traitor if it deny depth and intensity to the mental 
 emotions of our childhood. At last she arose slowly, and 
 with an expression of sadness which had never before over- 
 shadowed her young face. 
 
 " Unlike others ! " she murmured. " I see it all now — it 
 must be so. That is why they watch me so closely — they 
 are afraid to leave me alone. That is why I must look at 
 other people, and try to think as they talk. This is why 
 everybody is so kind to me, and all that look at me seem to 
 say, poor Ida I — they are just so to her. That is why 
 mamma looks at me so sorrowfully, and the tears come into 
 her eyes, and she breathes so hard, as though there was 
 something strange about me, and she had strange thoughts 
 she was shutting in. Now I know why she always said I 
 was unlike other children, and why she seems to love me so 
 much better than she does Phil. I wonder if Phil knows it ? 
 — he must — oh, yes I he knows all about her. But she 
 can't talk, and I can — that is, I think I can. Maybe I don't 
 speak the words ; — she makes a sound, and I suppose she calls 
 that talking ; — they seem to understand her, too, and sometimes 
 people look at me as though they didn't understand me. 
 Nobody seems very well to understand me but mother and 
 Phil, and Phil not always. Oh, yes ! I know it all now — 
 all — all — all! lam like poor Cicely Doane !" 
 
 Cicely Doane was an idiot ! 
 
 Poor Ida's unemployed imagination had at last conjured 
 up a phanton. which it might be difficult to lay. Was it 
 strange that she should ? Why, the child had suddenly become 
 a philosopher ; and might, by a very simple process of induc- 
 tive reasoning, arrive at the grand theory of Hume himself. 
 She was only a little more modest than he — she denied simply 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 219 
 
 die existence of her own mind; he,of everj'body's. So a fal- 
 lacy on which a mighty philosopher could waste years of 
 time, a child of a few summers fished up from her fancy, just 
 between dreams on a moonlit night. And the child would 
 be laughed at had she ventured to name her folly, while the 
 man is followed by crowds of admiring disciples. So much 
 for the boasted wisdom of sages, and the gidlibiliiy of their 
 followers ! But there was a diflerence. The child unfortu- 
 nately believed her tlieory, and acted on it ; the philosopher 
 treated his as a brave man does the optical illusion which 
 oiliers might deem a supernatural visiter, walk'mg through, it. 
 From that night a change came over little Ida Ravelin. 
 If she commenced speaking, she slopped in the middle of a 
 sentence to wonder if she were understood. "When with 
 other children, she looked on their amusements with interest, 
 hut never ventured to join them, for she was sure that they 
 invited her only from pity. A touchingly sorrowful expres- 
 sion, mingled with traces of premature thought, crept over her 
 face; and while she was as much in love with life and the 
 things of life as ever, she moved about as a mere spectator. 
 Thomas Ravelin thought the child improving wonderfully, 
 Ruth joyed in the fruit of her somewhat laborious instruc- 
 tions, and even Mary regarded the timid, quiet child with 
 something like a feeling of relief. Little did any one dream 
 of the silent influence that was remoulding a nature which 
 God had fitted for high and noble purposes. To do as 
 others did, became little Ida's constant study. But still her 
 mind was not an imitator ; U refused to learn the lesson. 
 She observed, and formed an independent opinion on even,- 
 eubject, but never dared express it ; and when a difierent one 
 was given, she relinquished her owni, certain that it must be 
 \\Tong. She still felt, too, with as much freedom as ever. 
 She loved and hated, hoped and desponded, but it seemed to 
 her tliat she scarce had a right to feel ; and so even,'thing was 
 shut closely within her o«Ti bosom. Little Ida's cheek 
 began to lose its roundness, and her eye its rare brilliancv : 
 for the actual was receding from her, and she lived only in 
 
220 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 the ideal. A little world was built up within her bosom, a 
 dear, charming, life-like world, peopled not with fairies and 
 woodland deities, but with real flesh and blood beings, with 
 whom the child held converse every day, Avhen she shrank 
 from the sight of her sister's visiters, with the firm belief that 
 she, poor trembler, was a companion too humble for them, 
 
 " I am unlike them — all unlike them," would Ida whisper 
 sadly to herself; and then she would smile and turn to her 
 imaginary world, from which nothing that belongs to human 
 nature was excluded, save the bad — turn to that and enact 
 the queen for which she was intended originally. So Ida's 
 mind did not feed upon itself, but grew and expanded ; grew 
 wise and lofty, yet not too much elherealized for the v^orld 
 that lay before her, while she shrank from contact with that 
 world, with a sensitiveness utterly incomprehensible to those 
 who could not take a peep behind the veil. And there the 
 child stood on the threshold of life, rare, glorious in her spirit's 
 beauty, but, alas ! crippled in every limb. So much for trying 
 amend what God has made perfect, oh ye quacks of the 
 human soul ! 
 
 The windows had been thrown up, and the heavy curtains 
 looped far back to allow free entrance to the fresh, fragrant 
 breezes ; for breath, breath was sorely needed in that house 
 of the dying. The trembling soul still clung to its earthly 
 altar, fanned in the moment of its fainting by the clear summer 
 air, which swept up from its dalliance with the budding things 
 of June, to linger on the lip and give another swell to the 
 heart which had once gloried in its joyous ministrations 
 Mary Ravelin, like some superb flower broken from its stem, 
 lay withering in her fully expanded beauty. Her eye still 
 flashed and burned with supernatural brilliancy, fully matched 
 by the deep crimson of her cheek and lips ; but the hands, 
 which were folded over the heaving bosom, were long and 
 thin, and tipped with the ice of death. Across her forehead, 
 too, wandered little violet threads, now taking on a dark, un- 
 natural purple, and contrasting fearfully with the deep palor 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 221 
 
 of their resting-place. Her hair had broken from the con- 
 finement of the cap, and lay in rich shining folds of raven 
 hlackness about her neck and shoulders ; conspiring with the 
 crimson cheek and dazzling eye to give an intensity, a proud 
 queenliness to her beauty, in strange contrast with the certainty 
 of immediate dissolution. Around her gathered a group of 
 weeping mourners; but little Ida was not with them. From 
 lime to time, at the rustle of a curtain, or some slight noise 
 from without, the eye of the dying woman would turn itself 
 on the door, and then the breath, which struggled up with so 
 much difficulty from its fast benumbing fountain, would falter 
 and quiver in agitation. At last, a light, springing step was 
 heard, in the adjoining apartment, and gently, but eagerly, 
 the latch was raised. 
 
 " My Ida ! " whispered the dying mother. 
 
 Ida had filled her apron with flowers, and gathered up the 
 corners in her hand ; the dew-spangled ' buds peeping out 
 in every direction, eloquent in their young brightness, but 
 strangely eloquent at an hour so fraught with the deep solem- 
 nities of death. The light of love was beaming in her eye, 
 and her thin, childish face glowed with exercise. Beautiful 
 I was the child — though not so beautiful as when we first knew 
 ; her — beautiful was she, as, with the eagerness of a loving 
 ' heart, her bright head peered through the opening of the door, 
 ' and her sweet, dove-like eyes sought the couch of her mother. 
 But the solemnity of the scene startled her ; and she stood 
 thus lightly poised, on the threshold, her lips parted, and her 
 eyes full of eloquent wonder. A woman left the bedside, and 
 tiiking the child by the hand, beckoned her to throw aside the 
 useless flowers. 
 
 " Nay, bring them to me," said a low, feeble voice from the 
 pillow. 
 
 Ida dropped the hand of her conductor, and sprung to the 
 bosom of her mother, scattering the flowers as she went, and 
 crushing them beneath her little feet, till the apartment was 
 filled Avith their perfume. One hand of the dying woman 
 closed about an opening rose-bud, as though the death-stricken 
 
 VOL. II. 19* 
 
222 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 fingers knew so well these beautiful treasures, loved of yore, 
 as to select by instinct the fairest among them ; and the other 
 arm was twined lovingly about her own bud of immortality 
 — the strangely gentle being who, year by year, had grown 
 closely to her impassioned heart. 
 
 What she said no one could hear, for the words seemed to 
 l>e pronounced rather by her struggling heart than by her lips, 
 so faintly and falteringly they fell ; but Ida heard every one ; 
 and, as she listened, instead of the sorrow which was deluging 
 otlier faces, a strange, joyous light beamed in her eyes and 
 played about her mouth. 
 
 " I know it, my mother, I know it," at last she said, eagerly, 
 " but no one ever told me before." 
 
 " Then tread the earth carefully, my darling," whispered 
 the dying mother ; " love the beautiful things which God has 
 made — love the beings he has given you for companionship; 
 but, Ida, Ida, shut that rich heart from every eye. Give all its 
 wealth to Heaven — the reeds which it would rest upon here 
 Avill sway and bend beneath it — there is no support for a 
 strong, high spirit here. Keep thy treasure close, my darling, 
 and thou wilt be happy; but once — " 
 
 The breath came gaspingly, and there was a short, severe 
 struggle. An attendant interposed, and endeavored to remove 
 the child, but the arm of the dying woman was too firmly 
 about her. 
 
 •' Do not let the world know the riches shut in thy bosom, 
 Ida — they would be desecrated, stained — keep them for thine 
 own self and the angels." 
 
 Mary Ravelin drew the lips of the child to hers, pressed 
 them fondly again and again, but each time more feebly, till 
 finally there came one long, loving pressure, as though the 
 icy lips would grow to the warm living ones, and all was still ! 
 Upon the bosom of the dead lay the fair child, her bright 
 locks mingling with the shining black, one hand pressing the 
 livid cheek, and the other lying, the fairest flower of them all, 
 among the fresh roses yet sparkling with dew ; there she lay 
 in her young beauty, without a tear or sigh, but yet the sin« 
 
IDA KAVELIN. 223 
 
 cerest of mourners. At first she would not be separated from 
 the loved clay ; but when they told her that her mother was 
 dead, and she looked into the glazed eyes, and placed her 
 hand upon the hushed heart, and knew that it was so, she 
 suffered herself to be led quietly and uncomplainingly away. 
 
 All that day Ida sat beneath the little clump of locust trees 
 in the garden, and watched the window from which her 
 mother had so often looked ; while thoughts, such as seldom 
 find their origin in the bosom of a child, crowded upon her, 
 and left an impress upon her sweet, sad face. A change had 
 come over Ida Ravelin since the night of the first strange fan- 
 tasy which had sealed up the door of her spirit against com- 
 munion with her kind. The timidity which characterized 
 her during that year had remained and strengthened, but the 
 self-distrust had vanished. She knew there was that within 
 her bosom which those about her could not even comprehend ; 
 she knew of a deep mine of more than earthly wisdom, in 
 which she daily revelled, and the existence of which no one 
 imagined ; but yet she believed herself as much unfitted for 
 companionship with others as though she had been the idiot 
 which she once imagined. 
 
 " I lack something," she would say to herself. " I am not 
 like them ; they never speak of the things I think about, and 
 they find no pleasure in my words. I am not like them ; they 
 cannot be interested in me ; and so I will give my love to the 
 birds and violets." 
 
 Notwithstanding this feeling, none was more truly loved 
 than Ida Ravelin — not by strangers, for her serious, thought- 
 ful eyes, and full, intellectual forehead, had too little of the 
 child about them for her years — but those who saw her daily, 
 and penetrated beneath the covering of mingled timidity and 
 self-consciousness in which she had enveloped herself, saw 
 the joyous spirit, the simple, artless grace that fashioned all 
 within, and loved her. But even they, her constant compan- 
 ions, did not see all. Sweetness, and love, and truth, were 
 the qualities which attracted them ; they did not see into the 
 depths of mind and heart — -the intellect and the affections 
 
224 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 braided closely together, and growing up in rich lUxuriance, 
 budding and blossoming for the eyes of angels only. The 
 only expression which Ida Ravelin had ever given to the 
 inspiration lighting up the inner chamber of her soul was in 
 song. And, but for these revealings, even the watchful, anx- 
 ious mother might have been deceived; there was so little 
 without to give a clue to the contents of the casket. Yet, 
 strange to say, through all this Ida had preserved aU her 
 world-lovingness, her ready sympathy with whatever inter- 
 ested her friends ; and, on all occasions, she evinced a 
 capability of judging, and a sober common sense, seldom 
 possessed in connection with a rich fancy and ardent imagina- 
 tion. So had Ida grown and expanded, though crippled still, 
 until she reached her thirteenth summer ; and now another 
 change had come over her fortunes — a dark, dark change 
 for the eyes that had watched over her timidly and with 
 trembling, but, oh, so lovingly ! had lost their light, and the 
 bosom which had pillowed her head when thought had made 
 it ache, could never be her pillow again. Cold, cold was it, 
 and hushed the heart which had beat in concert with her own, 
 answering every throb with a throb still wilder, even while 
 the lips were striving to belie its earnestness. Ida had been 
 taught of the heart, not the lips, and now was she all alone ; 
 orphaned in a world to which she was a stranger, doubly 
 orphaned in spirit. j 
 
 All was still in the house of death. The mourners had 1 
 gone to their pillows, perhaps with the abandon of real grief, | 
 to add the awe of darkness and the solemnity of loneliness to ' 
 their already weighty sorrows ; perhaps to rest their fatigued 
 senses, but not their aching hearts, in a sleep haunted by 
 dreams scarce less fearful than the waking reality. Two old 
 women sat beside the vines which shaded the open window, 
 talking in broken whispers, the meaning of which was eked 
 out by mysterious nods, and involuntarily drawing nearer 
 each other, as the shadows of the leaves commeiiced a fresh 
 frolic with the moonbeams which peered through them, paint- 
 ing fantastic figures on the ceiling and carpet. 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 225 
 
 " She has not heen a happy woman," whispered one ; and 
 then she gave two distinct nods, and tucked a grey lock be- 
 neath her cap, and passed her fingers across her keen old 
 eyes, which glittered with an intenser light than the moon 
 itself. The other shook her head and^ sighed, and thanked 
 Heaven that she was not in the place of some hard, stern peo- 
 ple whom she might name ; though, to be sure, Mary Rave- 
 lin had not been just like other women — the Lord forgive 
 her for speaking such words of the dead, for she was sure she 
 had always wished the poor creature well. 
 
 " Hark ! " and both old Avomen put their fingers to their 
 lips, and drew themselves upright with a shiver ; for the clock 
 was on the stroke of twelve, and mingling with its tone was 
 another sound. The clock ceased, but the other noise con- 
 tinued. There was a click, like the lifting of a latch ; and 
 then a foot-fall, which struck the frightened Avatchers as sin- 
 gularly heavy, in the apartment of the dead. They both 
 started to their feet, and seized a light in either hand, and 
 hurried to the door ; and both paused, looked into each oth- 
 er's faces, and went back again. A low, soft murmur, as of 
 a pleading human voice, pressed down by a heavy weight of 
 tears, stole up from the room Avhere lay the shrouded corse, 
 and mingled with the rustling of the leaves and the beating 
 of their own hearts, overshadowing them with awe, till their 
 limbs refused to support them, and their white lips strove in 
 vain to pronounce the words of fear which struggled for 
 utterance. 
 
 Slowly moved the fingers of the clock — so slowly that it 
 seeiT.ed Time himself had made a pause in fear ; and five 
 minutes passed like a weary period in a night-mare dream. 
 Five minutes more crept by — how, the frightened women could 
 not say — but it was gone at length ; and then the voice 
 ceased, and a low, soft breathing, though they imagined it 
 singularly heaAy and sob-like in their night-time fear, took its 
 place, and filled them still Avith terror. A half hour had 
 passed since the striking of the clock ; and now that nothing 
 but the monotonous breathing had been for a long time heard, 
 the old Avomen gathered courage, and again proposed lookmg 
 
226 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 into the dreaded apartment. They moved thnidly, and opened 
 the door with the utmost caution. At first, they started back 
 in alarm ; but then they looked at each other, and one tried 
 to smile, while a tear crept into the cold, age-deadened eye of 
 the other, and fell sparkling to her withered hand. The dead 
 had found loving company. The cloth had been laid back 
 from the face of the corse, and close beside it knelt a fair 
 young girl, her two hands clasped over the rigid neck, and 
 her head resting on the cold, nerveless bosom. A ray of 
 moonlight peering through a crevice in the closed curtains, 
 glanced from her hair to the shoulder of her white night- 
 dress ; and then, breaking and scattering itself, was spread 
 over her like an angel's wing, or the visible promise of the 
 protection given by the redeemed spirit to the child of her 
 almost idolatry. Lightly and reverently crept the two old 
 women to the spot. One of them stepped back and closed 
 the curtain, as though the vision were too heavenly in its rare 
 beauty for earthly eyes to look upon ; but the other opened it 
 again, and the moonlight rushed in gladly, enveloping the 
 sleeping child in a yet more glorious radiance. 
 
 " We must take her away," said one, in a whisper; " it is 
 a dreadful place to sleep in — ugh ! " and a shiver passed over 
 the old woman as she spoke. 
 
 " No, no ; she has chosen her own pillow," said her com- 
 panion, tenderly. " Poor child! I dare say she will miss it 
 many a time. Well, God help her ! If Mary Ravelin was 
 not the best of Avives — and I would never say but she was — 
 no, no ; she was a devoted mother. Poor Ida sleeps soundly 
 — and for the last time in such a place. We will not disturb 
 her." 
 
 Almost tearfully, moved the two old women from the sa- 
 ere^ spot, and closed the door with care, and left the child to 
 her holy dreams. 
 
 " But for one word — one word more ! " sobbed Ida Ravelin, 
 as she laid her head so low within the opened coffin that her 
 brown locks rested in glossy waves upon the pall. " Oh 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 227 
 
 to be assured that she will still watch by me ! My angel 
 mother ! " 
 
 But neither the anguish of the child, nor the warm pressure 
 of the lips, nor the tears that jewelled over the midnight-col- 
 ored hair, and wetted the white muslin pillow, could win one 
 answering sigh from that cold bosom. 
 
 They took the child from her slumbering parent, and closed 
 the coffin, and lowered it into the earth, and placed green sods 
 upon the little mound they raised, and went away — some to 
 mourn, others to forget. 
 
 Night followed the going down of the sun, and the morning 
 came and went — the Sabbath dawned and waned, and gayer 
 days rolled into its place — soon months were numbered. 
 The golden sheaves stood up in the fields, and the white 
 clover-blossoms and nodding grass-heads, yielding to the scythe 
 of the mower, changed their color, and gave out a dying 
 fragrance. Then tlie apple-boughs were heavily laden with 
 fruit of various hues ; the purple plum, for very ripeness, 
 dropped down at every touch of the wind, and nestled in the 
 fading grass ; and the peach peeped from among the sheltering 
 green, with a radiant blush on one warm cheek, while on the 
 other was a hue more lusciously tempting still — the rich, 
 soft, golden tint which seemed melting into the yellow sun- 
 light of a Septemoer sky. Then the trees put on their holy- 
 day suit of gold and scarlet, flaunting proudly in their 
 gorgeousness ; the orchis and the aster bloomed beneath the 
 night-frosts in the garden ; the blood-hued lobelia looked at 
 its face in the sparkling, babbling, tripping brooks ; the videts 
 awoke from their August slumbers, thousands of purple eyes 
 looking up lovingly from deserted garden-plots ; and the jear 
 became gay, gayer than in its childhood. The gala-day went 
 by, and the trees put on their russet; long spires of pallid 
 grass waved to and fro wearily ; the wind awoke with a shiver, 
 and marked its course with sobs and wailings ; the brooks 
 grew bluer and chiller ; and the cold white clouds trooped off 
 through fields of pure cerulean, obeying every impulse of the 
 
228 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 ice-winged lord of the storm. Another change — and me 
 bare trees were wreathed in white ; the brooks lost their sil- 
 very voices, or struggled on with a death-like gurgle, amid 
 barriers of choking ice ; the wind swept freely and roughly 
 over mountain and meadow, yet on wings of melting fleeci- 
 ness ; and the grave of Mary Ravelin, lost beneath the deep 
 snoAV of winter, was well nigh forgotten by all but the child- 
 mourner. She kept a path well trodden, and her pale, thin 
 face often bent over it tearfully ; for though the momentary 
 doubt had passed, and she knew that the spirit of her lost 
 mother was still by her, still hovered over her in the night- 
 time, and watched her every step in the sunlight, the death 
 mark had been drawn between them. A deep gulf, with a 
 grave at the bottom, must be passed before the two could 
 unite as formerly ; and Ida, notwithstanding her angel guar- 
 dian, was in the world all alone. But it was not always to 
 be thus. There was a change coming, and soon Ida's dark, 
 thoughtful eyes grew lustrous with a strange kind of happi- 
 ness ; and she went about as one in a dream, a blissful, soul- 
 fraught dream, for she had found a friend. By the time the 
 spring violets began to shake off their winter slumbers, and 
 open their bright eyes to the wooing breezes, the world was 
 ringing with the praise of a poet who might have been dropped 
 down from the clouds, so full was he of the inspiration of 
 Heaven. But long before this had Ida Ravelin known the 
 new minstrel well. A scrap of paper had fluttered in her 
 path one day Avhen the wintry winds were blowing keenly, 
 and, as she glanced it over, her eye fell on familiar thoughts. 
 Ida tried to brush the mist from her eyes, for she believed 
 that she saw indistinctly; but still it was the same — her 
 OAvn thoughts, her secret heart-thoughts, that she never re- 
 vealed to mortal — the riches of her own bosom, which ihe 
 had hugged to herself more closely since her mother's dying 
 caution — spread out upon a paper, in irrevocable print ! And 
 yet she knew well that she had never placed them there. 
 "What listening spirit, what winged thing hovering near, had 
 stolen this honey from its secret lurking-place in the deepest | 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 229 
 
 recess of the soul-gifted flower, for a careless world to feast 
 upon ? Ah, Ida ! there are other spirits than thine roam- 
 ing the earth in loneliness; genius often has its twin. The 
 child believed her thoughts had been stolen ; but the breath- 
 ing language, the harp-like measure, she disclaimed. These 
 were not her own ; and these betrayed not only the inspira- 
 tion of the genius, but the skill of the artist. Ida stood, with 
 her dark spiritual eyes fixed on vacancy, as though reading 
 earnestly from a page invisible to others ; then a smile, a glad, 
 glowing, beautiful smile broke from her lips, and lighted up 
 her pale, sweet face. Ida was no longer alone in the world ; 
 she had found a friend. And here the finger of Fate was 
 thrust forward, and some wheels were stopped, and new ones 
 put in motion ; for the strange machinery employed in weav- 
 ing the destiny of Ida Ravelin, grew more complicated. The 
 child did not pause to reason ; but one thing she knew from 
 the day when she found the scrap of paper by the wayside. 
 Her spirit, which could not be entirely prisoned in the little 
 body that claimed it for a season, was not condemned to wing 
 its way up and down the blossoming earth alone. For weal 
 or woe — and Ida could not think of woe in that connection 
 — she had found a companion. 
 
 Spring came. Life began to swell and breathe in the 
 bosoms of the flower-buds, till it seemed as though each had 
 in it a living soul, as full of energy and world-lovingness as 
 Ida's own ; the brooks leaped and sparkled, an Undine laugh- 
 ing from the heart of every bubble ; and the winds murmured 
 their spirit-music among the old trees, and then swept down- 
 ward from their high-communion, and stooped to kiss the fore- 
 head of the child. Everywhere, everywhere, save in the 
 world of living men, she found companions as full of life and 
 joy as was her own fluttering heart. And oh, how that heart 
 fluttered, as the young girl stood thus on the border of woman- 
 hood ! Far before, her poetic imagination spread the broad 
 fields of life ; far out in ether gleamed stars innumerable, 
 which were to be her way-marks to immortality ; and besidw 
 
 VOL. u. 20 
 
230 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 her wallvcd her gnide, her inspiration, her sacred spirit-friend, L 
 in the guise of an angel, trod he by her side, invisible to ail 
 but her. Glad Ida ! Enviable Ida ! Thy rainbow was set 
 in tears, true ; but it was as a triumphal arch thrown over tne 
 gateway through which thy Destiny was leading thee up to a 
 broader view of life. And the child walked on humbly and 
 lovingly, yet without a fear ; stepping carefully the while lest 
 her foot should crush the little violet or the dew-flower, and 
 hneeling as she went, to mark even the texture of the jewelled 
 gossamer which nimble fingers had spread from green to green 
 in the spirit-freighted night-time. Loved and loving, but all 
 unknown, stepped Ida Ravelin beneath her rainbow arch, ardj 
 looked with a startled gaze out on the strange world in which j 
 she was a stranger. Warm breezes came wooingly, and kissed ,1 
 her cheek, and laid their soft fingers on her forehead, and left 
 a touch of balm upon her ripe lips ; the golden sunshine glowed 
 in her path, or coquetted with cool, fresh shadows which invited 
 to dreamy repose by the wayside ; a thousand glad voices 
 greeted her from shrub and tree ; flowers blossomed, wings 
 glanced, waters sparkled, and the heart of Ida Ravelin fluttered 
 in its cage like an imprisoned bird. But the cage was strong, 
 and it could not free itself with all its flutterings. The wires 
 had been woven over it, when it had no wing to raise in oppo- 
 sition, and now it commanded no resources powerful enough 
 to undo the elaborate fastenings. It had been locked from 
 without, and from without must the relief come. So Ida was 
 still a stranger to those who loved her; for she was loved 
 deeply, and with a reverential tenderness, inspired by her 
 singular purity and guilelessness. So delicate and helpless, 
 too, seemed Ida, that every arm coming within the charmed 
 circle about her, involuntarily extended itself for her support ; 
 but she needed them not, for in her helplessness she was 
 strong — in her lack of worldliness she was wiser than any 
 worldling. Still there was a sadness in the strange, prophet- 
 like eyes of Ida Ravelin, that seemed scarce to belong to one 
 so young; a sadness which had stolen up from the grave 
 where some of their tears had fallen ; and though her heart ' 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 231 
 
 mis now as joyous as the young bird that waved its wing, 
 and wheeled and carolled in the sunlight, the shadow would 
 aot go away from her face. 
 
 So, many there were who wondered at the young girl's 
 seriousness, and thought, as they looked upon her, how strange 
 thing it was that any blighting influence should have fallen 
 upon so young a nature — and then turned away and forgot 
 her existence. Ida was quiet and unpretending, too simple 
 and timid to live long in the memory of a stranger. Others 
 gave a second look, and these always found something to 
 interest them ; but it was only those who won her confidence, 
 and who appeared as guileless as herself, that were entrusted 
 with even the first key to her nature. These were often star- 
 tled by the stirrings of the free, gladsome spirit shut within, 
 and could scarce think the occasional gush of mirthfulness, 
 which seemed to have its source in an overflowing fountain 
 down deep in her nature, could be real. But who should be 
 glad, if the pure are not ? Who should be happier than the 
 gifted, holding as they do the key to the bright world, and 
 bearing a second treasure within their own bosoms? The 
 God-gifted, led by the hand and guided and cherished by 
 Eternal Love, so like the angels as to be counted one of them 
 even while lingering here, throwing their warm sympathy, 
 like a veil woven of balm and sunshine, over the world of 
 suffering men, treading among the flowers of the earth with 
 the light of heaven circling about their heads — who should 
 be happier than the gifted? And Ida Ravelin was — oh, so 
 happy ! Happy was she in her own genius, in her power of 
 creating inner sunshine— ^happy in the human love which was 
 lavished on her by the few who wondered at, even as they 
 .ovcd, the power she exercised over them — happy in the 
 beautiful, beautiful things of God's creation, which sprang up 
 beneath her feet and hovered over her head — but happier 
 still in the fond dream of her heart's inner chamber — the deep, 
 impassioned love which she had lavished so unsparingly upon 
 her spirit's twin. So the child went onward, passed under 
 her triumphal arch to womanhood, and the angel within her 
 
232 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 was not recognized. So, many an angel " walks the earth 
 unseen," since the close of the gate of Eden. 
 
 Ida Ravelin was still young, hut not beautiful. It is said 
 that the spirit's beauty cannot be shut within, as you would 
 shut the diamond in the casket, hiding all its light ; but that 
 the radiance illuminating the inner temple will spread itself 
 over the face, proclaiming to all who come near, " here dwells 
 an angel." I know that sometimes the angel in the boscm 
 looks out through human eyes, and puts its own impress on 
 human lips ; but this earth has sadly changed since the ladder 
 of the old patriarch's dream was let down from heaven ; and 
 there are things enow in it to make the beautiful spirit oftener 
 veil its sorrowful face with its own pinion, as though thus to, 
 wait for the final release. The radiance which would be daz- 
 zling to a mortal eye in heaven, is subdued by the sin-heavy- 
 atmosphere of this world into a feeble glimmer ; but it is allll 
 there, and waiting only the call homeward to become glorious. 
 But what if the beauty of the spirit should come out before 
 the world and sit upon the brow ? The angel would still be 
 unrecognized ; for men are not gifted with a pure vision, and 
 the gross eye cannot see beyond the handsome shape and the 
 brilliant coloring. When the crowd bows to personal ugli- 
 ness, made beautiful by soul, the fallen Zareph and his fair 
 Nama may spread their wings — they are very near to heaven. 
 
 Ida Ravelin was not beautiful ; even those who loved her 
 most did not attempt to say it, and strangers passed her by 
 without a glance. It is true that her slight, delicately moulded 
 figure was faultless ; but there was a shrinking timidity in 
 her step and manner, which effectually shaded this beauty. 
 Her eye had a clear light, but that was timid too. At times- 
 there was a soft, dove-like expression in it, and again there; 
 burned from its centre a deep, soul-fraught brilliancy, and its 
 vision seemed prolonged far into eternity ; but it was too full 
 of thought. Her full, round forehead was too severely intel- 
 lectual, and the rich, heavy braids which bound her magnifi- 
 cently formed head could not compensate for its singularly; 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 233 
 
 lofty developments. The lower part of the face was of a 
 different mould. Ida had never possessed regular features, 
 Ithough in childhood she was strikingly beautiful. Her 
 mouth had been made lovely by the sweet smiles which 
 habitually clustered around it, rather tlian by the chiselling 
 of the Architect ; but now the character of the smile was 
 changed. Like the one centred in the eye, it was heavily 
 laden with thought. Ida had a bosom full of light and love : 
 and, in rich, heavy clusters, lay upon her heart the closely- 
 folded blossoms of genius. Upon her heart. That genius 
 would ever build its altar there ! 
 
 But Ida had her hand closely on her bosom's door, lest 
 these treasures should escape. She had placed it there at the 
 first stirring of the swelling buds, and, as they gradually 
 struggled more for freedom, she pressed her hand down more 
 and more closely, and whispered to herself — " Never — never 
 — never, but in heaven !" And this struggle made itself vis- 
 ible upon her face. The smile was there, but it was thought- 
 ful ; the sweetness had not vanished, but it was usually over- 
 shadowed by reserve ; sometimes there was a soft lovingness 
 ; flitted to her lip, but it could scarce be recognized before it 
 retreated, as though chilled or scared back by the cold world 
 it looked out upon. It would not have been singular for a 
 stranger to imagine her a gloomy ascetic ; common acquaint- 
 ances considered her merely uninteresting ; but, despite the 
 prisoned genius, with all its swellings, and with all its strug- 
 glings, her friends, those who knew her best, took her to their 
 hearts, and felt that there was an angel there, although they 
 did no; sec beyond the wires of the cage. Ida was not morose, 
 nor misanthropic, nor sad, nor an enemy to mirth ; she was 
 only too thoughtful and too much reserved. It did not mate- 
 rially affect her intercourse with those she really loved ; for 
 love covers a multitude of shortcomings, and Ida had enough 
 to satisfy common friendship, ^vithout encroaching upon her 
 sacred treasure. Few would believe that Ida was happy ; for, 
 though she looked with an interested eye on mirthful doings, 
 she never mingled in them. She had seen but little of tho 
 VOL. 11. 20* 
 
234 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 outer world ; and, though she had studied closely the few 
 pages within her reach, she was but slightly under its influ- 
 ence, either for joy or sorrow. However dense the clouds 
 above her, the rainbow always spanned her heart. Her world 
 was within ; and, as it was too sacred to be looked upon by 
 other eyes, she shut up with it the bliss it brought, and car- 
 ried everywhere her Eden with her. Oh, Ida was deeply, 
 purely, silently happy. Misery is not, as worldlings have 
 declared, and the puling sentimentalist labored to establish, 
 the twin gift of genius. It is not so — it cannot be ! Let 
 the whole world frown ; let the cloud darken, and the winds 
 rave — it is all the same ; the fires of adversity will burn away 
 only the dross, and, in the midst of all, will walk unseen the 
 white-winged angel. And that holy angel spreads its shield 
 over the sensitive bosom, and holds always to the thirsty lips 
 the cup of bliss. Are my true words doubted, because there 
 are so many examples of a different seeming ? Oh ! there 
 are men, drunk with vain-glory, and with ambition, and other 
 earth -distilled draughts, whose lips never touched the cup of 
 inspiration. Men sometimes hear a voice in the air, and mis- 
 take its tone. There are many false angels abroad, and they 
 deceive many. Some, too, have filled their bosoms up with 
 defilements ; and from such the angel turns away to weep, 
 casting her protecting shield at her feet, while the shafts of 
 misery fly thick and fast. Genius cannot bring her accus- 
 tomed blessing to those who would have her dwell apart from 
 purity ; and when her temple grows dark with earthlihess, 
 her lamp blazes in the midst, a consuming fire. He who 
 would pollute the wing^ of his bosom-angel, must needs be 
 miserable. But, the gifted, the God-gifted, do they but 
 recognize their Benefactor, are, in a peculiar manner, the 
 little children of this world ; and little children have received 
 at the hands of a Holy One an especial blessing. So the 
 thoughtful-eyed, sober-lipped Ida was supremely happy. 
 
 Their voices — those of Ida and the brother-spirit that she 
 had so early recognized — had met each other in the upper 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 235 
 
 Air, and mingled tones. Long since had the twain linked 
 themselves in a relationship which only the blessed little chil- 
 dren, gifted with spirit-pulses, can understand. Why could 
 not this be enough ? Ida thought it was ; and yet, lovers in 
 spirit, in person strangers, they met. 
 
 It was a cold, dark, dismal, cloud-curtained morning, when 
 Ida Ravelin was called to confide her heart-worship to the 
 less romantic eye. She had been conscious of a strange 
 shadow, hanging over her head, for days; and now she 
 whispered, with white lips, " It is falling — it is falling!" and 
 arose to obey the summons. 
 
 Ugh ! how chillingly the hurrying wind swept around the 
 corner ; and what a dismal tone it had, like the midnight 
 howl, which comes to tell, to the invalid, tales of the noisome 
 grave. Heavy was the slow, dragging step of Ida Ravelin, 
 and heavier still her heart. She kncAV that the eye of curi- 
 osity, the earth-taught tongue, could not link closer together 
 two spirits which had no need of such mediums. One by one, 
 stair after stair, her steps slowly counted ; finally, she poised 
 for one agitating moment on the last, with a foot thrust 
 tremblingly and doubtfully forward, again descended, moved 
 onward mechanically, and laid her hand upon the door. 
 Hast thou but been dreaming, Ida ; and is the vapor which 
 thy heart's censer has caused to envelop thee, to pass ofT like 
 a smoke-curl in the clear air, leaving thee all disrobed of thy 
 enchantment ? Not so. Ida Ravelin would have known her 
 poet ; for the angel of genius had a glorious temple. But 
 she did not spring forward to meet him ; she did not smile ; 
 even the usual light of her eye was clouded in ; she Avould 
 have known her poet, but she was not recognized. 
 
 Slowly and chillingly the shadow settled down upon her 
 heart ; and then came a cold smile, and words as cold ; and 
 the twain sat together, like strangers of different lands, with- 
 out any common sympathies, and spoke of that which inter- 
 ested neither, and mocked each other with hollow compli- 
 ments ; and then, with a cold clasp of the hand, and a formal 
 bow, they parted. Ida's heart had never beat so sluggishly 
 
236 
 
 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 as at that moment, and her lip might have been moulded of 
 iron. 
 
 They met again, and yet again, and again; and still Ida's 
 voice seemed chilling, her lip severe, and her manner almost 
 repellant. She felt that she was unknown ; and the entire 
 sunshine and beauty of years of dreamy bliss seemed to her 
 darkened in a moment. Finally, however, the smile upon 
 her lip began to beam with soul ; a dewiness crept to her eye 
 a softness gathered about her heart, and words were spoken 
 which could never have been addressed to any other. She 
 knew, though he did not say it, that her poet-friend had 
 begun to recognize his beautiful invisible; and the broken 
 spirit-link was melting into itself, and conjoining. There 
 was something, too, in his voice, which went down into her 
 heart, and touched a chord that had never before vibrated. 
 On a sudden, all the hoarded wealth of her nature was stirred* 
 The angel sprang up, and spread a pair of wings gloriously 
 beautiful. The swelling buds burst into full blossom, raising 
 a cloud of perfume. A thousand little harps were tuned, and, 
 at every breath she drew, her bosom quivered with the rich 
 gush of melody. And her hand, and her lip too, quivered, 
 and her voice grew tremulous with strange emotion. The 
 nour of release had come. A finger from without had 
 touched the hidden spring, and the long prisoned spirit of Ida 
 Eavelin was free. But it did not leap forth from its cage 
 exultingly. The atmosphere of earth was an untried element 
 to it ; and there was still a hand striving to hold it back. 
 But Ida Ravelin was no longer mistress of her own nature. 
 The weak hand trembled — the tumult increased — and the 
 wild flood bounded past the slight barrier. The angel was 
 triumphant! No wonder that Ida was perplexed and over- 
 come with doubt and dread, trembling at the present, and 
 refusing to look on the future. The low, melodious tones of 
 her poet-friend were full of encouragement and hope, but his 
 eye was earthly. He could not see down into the depths of 
 spirit which his voice had stirred, and understand the cause 
 of the quickened breath and the tremulous lip. Gently, and 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 237 
 
 With patient kindness, hour after hour, he strove with poor 
 Ida's weak timidity, until his words became, for the time, 
 strength to her ; and, at last, most confidingly she placed her 
 hand in his to be taught and guided. 
 
 The noble poet and his Ida (his before heaven, though only 
 tne pure above would know how to recognize the tie that 
 bound them) stood in the night air, with clasped hands and 
 clasped spirits. The stars up in heaven looked kindly upon 
 them, and the wind swept by, kissing warm lips, and dallying 
 with curls, and touching with soft wing a brow which bore 
 the Deity's own impress. Far before them stretched the still 
 waters of the most beautiful lake in the wide world, with the 
 lights from the opposite shore twinkling through the trees, 
 and flashing out upon it in sudden gushes, which broke and 
 departed, leaving their places to others; and behind them 
 were the swelling tones of cunning instruments, bearing on 
 their wings of melody the soul-laden voice of a woman. The 
 full moon was far up in heaven, and cast upon the water a 
 broad stream of golden light. A little boat would now and 
 then shoot across this moon-gift, the oars flashing with dia- 
 monds as it went, dragging far after it a long, glittering train; 
 and then it would steal silently along the shore, and the rough 
 boatmen would rest on their oars, and feast their eyes on 
 beauty and their ears on melody, and perhaps dream of 
 holier things than had ever found a place in their thoughts 
 before. 
 
 " The angels have paved a pathway of light — our path of 
 life, dear Ida." 
 
 In a moment a cloud passed over it, a shadow fell, and the 
 path was broken. Ida raised her dark, pensive eyes to the 
 poet's face, but her voice was shut in her heart. 
 
 " It is only for a moment. Some steps must be taken in 
 darkness. We are yet on earth, and earth is a place of shad- 
 ows. But mark the brilliance beyond, as though the portal 
 of Paradise were already thrown open ; and its glory lighted 
 up our way as we draw near our haven of rest. It is a beau- 
 nfulpath, my Ida!" 
 
238 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 " Beautiful." 
 
 Ida Ravelin responded mechanically ; but she rested her 
 cheek in her palm, and silently retraced her own steps all 
 along the emblematic path. It was narrow at first, and bro- 
 ken Dark waves came up and parted the light ; then it would 
 rush together again, the bright ripples kissing and com- 
 mingling. Further on were other little breaks, but the bril- 
 liance grew broader and stronger, as she proceeded, until sh« 
 came to the shadow. 
 
 " It has been a heavy one," thought Ida, " this disappoint- 
 ment and this struggle, but — why struggle ? ' Unlike others ! ' 
 
 — it was whispered in my infancy — it steals up from the sod 
 every time I kneel beside her grave. My mother ! my angel 
 mother ! I can ' keep my treasures for the eye of heaven,^ as 
 thou badest me, but I must be true to my better nature." 
 
 The spirit in her bosom arose and asserted its might. A 
 serene smile sat upon her lip ; a steady light came to her 
 eye ; and her quivering pulse calmed itself and beat with 
 slow, triumphant earnestness. Her companion looked at her 
 and wondered at the change. 
 
 "It has been a heavy one, but now I am free!" The 
 words passed from her lips in a low murmur, which the ear 
 could not catch ; but she felt her heart grow strong ; and, as 
 she looked again, the shadow was lifted from the water. 
 
 The next day Ida and her poet friend parted; and, though 
 she did not say it, she knew their next meeting would be in 
 heaven. They had not loved as others do ; it had been a 
 peculiar affection, coined in the innermost recesses of two 
 spirits which had been melted into each other long before a 
 thought had been given to the caskets which contained them 
 
 — pure, and holy, and elevated — without a particle of earth- 
 ^iness commingling — a beautiful and a hallowed thing. And 
 they had been brought no nearer by the meeting. The clay 
 was a hindrance to them, and now Ida longed to cast it off. 
 The chain which linked them together could only gather 
 strength in heaven. And yet it \va.s a sorrowful thing to part, 
 with all the sweet remembrances encircling those few blessed 
 
IDA RAVELIN 239 
 
 (lays lying in their fresh, pure beauty upon the heart. The 
 tears rushed to the eyes of Ida, but they were shut back again 
 resolutely ; her voice became even more tremulous than on 
 the day previous, and her pale lip quivered with strong emo- 
 tion. Poor Ida I The cloud had not wholly vanished. 
 
 " If he could but know that the parting is for time," whis- 
 pered the heart of Ida ; and she shaded her eyes with her 
 hand, for the tears would be kept back no longer. For the 
 first time she was guilty of a murmur, and that against the 
 beloved. 
 
 'His heart could not be aching so, and mine not recognize 
 th(; pain." 
 
 She felt the touch of a hand, the pressure of lips on her 
 bowed forehead, heard a low, sweet word of farewell, that 
 might never be forgotten, a step in the passage that fell on her 
 ear like the toll of a muffled bell, the closing of a door, and 
 she was alone with heaven. Poor Ida ! How she sobbed 
 and wore out the lagging hours with weeping. 
 
 Enviable Ida! She was awake. The angel in her bosom 
 fluttered no longer behind the prisoning bars ; and on the 
 broad earth not a human heart so blest as hers. Intense, 
 earnest thought still made its home in her eye ; but beside it 
 was the light of conscious inner power, and purity, and love, 
 all commingling ; a self-acknowledged affinity to the invisible 
 ones which hovered over her. The harp in her bosom had 
 been attuned to those above, and not an earthly finger had 
 power to produce a discord. Now was Ida Ravelin prepared 
 for the world, and prepared for heaven; for, strangely enough, 
 both require the same preparation. The robe that can be 
 soiled by contact with things below is not the one to glitter 
 among the stars. 
 
 Ida Ravelin was not beautiful, but she had no further need 
 of beauty. The angel which had always been shut within 
 her bosom came out and hovered round her ; and men sought, 
 as though there had been some strange witchery there, the 
 shadow of its wings. The touch of her finger thrilled ; the 
 
240 IDA RAVELIN. 
 
 glance of her eye melted ; the sound of her voice enchanted. 
 It was the magnetism of genius. Now was the path of Ida 
 Ravelin strewed with flowers, and their perfume was grateful 
 to her. The altar of her glorious nature was thronged with 
 worshippers, and, with a childlike trustfulness, Ida gave love 
 for what seemed love. What is there in the world which 
 God has made to look upon with indifference ? What in the 
 natures God has moulded, marred and soiled though they 
 be by the clay they are prisoned in, to regard with coldness ? 
 Oh, a brother's heart, however pitiable its setting, is a holy 
 thing, and woe be to the foot which dares to rest upon it ! A 
 brother's hand! it may be stained, but there is a pulse in it 
 which is an echo to the stirrings of the soul, and the soul is 
 the breath of God. Who dare refuse the love-clasp to a broth- 
 er's hand ? 
 
 Ida gave love for love, and many revelled in its pure sun- 
 light ; but her soul had an inner chamber, a veiled temple, to 
 which the world was not admitted. It was the trysting place 
 of two spirits which waited to keep a yet holier tryst in heaven. 
 
 The world had stepped between the two friends, and they 
 could meet only in heart. 
 
 There were grey hairs on the temples of Ida Ravelin, but 
 the flowers were yet fresh within, and still fond ones gathered 
 near to taste their perfume. 
 
 Away in a strange land, an old man was dying. Tears 
 wetted his pillow, and warm lips strove with kisses to melt 
 the gathering ice of death. Soft fingers lay upon his temples, 
 an anxious hand pressed against his heart, trembling as its 
 pulsations grew fainter, and mingled voices, made sharp with 
 anguished feeling, went up to heaven most pleadingly ; but 
 ihe spirit had looked over the bounds of time, and it could not 
 be won back again. The old man smiled, and raised an eye 
 to heaven, whispered a cherished name, and died ! 
 
 Ida Raveim sat m the midst of a wrapt circle, scattering 
 her buds of thought and feeling with a lavish hand. Sud- 
 
IDA RAVELIN. 241 
 
 den.y that veiled inner temple was strangely illuminated. A 
 glorious radiance beamed out upon her ; meltingly it circled 
 round, bathing all within with bliss, and she felt the enfolding 
 clasp of wings invisible. Oh ! that her soul should remain 
 the longest prisoner ! A soft whisper stole down into her 
 heart, and its answer was a struggle. She must be free ! A 
 deep, burning brilliancy sprang to her eye ; the crimson gath- 
 ered hurriedly on her cheek ; the fevered pulse bounded and 
 staggered; the thousand silver chords, which had kept the 
 heavenly prisoner so long in its earth-worn cell, stretched 
 themselves to their utmost tension, and closed over it with a 
 mad, determined energy, then snapped asunder and shrivelled 
 in their uselessness ; and the angel planted a foot upon the 
 shattered fabric, and, raising its white wings heavenward, rose 
 from the earth, never to return again. 
 
 They made a sweet pillow among flowers, and streams, 
 and beautiful singing-birds, and laid a head upon it, and wept 
 long over this mouldering image of clay. But the stone they 
 reared in that beautiful valley spoke falsely. Ida Ravelin 
 was not there ; she had joined the loved in Paradise ! 
 
 VOL. II. 21 
 
242 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 A WELCOME, pretty maiden! 
 
 Dainty-footed spring ! 
 Thou, with the treasures laden 
 
 No other- hand can bring. 
 "While onward thou art tripping, 
 Children all around are skipping, 
 And the low brown eaves are dripping 
 
 With the gladsomest of tears. 
 
 From mossed old trees are bursting 
 
 The tiny specks of green ; 
 Long have their pores been thirsting 
 
 For the gushing sap, I ween; 
 With scarce a shade molesting. 
 The laughing light is resting 
 On the slender group that 's cresting 
 
 Yon fresh, green hillock's brow. 
 
 At the timid flower it glances. 
 
 Beneath the maple's shade ; 
 And foiled, it lightly dances 
 
 With the bars the boughs have made ; 
 On the waters of the river, 
 Still in a winter's shiver, 
 Its golden streamers quiver, 
 
 O'er-brimmed with lusty life. 
 
 The folded buds are blushing 
 
 On the gnarled apple-tree ; 
 While, the small gi-ass-blades a-crushing, 
 
 Children gather them to see ; 
 
243 
 
 And the bee, thus early coming, 
 All around the clusters humming, 
 Upon the bland air thrumming. 
 Plunges to the nectared sweets. 
 
 Life, life, the fields is flushing ! 
 
 Joy sprmgs up from the ground ; 
 And joyous strains are gushing 
 
 From the woodland all around. 
 From birds on wild wings Avheeling, 
 Up from the cottage stealing, 
 From the full-voiced woodman pealing, 
 
 Ring out the tones of joy. 
 
 Thrice welcome, pretty maiden ! 
 
 With thy kiss upon my cheek, 
 Howe'er with care d'erladen, 
 
 Of care I could not speak ; 
 Now, I '11 make a truce with sorrow 
 And not one cloud will borrow 
 From the dark, unsunned morrow 
 
 I wih be a child with thee. 
 
244 
 
 THE POETESS. 
 
 AN ALLEGOEY. 
 
 There was an immense lake nestled down in the lap of a 
 hilly country, and fed by a thousand tributaries. Among 
 these was a blithesome little sparkler, which oozed up through 
 the green moss, in the shadow of protecting oaks and elm-trees, 
 and trickled down from the rocks, at the foot of which it 
 gathered up its forces and bounded off, dancing and laughing, 
 to its destination. The genius of this stream was a dear little 
 innocent, dwelling in an amber moss-cup close by, and loving 
 most truly the rosy clouds above her, and the green earth with 
 its jewel- work of flowers and dews beneath. And she was 
 content with these — the simple-souled little Undine! Bui 
 one day, a luckless day perchance, the water-maiden poised 
 herself upon the golden rim of her Sylvan temple, and gazed 
 earnestly down upon the lake, which lay cradled in the arch 
 of a rainbow. And she thought within herself what a very 
 nice thing it would be just to deck herself in the jewels she 
 was daily pouring into the bosom of the lake, and, canopied 
 by that bright bow, sing to the multitudes of men who came 
 down to drink of the burnished waters. It was but a thought ; 
 ar.u the dear, simple little Undine was on her way. At first 
 she was intoxicated, for everything was new, glowing, glad- 
 some ; and close by her side crept one who whispered sweet 
 things in tones deliciously soft, but oh, how replete with false- 
 hood ! The sun made a bright path for her, and flecked her 
 robe with gold ; the white-blossomed wild shrub showered its 
 tribute of purity and perfume on her feet ; shadows came to 
 kiss her dimpled mouth ; the bird wetted its gay wings, and 
 then turned to fan her face, scattering pearls at every. wave; 
 and the love-eyed deer upon the marge of the stream bent its 
 
THE POETESS. 
 
 245 
 
 arcned neck, but forgot to drink, because she was there. Oh, 
 she was a fresh, happy spirit, singing and laughing there in 
 the wilderness, loving the cool, deep shadows, and bearing 
 always on her breath the scent of violets ! A fresh, happy 
 spirit was she ; — what a pity that she should come out where 
 she must barter her warm, ingenuous, beautiful faith, her 
 simple trustfulness, and, it may be, her love and truth, for the 
 wisdom which makes the heart barren ! Never was a journey 
 more delightful than that of our bright-lipped little wanderer, 
 until she emerged from the path down the hill-side ; but there 
 she began to meet with countless annoyances, and she wished 
 herself back again, nestling in her golden cradle in the wil- 
 derness. Other water-spirits were there, older than herself 
 and world-wise ; and, at first, they looked disdainfully upon 
 this simple child of the hill. But when they observed her 
 brightness and singular purity, and knew that she would be 
 preferred to themselves, they suddenly assumed great friend- 
 ship, and attempted to unite the waters of their own brooks 
 with hers ; and crossed and re-crossed her little thread of 
 silver, making so many provoking entanglements, that the 
 hitherto care-free spirit grew weary, and had scarcely the 
 courage to pursue her way. Still she went on, though with 
 constantly increasing difficulty, till at last she reached the 
 border of the lake. But at every foot of ground she passed 
 over, the disenchanted little spirit felt her enthusiasm ebbing. 
 The meadow, which had looked so green and velvety in the 
 distance, was covered with a coarse stunted grass, half faded ; 
 and the trees were diminutive and unshapely. As for the 
 flowers, — the scentless arum grew there, and the blood-red 
 cardinalis, and the deadly water hemlock ; and, now and then, 
 some cold blue blossom bent its poisoned chalice for a 
 draught, and the ominous nightshade nodded among the inter- 
 twisted roots of the cypress at a little distance. Oh, how the 
 little spirit sighed when she thought of the fragrant dog- wood, 
 the meek-eyed violets, and the frail, beautiful tiarella of her 
 native wood ! There were serpents, too, by the lake-side, 
 nestled in the rank sedges, and croaking frogs, half beauty, 
 VOL. n. 21* 
 
246 THE POETESS. 
 
 half deformity, and a thousand other things which made our 
 timid little Undine look with deep regret upon the misty curl 
 of blue which linked her mountain home with the clouds. So 
 she wandered in a strange sadness about the lake, sometimes 
 turning from the barrier raised about it when she might have 
 passed, and sometimes jostled rudely back when she had just 
 resolved to cross, till at last a strong, kind hand was extended 
 to her ; she trembled for a moment above the tide, and then 
 dropped down into the bosom of the lake. How bewildered 
 was she there, and how she shivered and tried to smile, and 
 looked all about her to find some compensation for the dear 
 things she had left — the awakened little dreamer! The cold 
 water-bath had spoiled a heaven for her. 
 
 The waters of the lake did not mingle together. There lay 
 the turbid alongside the clear and pure, the poisoned flood 
 and the stream that had balm in it — there was every variety 
 in the great lake, and men might come and drink of which 
 they chose ; and the spirit of the mountain rivulet grew almost 
 happy again, when she saw bright lips bent to her own waters, 
 and brightening still more as they quaffed. But she must 
 have been an angel to deem this sufficient compensation for 
 the thousand vexatious annoyances which no unsophisticated 
 water-spirit, who has never followed her rich gifts to the altar 
 of the world, can understand. And our darling little Undine 
 was not quite an angel ; and might become less angelic still, 
 by standing too long beneath the arch of the rainbow with all 
 her jewels on. Haste, haste thee back, pretty wanderer, 
 before the breath of the dark hemlock has filled thy veins with 
 poison, or the sun kissed the peach-blossom from thy cheek, 
 or the wrangling waters made thy soft voice harsh as their 
 own, or the dank night has mildewed thy heart. Haste thee 
 back, simple Undine, and rest thy throbbing head close in the 
 bosom of the golden moss-cup. 
 
247 
 
 DORA*. 
 
 Eyes, like a wet violet, nestled among a profusion of the 
 softest-hued Persian fringes, and hair, gathered from the elfin 
 fields of Erin, and combed and twisted into waves by fairy 
 fingers — such had Dora'! Then those lips, with their sad 
 sweetness, and the love-thought in each corner ! and the pale, 
 polished cheek, and vein-crossed forehead ! 
 
 Sweet, delicate Dora' ! — much do I fear, that such a vision 
 of loveliness will never again appear at Alderbrook. 
 
 It was years and years ago that Dora' moved among our 
 mothers here, with a step like a fawn's, a head erect and 
 earnest, like a wild deer on the look-out for the huntsmaOs 
 and a face full of half-joyous, half-solemn surprise, such as 
 Eve must have worn when her foot first crushed the dews 
 and flowers of Eden. Beautiful was Dora', as a dream which 
 turns from the daylight to nestle in some young heart, or a 
 thought that refuses to syllable itself in clumsy words ; and 
 yet, beautiful was she never called ; but all paused and looked 
 upon her as she passed by, and smiled, and owned a stronger 
 power, though they knew not what it was, than that of beauty. 
 
 Stand by me, reader, and follow the direction of my finger, 
 over the bend in the brook, and along the white clover- 
 field to the foot of that little knoll with the two elm-trees on 
 its crown. Do you .perceive the top of a chimney peeping 
 from the green thmgs piled up there, like a monument to a 
 Sylvan ? You may not discover it, but I, who have looked 
 so many times, know that little speck of reddish brown to be 
 a chimney. Well, beneath is the smallest pattern of a human 
 shelter that your eyes ever lighted on ; now pretty much gone 
 to decay, and grown entirely over with moss and hop- vines. 
 I have heard that a white rose-bush once quite over-topped 
 
248 DORA'. 
 
 the front corner, and sunflowers innumerable peeped theii 
 yellow heads above the eaves at the back ; and I have myself 
 a distinct remembrance of stopping to admire the trumpet- 
 honeysuckle, that years ago graced the door-way ; but not a 
 flowering thing opens in that vicinity now. There, all alone, 
 once lived Aunty Evans ; a good, gentle old w^oman, who, for 
 the want of better things to love, kept always about her 
 a family of kittens, chickens, rabbits, and tame pigeons, 
 ijesides this, she used to make gingerbread for the little 
 people that always looked in, upon their way from school, 
 and supply the whole village with sage, rue, and chamomile, 
 from a garden that would have been no wonder in Lilliput. 
 Aunty Evans could not have been said to be without the 
 means of living, for she fed herself, and not unfrequently her 
 less industrious neighbors, with the proceeds of her busiest 
 of all busy needles. One day, a letter, marked on the out- 
 side, "in haste," was sent her from the village post-office; 
 and, in an hour after, the fire was extinguished upon her 
 hearth, the latch-string drawn, and Aunty Evans, for the first 
 time in her life, found herself in the stage-coach. In a few 
 days she returned with a pale, sad little girl, all in black, and 
 was invited at once to a grand tea-party, for curiosity's sake. 
 But the old lady had only a short story. A friend had died, 
 and bequeathed her an only child. 
 
 " Has she money ? " asked the gossips. 
 
 Aunty Evans said "No;" and then they all shook their 
 heads and looked mysterious; and somehow, in a few minutes 
 though there could be no connection between it and the other 
 subject, they were all talking about the new and excellent 
 regulations which had been made at the almshouse. Aunty 
 Evans expressed herself very glad that the poor children 
 were to be better cared for; and thereupon sipped her tea 
 without further concern. That subject was immediately 
 abandoned, and the conversation took an unaccountable turn, 
 calculated to overthrow entirely the doctrine of association, for 
 somebody began talking about the price of plain needlework. 
 Most of the ladies were of the opinion, that a sempstress 
 
DORA'. 249 
 
 could no more than support herself comfortably ; and if by 
 chance she did accomplish more than that, it was her " boun- 
 den duty " to lay by the surplus for a " rainy day." Aunty 
 Evans appeared to listen to all this very composedly ; but, in 
 reality, her thoughts were a little absent. She was planning 
 tlie number of shirts she should be obliged to make, in order 
 to send the little orphan, Dora', to the best school in the 
 village. 
 
 Dora' was sent to school; and forthwith, the pale child 
 became as great a favorite as Aunty Evans herself. Dora's 
 voice had a tone to it, like the stroke of a silver bell, reaching 
 us through a medium of tears j and she might always be 
 found, whether under the cherry-tree, at the back of the 
 school-house, or nestled in a rich clover-bed, or seated on the 
 spotted alders by the brook-side, with a group of children 
 about her, singing the little songs that she learned of Aunty 
 Evans. How deliciously sweet was that voice ! And though 
 the words could claim to be of no higher order than 
 
 " Little bird, with bosom red, 
 Welcome to my humble shed :" 
 
 or, 
 
 " Pretty bee, busy bee, 
 If you 'd but sing to me," 
 
 many a stem old man paused to listen, and many a bushiess 
 woman raised her red bandana to her eyes, as those clear, 
 touclung tones fell, despite the crust above it, on her heart. 
 The women did not know why they were thus affected ; but 
 Aunty Evans would have told them there was a shadow 
 within, from which that voice stole its touch of sorrow, and 
 which, later in the day of her life, would fall back upon her 
 heart. 
 
 Aunty Evans might, quite unknown to those about her, 
 have been a prophetess ; but Dora' went on, year after year, 
 singing all the time more and more sweetly, and with more 
 touching pathos, while the shadow, if any there was, must 
 have been nearly melted by the neighboring sunshine. One 
 
250 DORA*. 
 
 individual, considering himself somewhat wiser than his 
 neighbors, Avhispered at length to some others, that the pecu- 
 liarity in Dora' Evans's voice was the despairing plaint of 
 prisoned genius; but Alderbrook had no citizen mad enough, 
 even though all had credited the suggestion, to bind the child 
 for this to a lot of splendid misery. Dora's neighbors knew 
 little of raising a God-given power to that point of famous 
 infamy where even its admirers are privileged to jest about 
 it; — they were common men, and had never learned that it 
 is the misfortune of genius to consume itself in a bonfire, that 
 others may be amused by its coruscations. So Dora' went on 
 singing every Sabbath in the village choir, singing at the fire- 
 side of Aunty Evans, and singing at the social gatherings in 
 the village ; always thankful, and rejoicing that she had a 
 power which could make herself and everybody else so happy. 
 Thus passed year after year, until Dora' was fifteen ; and the 
 shadow had as yet settled on neither heart nor brow. 
 
 Dora' sat upon the knoll that I have pointed out uhder the 
 two elm-trees, circled by a row of young faces, all turned 
 earnestly and lovingly to hers. 
 
 " Sing it again, Dora' ! do ! do ! just once again, dear ! it 
 is so pretty ! " went the pleading round ; and Dora' smiled, and 
 began to sing. 
 
 That morning a stranger had reached Alderbrook by the 
 stage-coach. He was a small man, slightly moulded ; with 
 eager piercing eyes, two wrinkles passing from their inner 
 corners half way up the forehead ; an aquiline nose, sallow 
 cheeks, and thin lips always pressed closely together. Though 
 he could scarcely have attained the middle age, he was slightly 
 bald ; frequent threads of silver mingled in his black hair and 
 beard ; and upon his face there was many a line, the work of 
 a more hasty pencil than time carries. Just as Dora' com- 
 menced her song, this man was hurrying along, with his usual 
 quick step, close beside the fence. As the first strain fell on 
 his ear, he raised his eyes, and cast up to the clouds, and 
 away into the tree-tops, a glance of eager inquiry. Again it 
 
DORA'. 251 
 
 came, and again ; and a smile full of beautiful deAght broke 
 over the listener's compressed lips, and a fire was kindled in 
 the centre of his now dilated eye, which seemed burning back 
 into his very soul. 
 
 " Ha ! " he exclaimed, as his glance fell upon the pretty 
 group cresting the green knoll ; and then he crossed his arms 
 upon his breast, lowered his earnest brows, and bent his ear 
 to listen. 
 
 The stranger did not leave Alderbrook that day , neither 
 did he then continue his walk ; but, returning to the " Sheaf 
 and Sickle," as soon as the little party beneath the elms was 
 broken up, he possessed himself of all his landlady knew con- 
 cerning the rustic songstress. 
 
 " Such a voice I " he muttered, as he strode up and down 
 the piazza ; " such compass ! such delicacy ! such pathos ! she 
 would madden them. It would be a generous deed, too — 
 poor orphan ! " 
 
 He passed on, his steps growing every moment quicker and 
 his eyes more eagerly bright. " Ay, ay ! I will do it ! I 
 cannot leave such a diamond in this desert ! " 
 
 That night the artist tapped at the humble door of Aunty 
 Evans; and drawing his chair alongside the old lady, un- 
 folded his plans. She listened coldly. 
 
 " The child is well with her mother — she cannot go." 
 
 " But such a gift, madam ! " 
 
 " A gift from God ! it is a sin to tamper with it." 
 
 " Ay, from God !" answered the artist solemnly ; " it is a 
 sin to leave it unimproved." 
 
 An hour was spent in fruitless argument, when the com- 
 poser suddenly inquired, " But what says the young lady 
 herself? let her speak." 
 
 " Yes, let Dora' answer," returned Aunty Evans, trium- 
 phantly. " Thank God ! I may trust her ! what say you, 
 my child ? " 
 
 " What say est thou, gifted one, to the glorious art ? " 
 
 Dora's face was buried in the folds of muslin that hung 
 about the little window, and at first she did not raise it. 
 
252 DORA'. 
 
 " Speak as you would have it, darling," said the old lady, 
 softly, drawing near, and bending over her idol. 
 
 Such dreams as had been swimming in the young girl's 
 fancy ! Such a consciousness that every word the composer 
 had said of her wondrous power was true ! Such an irre- 
 sistible longing to give utterance to an undefinable something 
 that she had always felt struggling within her ! How could 
 she resist it ? Dora' loved her kind foster-mother ; but now 
 there was a fever at her heart and her brain was in a whirl. 
 She raised her eyes. How changed were they! the soft, 
 meek dewiness had passed — they had grown larger and 
 darker, and wore an intensity of meaning, a depth of feeling 
 and purpose, that made them strange to Aunty Evans. The 
 love-thought had almost vanished from the corners of the 
 mouth; the lips lay apart like two lines of burning crimson, 
 the upper drawn up and knotted in the middle, and a spot of 
 bright red glowed in the centre of each pale cheek. Dora' 
 did not speak. It needed not that she should, 
 
 " The shadow is falling ! " murmured Aunty Evans. " My 
 poor, poor Dora' ! Oh, I have had a fearful watch ! " 
 
 She folded the child in her arms, kissed her hot cheek, 
 placed her hands upon her throbbing temples ; and, saying to 
 the composer, " She will go with you," motioned him to leave 
 them alone. 
 
 Aunty Evans was not so ignorant of worldly things, as to 
 trust her precious charge, without due precaution, to the keep- 
 ing of a stranger. She possessed herself of ample knowledge 
 concerning the character and standing of the composer ; and 
 was very exacting in all her arrangements for the child's wel- 
 fare, evincing a lynx-eyed policy that she had never been 
 supposed to possess. Above all, she insisted on her being 
 allowed to return to her humble home at any moment she 
 should express the wish. So Dora' went away from Alder- 
 brook, and Aunty Evans was left alone. 
 
 Bright Summer passed in her glory — melancholy Autumn 
 laid a worn head upon the bosom of Winter, and with sighs 
 
DORA*. 253 
 
 jrielded up the spirit — and Winter came on with his cold 
 breath and blazonry of jewels. SLx months had passed away 
 smce Dora' sang to her companions on the knoll beneath the 
 two elm-trees. Now she stood in a luxuriously furnished 
 apartment, the soft flaxen ringlets shading her delicate throat 
 as of yore, but with little else to mark her identity with the 
 violet-eyed child that had sung in the fields at Alderbrook. 
 The pale, earnest face of the composer looked out upon her 
 adimringly from a pile of cushions at the other end of the 
 apartment ; and she was aware of the gaze, and seemed bent 
 on gratifying him, for her small hands were clasped with un- 
 wonted energy, and determination burned in her cheek and 
 flashed from her eye. She stood near a piano at which a 
 stranger was seated ; and, after his fingers had passed over 
 the keys, her voice broke forth in all its olden melody. But 
 now it was subject to her control ; now she knew the feeling 
 that she would express, and her voice became but the wings 
 to bear it out. The prisoned genius had found utterance. 
 Was Dora' happy now ? Out upon such simplicity ! How 
 could it be otherwise ? Was she not about to entrance a 
 world ? What blissful emotions Avould creep into a thousand 
 hearts at listening ! And would not the enchantress find an 
 all-sufficient reward in the adulation of millions ? Ah ! Dora', 
 Dora' ! bend thy brow to the halo ! tread upon the roses ! 
 Never think how the first may darken ; how the last may 
 shrivel and fall away from the sharp thorns beneath them ! 
 The path has been well trodden and watered — pass on ! 
 
 The good composer, Dora's friend, was dead. 
 
 It had been published far and wide, told in the drawirjg- 
 room and in the cofTee-house, in the private parlor and in the 
 public saloon, in hall, alley and shop, lisped in the boudoir 
 and cried in the street — everywhere, in all the places where' 
 the virtuous dwell and vicious hide themselves, it had been 
 told that a new star had arisen in the musical horizon ; and 
 those who would never care for the artiste on account of her 
 
 VOL. II. 22 
 
254 doea'. 
 
 art, were told that she was young and beautiful. What a : 
 crowd came out to greet the first appearance of our star! 
 Should she not have felt honored ? Lights flashed, jewels 
 blazed, plumes waved and nodded, smiles sped to their desti- 
 nation, or lost themselves upon the air, and all — for her ? 
 Not one, not one ! Poor Dora' ! even in her triumph, how 
 desolate I 
 
 A burst of applause greeted her appearance; and, for a 
 moment, her heart bounded, and her eye flashed with grati- 
 fied ambition. Then rows of faces gaped upon her from pit, 
 box, and gallery ; eyes were strained, and glasses levelled, 
 and the young songstress felt the warm blood mounting has- 
 tily to her forehead. Poor Dora' ! even in her triumphs how 
 humiliated ! 
 
 She sang as she had ever sung ; for genius is always con- 
 scious of its own sacredness, and will not be stared down by 
 bold impudence, nor raised up by admiring plaudits. She 
 sang, and garlands fell at her feet, and, all night long, the 
 applauses of that multitude rang, like the idle mockeries that 
 they were, in her ear. Was it for this she had toiled, and 
 hoped, and given her better nature up to a withering ambition ? 
 Was this her temple in the clouds, now dissolving in its own | 
 nothingness — a thing of vapor, bound together by a chain of I 
 gilded water-drops ? The wings were melted, and Icarus was 
 fast approaching the jEgean. What a blessing that mankind ; 
 so seldom reach the goal of hope ! The chase is glorious — I 
 in empty, unsatisfying success lies the curse. I 
 
 It was the anniversary of the evening on which Dora' had 1 
 resolved to turn from the bosom of her foster-mother to the 
 world which was beckoning her. A light was burning on the 
 white pine table, and beside it sat Aunty Evans, her Bible on ; 
 her knees. She appeared older, ranch older, than on that 
 ' night twelve-month. Thought had cut strange lines upon her 
 face, and deepened the look of simple good nature, once so 
 conspicuous there, to one of earnest, almost painful solicitude. 
 The door was open, and the fragrance from the honey-suckles 
 
DORA'. 255 
 
 and roses stole into the apartment ; but Aunty Evans thought 
 not a word of the honey-suckles and roses. She was indulg 
 ing most painful reflections. A passing figure rustled the 
 vines, a shadow fell across the door-way, and a light foot 
 pressed the threshold ; yet Aunty Evans looked not up. 
 
 "Mother! mother! — I have come home to you — I am 
 sick, I am weary ! Give me a place, mother — a place to 
 die ! " 
 
 There were sobbings and tears, half joyous, half heart- 
 broken, in the little cottage that night ; and, in the morning. 
 all the villagers gathered to look upon the returned idol. How 
 changed ! Poor Dora' ! it is needless to follow thee to the 
 grave. The spirit that, finding food nowhere on earth, turns 
 and eats into itself, can endure but a little time ; and we will 
 be more thankful for the natural light that again beamed in 
 thine eye, and the natural feeling that slumbered about thy 
 lips, than sorry for thine early loss. Thy rest is among the 
 flowers, where the bees steal their sweets, and the birds 
 spread their wings to the sunlight. 
 
 Sleepest thou not passing well, young Dora' ? 
 
THE ANGEL'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 "Disciple. When the soul sinks to earth and its wings fall away, how may 
 they be restored again '? 
 Zoroaster. By sprinkling them with the Waters of Life. 
 Disciple. But where are those waters to be found ? 
 Zoroaster. In the Garden of God." 
 
 I HAD been poring ovev some of the half beautiful, half 
 ridiculous fictions of the Oriental theologians, startled every 
 now and then to find a real diamond gleaming up from the 
 mystic rubbish of darkened genius, and saddened by learning 
 how very near the truth some few had groped, while they 
 had gone down to the grave without having discovered one 
 ray of its pure light. 
 
 Gray shadows were falling upon Strawberry Hill, when I 
 closed the book and leaned from the window, thinking, as I 
 marked a dark-eyed girl of some five summers crossing the 
 log bridge, how would the mighty Zoroaster have been rejoiced 
 to receive the key to truth now in the keeping of even that 
 little child. The shadows lengthened and grew dimmer as I 
 watched, the twilight deepened, and my thoughts took on the 
 same mistiness ; the Persian allegories, the Rabbinical fictions, 
 and the sublime doctrines of the Chaldeans became strangely 
 mingled in my dreaminess ; and hill, stream and meadow 
 faded from my closing eyes, as a new scene opened upon them. 
 I was at once transported to one of the innermost recesses of 
 a solemn and hoary forest, which I believed had slumbered 
 for centuries among its own undisturbed shadows, untrodden 
 by the foot of man. But even as I stood wondering in the 
 midst of this magnificent lonelines-s, I heard a voice in plain- 
 tive sadness exclaim, " How long ! hoAV long ! " and I at once 
 recognized the presence of one of those fallen angels described 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 257 
 
 by the Rabbins, He had stood upon the heights of heaven, 
 when earth was a gloomy mass of darkness ; he had seen " the 
 Spirit of God move upon the face of the waters," and he had 
 joined the music of the stars, when this beautiful globe sprung 
 to life and light. He had nestled in the trees of Eden, and 
 dipped his wing in the waters of the Euphrates ; but he had 
 sinned, alas ! and those beautiful wings had fallen away. And 
 when I saw a fair fragile creature by his side, that I knew had 
 trod the earth for centuries, though there was less than the 
 weight of twenty summers on her clear brow, I read his sin 
 and its punishment. For her sake his wings had fallen, and 
 with her he must wander, a pilgrim upon the earth, until the 
 end of time. For years and years they had made their home 
 among men — for years and years listened to the melodies of 
 the rich voiced biU-bul as he warbled from the rose-trees of 
 voluptuous Cashmere ; drunk the perfume from Persian groves, 
 and wandered in the romantic valleys of the Nile ; but though 
 they grew not wearj' of beauty, there was that in the hearts 
 of men and in their acts which made them sad. So the angel 
 and his bride wandered away to darker, sterner regions. They 
 climbed tlie icy peaks of the rugged Altai, slept beneath the 
 hardy evergreen of Siberia, and braved, hand in hand, the 
 winds which howled along the dreaiy plains of Kamschatka. 
 And still they wandered on, till Zillah and her angel were the 
 first to leave their footprints on the soil of the New World. 
 They had since seen nation after nation grow up and wither ; 
 they had seen gay cities built, and again brave old trees grow- 
 ing over them; — change, change came everywhere, but not 
 to them. At last, another race had claimed the soil and by 
 might possessed it. The hearts of the angel and his bride 
 sickened at wrong and carnage ; and it was then that they 
 plunged into the heart of the wilderness, and made them a 
 home in its soUtary depths. 
 
 An hour-glass had just been turned, and the angel bent 
 thoughtfully over it, watching the glittering sands as they 
 dropped, one by one, into the empty glass below. Beside him 
 reclined, like Eve in the original Eden, a beautiful woman. 
 
 VOL. II. 22* 
 
258 THE angel's pilgrimage. 
 
 A heavy grape-vine overshadowed her ; and underneath, and 
 by her side, bloomed gorgeous flowers of every hue, all matted 
 into the luxurious green. The hand of improvement had not 
 yet ^Tested from the wilderness its treasures. Her soul-full 
 eye, with eten more of tenderness than thought in it, rested 
 lovingly upon the angel. 
 
 " That we should measure hours, my Zillah," he said at 
 length, " like children of a broken day ! we whose seconds 
 are marked to us by the seasons, and whose minutes are cen- 
 turies ? " 
 
 " And is there no change yet upon the dial-plate ?" 
 
 " None. When I spent a thousand years and all my skill 
 upon this dial, I little thought that cycle after cycle would 
 pass — cycle after cycle — years wither and go to their graves, 
 and young years spring up bearing with them new germs of 
 life, and still not a shadow come to tell us that the evening of 
 our long, long day was nearer than at its morning." 
 
 " And the other signs, in the heavens and on the earth, and 
 among men. Are there no way-marks yet discoverable ? noth- 
 ing to say how long ere this sweet, sad journey will be ended, 
 and my angel shall have the wings again, which he lost for 
 me ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is a sweet journey, Zillah ; though so, so long ! 
 There was unfathomable mercy in the punishment awarded 
 me, in that thou wert left ; and cheerfully we will bide our 
 time." 
 
 Long and wistfully had the fallen angel watched for some 
 sign of the earth's dissolution ; but yet his only remark was, 
 " We will bide our time." He had looked for the stars to pale ; 
 but still they burned on with the same unchanging radiance 
 as when first the band of seraphim went forth to light their 
 fires ; he had watched cloud after cloud thickening and dis- 
 solving in the heavens, almost expecting to see in their end 
 less transformation a form which he yet believed he should 
 recognize, step from their soft folds. But there had been no 
 change in these, save as they obeyed the biddings of the wind, 
 since from the walls of the upper Paradise he looked down on 
 
THE ANGELS PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 259 
 
 their first fresh loveliness. There had been no sign in heaven, 
 and none, none on earth. What mark of age was there in 
 the strong-limbed giants of the wood, that stood cloud-capt 
 around his bower in the wilderness ? Life, life was every- 
 where. Everj^thing, even death itself, teemed with it ; for, 
 if but a flower closed its young eye, and turned earthward 
 withering, flowers innumerable sprang up where it stood ; and 
 so the mighty destroyer became the parent of beauty and 
 bloom. The earth had never reeled nor paused for a single 
 moment in its bright circuit among the stars ; but on, on, 
 beautifully and quietly she moved, like a bird from Paradise 
 flown by the hand of the Eternal. The angel had watched 
 her in his unvarying round, and though his eye had become 
 dimmed by the atmosphere of earth, he could yet see deep 
 into the mysteries above him. He knew much, very much 
 of the heaven-lore which God has written on the stars ; but 
 yet the weakness of his vision Avas painful to him, and he 
 longed for the day when his mind could span the universe as 
 at its creation. He knew where the pelican brooded on her 
 rocky desert nest, and saw in the red blood drunk by her 
 children from her willing breast but another type of that which 
 has its types everywhere. He had followed the eagle in the 
 eye of the sun, and knew the language of his scream, the 
 thought which prompted every movement of his strong pinion, 
 and the dreams that hovered over him in the cloud-capt couch 
 he had builded on the crag. He had seen the wing of the 
 bird grow heaAy beneath the weight of centuries ; and Avhen 
 at last it drooped and faltered, he knew the secret which cost 
 the adventurous Spaniard a life — the fountain where it went 
 to lave and grow young again. He had bent his ear to the 
 flower and listened to its whisperings ; the foot-falls of the 
 evening dew were familiar to him ; and not a drop of water 
 had a tinkle, not a leaf a murmur, and not a bird a song, the 
 language of which he had not interpreted to his still youthful 
 bride, the gentle Zillah. But the flower whispered of Life ; 
 the dew brought a life-draught in every tiny globule ; and the 
 gushing water, and the fresh-lipped leaves, and the mellow- 
 
260 THE angel's pilgrimage. 
 
 throated birds, and the wandering breeze, all joined in a chorus 
 which brought sadness to the spirit of the angel. It was all 
 Life ! Life ! but it was that life which bears somewhere in it 
 the seeds of dissolution ; not a blossom from the tree guarded 
 by the flaming sword of cherubim. 
 
 " Are there no way-marks ? " repeated Zillah. " It is long 
 since we grew sick of the glitter and falsehood about us, and 
 so turned to the delicious stillness of this quiet wilderness — 
 very long, my angel. Let us go back again. Perhaps we 
 may find a faint shadowing of what we seek in the actions of 
 men — in their virtue, their wisdom, or possibly their vices. 
 It may be that His handiwork shall never fail; that the earth 
 and the heavens are immutable ; and that we are to be free 
 when my poor fallen brethren have received back upon their 
 bosoms the marred image which he first left there, or when 
 their continued sins have worn away its slightest traces. It 
 may be that by wisdom they will gain a spirit-mastery, and so 
 drop the cumbering clay and its defilements together, and then 
 thou mayst return to thy home and take thy Zillah with thee. 
 Let us go forth and look upon the work of mortals, and see if 
 they are not writing their own destiny with their own hands." 
 
 The angel was persuaded, and hand in hand the twain went 
 forth upon their pilgrimage. 
 
 The vision changed, and I again met the wanderers in a 
 great city. A noisy rabble filled the streets, and the hoarse 
 laugh and ribald jest passed freely as they hurried on. Zillah 
 shrank from their infectious touch, and as she did so, I heard 
 the angel whisper, " It could not have been worse in the an- 
 cient cities which He destroyed by fire." But every minute 
 the crowd became more dense, and as the multitude pressed 
 in one direction, the pilgrims turned their heads and suffered 
 themselves to be borne onward by it. It stopped beneath a 
 scaffold, and the two strange spectators cast upon each other 
 inquiring glances. 
 
 " It is some merry-making for the rude populace," at last the 
 angel remarked, " and lo ! yonder comes the harlequin." 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 261 
 
 " Then he mimics woe," said Zillah, " for he seems in an 
 agony of sufTering." 
 
 In an agony of suffering indeed was the wretched criminal, 
 as he crawled rather than walked across the scaffold, wringing 
 his hands and uttering low, half-stifled sobs which- could not be 
 mistaken. 
 
 / " It is no jest," said the angel, " and yet these men come as 
 merrily as to a nuptial banquet. Can it be that these poor 
 creatures of a day find food for mirth in a brother's suffering? " 
 
 " See ! What are they doing with him ? " exclaimed Zillah 
 in alarm. 
 
 The arms were pinioned, the cap was drawn upon the head, 
 and the executioner proceeded to adjust the cord. 
 
 "It — it is a scene unfit for us!" said the angel shuddering, 
 and averting his eye?, with horror. 
 
 A minute after there was a movement in the crowd which 
 made a sound like the sullen murmur of the sea ; and the 
 laugh and jest went round as before while the soul of a man, 
 a brother, was passing, with all the blackness of its fearful guilt 
 upon it, into the fathomless future, and the presence of the 
 Judge. Poor Zillah trembled like the lightly poised hare-bell 
 in a storm ; there was a startled glance in her soft eye, her 
 cheek became blanched, and her tongue faltered as she ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " What can it mean ? Have they taken away his life, the 
 little span which notwithstanding its briefness men love better 
 than their souls ? " 
 
 "Ay, my Zillah — his life ! The frail bark has been cut 
 from its moorings to drift away upon the unknown ocean, by 
 hands which even to-morrow will strive to cling to this cold 
 shore and strive in vain. But this is not a fitting scene for 
 thine eyes to look, upon, my bright bird of the sunshine, — 
 nor mine — nor mine ! " he added in a low murmur. " Oh ! 
 for my lost, earth-bartered wings ! " 
 
 " Bartered for we," returned Zillah, in a tone no louder than 
 her breath, but fraught with an exquisitely sad melody. 
 
262 ■ THE angel's pilgrimage. 
 
 The angel answered only with a look, but it brought a tint 
 to her cheek and a beautiful light to her eye. 
 
 " And this is murder," she continued, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 " No ; not murder, but the terrible punishment of a terrible 
 crime. When thy race, my poor Zillah, lost every trace of 
 the image they first bore, and turned against each other like 
 tlie wolves and tigers of the wilderness, the Great One passed 
 a decree that blood alone should wash away the stain of hu- 
 man blood ; and this man's hand was red with that which had 
 flowed in the veins of his brother." 
 
 " Ah ! the multitude should have veiled themselves in sack- 
 cloth, and sprinkled the gray ashes upon the floors of their 
 dwellings," said Zillah, her lip growing still paler, and quiv- 
 ering with horror. " The entire people should have thronged 
 the altar. Mourn, mourn, ye proud nation ! It is the son of 
 your bosom whose baseness has required this terrible deed at 
 your hands ; and He alone who ' rideth upon the wings of the 
 wind,' whose ' pavilion is in the secret place,' knows how far 
 the infection has spread. Alas ! my race ! my poor, degraded, 
 ruined race ! " 
 
 " This sad spectacle must'needs beget sad feelings," returned 
 the angel, " and yet the thoughtless crowd make merry as at 
 a bridal ; and those who come not here to regale their eyes 
 with the sufferings of a brother, pass carelessly on, chaffer in 
 the market-place, pore over the page, obey the beck of pleas- 
 ure, and forget that another black, black seal is added to the 
 degradation of man. Ah, my Zillah, the end is afar off. I 
 catch no glimpse of the living waters ; my sight grows dim in 
 this darkness, and my foot is heavy, very heavy." 
 
 " Look ! " exclaimed ZiUah, '* the dead man is lowered to his 
 coffin, and they all throng to look at him ; see how they jostle 
 each other ! " 
 
 " Ay ; and still they laugh and jest ' The red drop is at 
 the heart of every one of them ; and they are now gorging 
 the fiendish principle with blood which they dare not shed 
 Let us hence." 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 263 
 
 It was with difficulty that the angel and his companion 
 extricated themselves from the brutal multitude — men who, 
 seeming to snufF blood afar off, flock to see the spark of life 
 extinguished on the heart's altar, and can be kept back only 
 by high prison walls or the glitter of the bayonet. But at 
 length they were free, and hastily did they move away from 
 the scene of retribution and cruelty. 
 
 " Alas ! for thy lost wings, my angel," sighed Zillah, when 
 the frightful din had died away upon the ear. 
 
 " The Waters of Life are not here," was the sorrowful 
 reply, " not here in the midst of cruelty and blood j the heart 
 of man is no better than at the beginning, and — it is no worse. 
 The doom is not yet written, the book of good and evil is not 
 yet sealed — how long ! how long ! " 
 
 Another crowd now obstructed the way, swarming to an 
 immense edifice, some eager, some careless — tradesmen talk- 
 ing of the common business of the day, lawyers mooting dubi- 
 ous points in wrangling tones, though usually with courteous 
 words, boys with shrill voices hawking their various wares, 
 and the rabble, as ever, jesting, laughing and jostling. Among 
 the crowd were two persons discussing the execution of that 
 morning. 
 
 " They hurry the poor wretch into eternity unprepared, as 
 though he were a dog or an ox ! It is barbarous ! " said one. 
 
 " A relic of the dark ages," observed his companion ; " neces- 
 sary in the infancy of time, when men were like the beasts of 
 the field, and could be restrained only by the strong arm, but 
 that philanthropic and enlightened statesmen of the nineteenth 
 century" — 
 
 His voice was lost to the ear of the angel, who had pressed 
 on eagerly to catch the sound ; for after what he had beheld 
 that morning, the knowledge that the whole human race was 
 not intent on blood was grateful to him. 
 
 " Those men have pity — let us follow them," he said to 
 ZiUah. 
 
 " But they pity only the red hand," was the reply ; " they 
 
264 THE angel's pilgrimage. 
 
 said nothing of the bloody shroud, and the desolate hearth- 
 stone." 
 
 The two pilgrims pressed forward and entered at the door 
 of a spacious apartment which was crowded to overflowing. 
 A row of venerable persons occupied cushioned seats raised on 
 a kind of dais at the extremity of a large room. On one side 
 of these sat twelve men in busy conference, and on the other, 
 a goodly number lolled over tables covered with green baize 
 cloth, some yawning, and others biting the ends of their feather 
 pens or fastening and unfastening them behind their ears. Two 
 dark faces glowered on each other immediately below the 
 cushioned seats ; and lower still, in a small square box, a per- 
 son leaned forward, balancing on his elbows, and now prying 
 into one face, and now another, with eyes which the angel 
 trembled but to look upon. . At last, the twelve men rose, and 
 a silence as of death brooded over that vast multitude. A 
 question was asked by a mild gray-haired man from the dais, 
 and a deep, heavy voice resounded throughout the hall of jus- 
 tice, " Not Guilty." The crowd caught the sound, and peal 
 on peal arose the deafening plaudits, the arched roof ringing 
 back the sound, pausing to catch it again, and then replying, 
 as though it had been a living voice answering from above. 
 
 " This is a proud triumph," said a voice beside the pil- 
 grims. 
 
 " An innocent man, victim to some accident or slanderous 
 tongue, doubtless," returned the angel, 
 
 " No, no ; a greater scoundrel never trod the soil; never." 
 
 " But he is innocent of this crime." 
 
 "He is guilty, stranger, guilty ; everything has conspired 
 to prove it, and not a man. in this room but is morally con- 
 vinced of the fact." 
 
 " How, then, has he escaped ? " 
 
 " By the help of yon lawyer's quibbles." 
 
 " A partaker of his crimes, 1 suppose," remarked the angel. 
 
 "He, a partaker of his crimes ! he, the most honorable lawyer 
 m the nation." 
 
 "I am a stranger," remarked the angel, apologetically; 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 265 
 
 " and I would fain know why this honorable man soils his soul 
 for the sake of the guilty, and why you and all this multitude 
 rejoice to see crime go out from your midst free to gather 
 about itself still more filth and blackness." 
 
 " We rejoice in the exercise of mercy," returned the 
 stranger. 
 
 " ' Shall man then dare to shiver 
 
 The mystic golden howl 7 
 Send back unto its Giver 
 
 The God-bom deathless soul ? 
 Shall he the frail spark smother, 
 
 All earth cannot re-light ? 
 His weak, sin-heavy brother 
 
 Cast from his holier right ?' 
 
 " No, no ! we are enlightened people, and the law of blood 
 is distasteful to us." 
 
 " Is then the law abolished among you ? " inquired the angel, 
 somewhat anxiously. 
 
 " Not abolished ; there are wolves and tigers still in the land 
 and they cry for vengeance in the name of the God of mercy. 
 
 " • Ay, from earth the blood-stained banish, 
 
 Snatch away his little time ? 
 'T is noble sure to punish 
 
 By copying the crime ! 
 Heap the sods upon his breast, 
 
 Crush him down in all his sin ! ' — 
 
 " Woe, woe, to such a blood-thirsty spirit ! Thank God, 
 however, that the murderous iron rule is gradually yielding to 
 the voice of mercy, and the law of love is prevailing. ' God 
 is love.' " 
 
 " God is just ! " echoed the angel, as he turned to depart. 
 
 " They disobey the express coimnand of the Almighty, given 
 before the framing of the nations," said Zillah, " and bring an 
 attribute of his oAvn holy character as an excuse." 
 
 " Their justice is cruel and heartless," answered the angel, 
 
 and their mercy is weak and.wicked. Love and justice wait 
 
 hand in hand before the Great White Throne ; but these men 
 
 cannot link them together, for their eyes are darkened, and 
 
 VOL. 11. 23 
 
266 THE angel's pilgrimage. 
 
 heavy clouds are gathered about their souls. We need not 
 search further, Zillah." 
 
 "Nay, a little longer — a little longer," pleaded the soft 
 voice; "perchance they have a treasure, a talisman, a seed 
 of good which we have not yet discovered. I feel that this 
 distorted law of love has gro-\vii out of a holy principle which 
 may even now be swelling and bursting from the rubbish. I 
 will follow thee no longer, my angel, for my heart is sick and 
 my foot weary; but tread thou these fearful paths, search thou 
 for the hidden fountain, and when thou hast gained a sprink- 
 ling of its waters, fly to me and teU me time has ended. It is 
 here, it is somewhere here. I feel its life-giving presence." 
 
 For many days and nights the angel wandered in dark dens 
 of wickedness, his purer nature quivering and shrinking at the 
 sounds of blasphemy. His foot followed in the track of the 
 crouching, prowling assassin ; his ear listened to the voice of 
 the midnight robber; the thief brushed him as he crossed his 
 path, and the vile, the polluted of every grade passed before 
 his eyes like so many demons of the pit. The air grew heavy 
 with sin, and clogged his breath ; his frame drooped, for there 
 was a weight upon it far heavier than fatigue could cast; 
 even the rays of the sun struggled and grew ghastly in such 
 pollution, and the stars seemed red and bleared. 
 
 Then he turned to brighter scenes, scenes on which the sun 
 dared shine, not indeed in his first purity, clear and soft like 
 the light of Paradise, but with a wild brilliance, which, while 
 it dazzled the eyes, and withered the young plants that the 
 dews neglected to visit, bore yet a fair promise of seed-time 
 and harvest, day and night, to the hearts of men. 
 
 But even here was the villain's heart mantled in hypocrisy, 
 here prowled the disguised wolf, here towered the beautiful 
 marble above reeking bones and the foul mould of Death. In 
 this brave light Revenge stalked up and down, an honorable 
 and an honored guest. Here Avarice spread a yellow crust 
 upon the heart, Avhich burned in, and seared, and grew thicker, 
 and gnawed at every chord that might have sounded a tuneful 
 cadence, still increased in thickness till there was no power to 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 267 
 
 resist it from within; and then from the fearful gangrene 
 sprang a brood of crimes, all veiled indeed, all proper and legal, 
 which made the angel recoil as fi"om the less refined, but scarce 
 blacker ones that swarmed the dens he had left. Here too 
 lurked fair Envy smiling and flattering, until she could place 
 her foot upon the victim's head, and then down ! crush ! crush ! 
 — no pity, no remorse. Nay ; why should mortal head dare 
 rise higher than hers ! Among flowers of the richest fragrance 
 and brightest hue coiled Scandal, and when her serpent hiss 
 rose upon the air, the flowers drooped, and their perfume was 
 mingled with her noisome breath. 
 
 "It is all in vain — all in vain!" sighed the angel, as he 
 returned again to his companion. " The heart of man remains 
 the same as when this now degraded hand wielded the sword 
 which guarded the gate of Eden ; dark thoughts, violent pas- 
 sions, wicked imaginings all lurk within him, all are fostered 
 and cherished in his bosom. And yet, my Zillah, there is 
 something, or the foreshadowing of something — a veiled star, 
 a pale light fringing the cloud, a low murmur as from the 
 concealed fountain, a breath of pure air ever and anon stirring 
 the seared leaves, and passing over the pulses of my soul. 
 There is something, Zillah, which had well nigh made me hear 
 the rustle of my own wings, and fixed my eyes on Paradise. 
 I cannot tell what it is, but I feel it — I feel it." 
 
 " Even so do I," returned the fair Zillah, " and for that was 
 it that I chose this spot. I have builded me an altar, and 
 here, my angel, have I worshipped while thou hast been 
 seeking." 
 
 " I have sought in vain — all in vain," returned the angel 
 mournfully ; " Oh ! when will the end be ? " 
 
 " '^And then shall the end come ! ' " answered a deep melodi- 
 ous voice which made Zillah start and the angel open his large, 
 mild, mournful eyes in wonder. 
 
 The figure that stood beside them might have risen from 
 the shivering piles of withered leaves which the wantoning 
 night-wind had thrown up in heaps along the plain ; or shaped 
 itself from the mist that dangled in long gray wreaths from 
 
268 THE angel's pilgrimage. 
 
 the tops of chimneys, hovered in great shadowy wings around 
 silent windows, or rolled up, fold on fold, like an ominous cur- 
 tain from the reeking earth. It was that of a man, but not 
 such as walk the world in modern times. His beard was 
 parted upon the lip, and descended, a mass of waving silver, 
 to the girdle ; and long floating locks, like the snow in white- 
 ness, shaded his scarce wrinkled brow, beneath which looked 
 out a pair of eyes as soft, mild, blue and dewy as the sky of 
 a summer evening. The angel felt his heart irresistibly drawn 
 back to the time when he was sinless, for there was something 
 pure and spirit-like upon the face of the stranger, which, 
 though it lacked the loftiness of a brother angel, was yet so 
 beautiful, so meek, and so full of love, that the highest seraph 
 would scarce have lost by the exchange. He was evidently 
 old, very old ; but it was such age as the father of our race 
 might have exhibited, when eight centuries had passed over 
 him and left him still unscathed. His voice was deep, strong, 
 and mellifluous ; his eye undimmed ; his cheek full, though 
 lacking somewhat the roundness of youth ; his lip ruddy, his 
 frame muscular and erect, and his foot firm. Still he was old, 
 
 — that could not be doubted ; but Time had never touched 
 him with palsied finger; no blight had reached sinew, or 
 brain, or heart, and every year that had passed over him had 
 brought new strength and vigor. 
 
 " ' And then shall the end come !' " be repeated in fervid 
 tones; while a deep enthusiasm kindled in every feature a 
 voiceless eloquence, 
 
 "When, father?" inquired the angel reverently. 
 
 " When the commandment shall have been obeyed, when 
 the work is accomplished" — 
 
 " What conunandment ? what work ? Are we to search ? 
 to dig ? If thou knowest where this fountain flows, tell me, 
 oh, teU me ! I will climb the most inaccessible rock, I will 
 penetrate the cave where sleeps the deadliest miasma, with 
 my single hand I will open a passage to the core of the earth 
 
 — only tell me where to seek, and I will ask no more." 
 
 The stranger fixed a wondering and yet benign glance upon 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 269 
 
 the perturbed countenance of the angel. " And dost thou not 
 know ? " 
 
 " No, no ; but tell me, and I will bless thee forever ! " 
 
 " Nay, bless Him — Him ! Surely thou hast heard of the 
 Glorious Ransom." 
 
 " I have heard," whispered the angel, in deep awe, " but it 
 was THERE ; and even our harps and voices were silent. I 
 dare not speak of that where the air is so heavy with the 
 weight of earth's defilements. And it can never come to 7??e." 
 
 " To thee ! there is not a human being" — 
 
 " Nay, nay, old man ; thou dost not understand thine own 
 words. But tell me of the end. I see something upon thy 
 forehead unlike the brand of thy miserable race, and I think 
 the golden secret lies in thy bosom. I would fain know when 
 this weary pilgrimage will be finished." 
 
 The venerable ancient fixed his penetrating eye for a mo- 
 ment on his companion, whispering to himself, " And he too ! 
 it cannot be ! I thought myself alone ! " and then, evidently 
 puzzled, though more than pleased to recite a story in which 
 his whole soul was interested, he commenced ; 
 
 " Eighteen hundred years ago Rome was at the height of 
 her glory. All the principal nations of the earth owned her 
 sway and gloried in their bondage. The redder forms of tyr- 
 anny had departed. The brow of Octavius Augustus was 
 mild beneath his crown ; while under the patronage of the 
 wise Mecenas, and by the taper of Grecian genius, the loftiest 
 forms of art were born and flourished. The voice of eloquence 
 sounded in the forum, the flowers of poesy budded and blos- 
 somed in palace and in cot, life sprang from the silent marble, 
 the canvass glowed, and Philosophy linked arms with Pleas- 
 ure, and wandered about her sacred groves, or dallied in her 
 luxurious gardens. But He ivas iwt a Roman. On her proud 
 brow the Queen of the Nations wore the half-crushed chaplet 
 of Grecian liberty, a beautiful wreath dropping with the match- 
 less perfume which still lingers around her broken columns 
 and crumbling arches, around the spiritual ideal breathing in 
 the creations of her artists, and around the graves of her phi- 
 
 voL. n. 23=»^ 
 
270 
 
 THE ANGEL'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 losophers, her poets and her statesmen. But He was not of 
 Greece. In one proud hand Rome held a jewel unequalled in 
 gorgeousness, a golden lotus gathered from the banks of the 
 Nile, and now crimsoned by the blood of the beautiful and 
 perfidious Cleopatra ; and in the other she clasped a rude but 
 strong and valuable chain whose rough links bore the names 
 of Gaul, Germany and Switzerland. But He came from none. 
 of these. 
 
 " The mistress of the world felt quivering beneath her san- 
 dalled foot, and pressed more f^osely as it quivered, a strange 
 nation, with strange iavv-&, strange customs and a strange 
 religion, despised alike by the Roman, the Greek and the 
 Egyptian, small in territory, divided within itself, weak in 
 arms, and learned but in its own laws. This was the once 
 favored nation of the Jews. Jerusalem, fallen, degraded, en- 
 slaved, still bore some traces of ancient splendor. There stood 
 the Holy Temple, though desecrated by Mammon ; the chil- 
 dren of the prophets still gathered in their synagogues ; and 
 the proud Pharisee swept in his fringed garments from the 
 council chamber to the altar, lounged on rich cushions, and 
 quaffed the blood of the grape from goblets of massive gold 
 and richly chased silver. But He claimed not his hoTne in 
 Jerusalem. In Galilee, in despised, contemned Galilee, and 
 not its fairest city — not Capernaum, not Cana — but in 
 poor, mean, hated, contemptible Nazareth — there sprang the 
 Fountain of Life ; there, from that dark, unknown corner, 
 from that smallest, most degraded city of the most degraded 
 quarter of the earth. He, the Mighty One, the King of Glory, 
 walked forth and named himself the Son of man, the Saviour 
 of a fallen, helpless, miserable race." 
 
 "I know Him — I know Him," murmured the angel, bend- 
 ing his knee and shading his brow with his hand. " Go on," 
 he added after a moment's pause ; " go on ; tell me more ; it 
 cannot reach me, but — my poor Zillah ! — tell me aU." 
 
 " He sought meanness of origin and poverty, not because 
 there was virtue in these, but for the sake of the lowly poor," 
 continued the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye lighting 
 
THE angel's pilgrdiage. 271 
 
 excitement of his theme. " His mother was the betrothed 
 bride of a poor carpenter, his cradle was in a stable — His, the 
 soverei^ Prince of the Universe ! But a choir of angels 
 came to rouse the earth to sing his welcome ; a new star was 
 set upon the brow of night, and in its light the magii of the 
 East, the philosophers of the Persian court, bent in worship 
 to the clay-shrined God ; and a haughty monarch so trembled 
 in his kingly purple, when he heard of the obscure infant, that 
 hundreds of tiny graves were opened, each stained by the 
 blood of the helpless and moistened by a mother's tears." 
 
 " Go .on ! go on ! " whispered the angel. 
 
 " The humble Nazarene put on the tasseled robe of a 
 teacher, but he turned not to the palace for his disciples, nor 
 lingered he by the proud door of the Sanliedrim. He wan- 
 dered by the lone Galilean lake, he sought those places where 
 men never look for honor, calling the unlettered and the lowly 
 to his side, the ignorant fisherman from his nets, and the de- 
 spised publican from liis scrip. And yet this obscure man, 
 with these humble followers, stirred at once proud, pompous 
 Jewry to her centre. He toiled and suffered, toiled and suf- 
 fered, and wept, and then he died, as none but malefactors 
 ever died before." 
 
 The old man paused in his story, as though too much agi- 
 tated to proceed ; while the angel echoed in mingled awe and 
 surprise, " He died ! He could not die ! " 
 
 "He — he was borne to his sepulchre," continued the meek 
 ancient, "but the grave could not hold the Son of God. He 
 died for its, he rose for us, and he waits us at the right liand of 
 his FatJier" 
 
 There was a long, unbroken, almost breathless silence, — 
 Zillah bending forward in meek awe, her brow pressed to tnc 
 altar, the face of the angel buried reverentially in his folded 
 arms, and the patriarch standing with upraised eye and clasped 
 hands, his face glowing with love and rapture. 
 
 "And the ransomed — when will He call them home?" at 
 last the angel inquired. 
 
 " They drop into the grave at morning, in the blaze of day; 
 
272 THE angel's pilgkbiage. 
 
 and at midnight; every hour, every moment — even- now 
 while we speak, some freed spirit is passing, and there are 
 snowy wings that hover at the portal of death to bear it away 
 to Paradise." 
 
 "But when will He call all? when will the end be?" in- 
 quired the angel, with tremulous eagerness. 
 
 " Thou wouldst know when will arise the cry of the angel, 
 ' I'hrust in thy sharp sickle, and gather the clusters of the vine 
 of the earth ; for her grapes are fully ripe.' But futurity has 
 tlie secret hidden deep in the folds of her misty robes, and 
 neither man nor angel may rob her of the treasure. Yet, my 
 son, I can give thee the key, and if" — 
 
 " Quick ! quick ! " 
 
 "He told us — He — He taught." The old man paused, 
 composed his features, and resumed : " To those disciples 
 called from the wayside, from the boat of the fisherman and 
 lowly roof of the laborer, rude, unlettered, and of no repute 
 among men, whose hands had never touched the soft palm of 
 the Pharisee, and whose voices had learned to tremble and 
 falter in such an august presence — to these lowest of the sons 
 of this world, He confided the wealth of heaven, such rare 
 jewels of truth as never before glittered beneath the stars ; and 
 these humble, unknown men He commissioned to bear their 
 treasures to all the nations of the earth. At Jerusalem they 
 began, and tower and temple trembled to their deep founda- 
 tions. Thence they scattered their living pearls over hill and 
 vale, far and wide, wherever the foot of man had trodden or 
 lay the stain of sin. 
 
 " Even Grecian philosophy bent her polished ear when a 
 follower of the Crucified stood in one of the proudest courts 
 of Athens, and Epicurean and Stoic were alike confounded by 
 the simple but sublime eloquence of truth. Rome, too, proud 
 Rome acknowledged the still small voice which had stolen up 
 from far Nazareth ; but when she strove to honor it with pur- 
 ple and crimson the voice died among the caves and dens of 
 the wilderness, the jewel receded from her grasp, while she 
 placed its blazing semblance on her forehead, and all Europe 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 273 
 
 bowed the knee to the falsehood. But while in the name of 
 the crucified Nazarene, who trod the earth in sadness and dis- 
 honor, the princes of the earth drew the lance, and knight and 
 noble paved the way to his own emolument, while war and 
 carnage ran riot throughout Christendom, and Jew and Sara- 
 cen were taught to despise the religion which turned men into 
 beasts of prey and deformed the face of creation; from distant 
 caves and lowly valleys the meek voice of prayer still arose, 
 and still the casket of the jewels of truth was the human heart. 
 Through the red blood flowing at the mandate of Egj'ptian 
 priest and Roman pontiff; through the crevices of the rocks 
 of Switzerland, the hidden nooks environing the valley of 
 Piedmont, the republican plains of Germany, and the wild, 
 picturesque mountains of Scotland; through wrong without 
 ruth, through the dungeon and the rack, through the bloody 
 knife and blazing faggot, these jewels of truth, these Waters 
 of Life have been borne " — 
 
 "And now! where are they now ? " interrupted the angel, 
 with almost vehement earnestness. 
 
 " Dost thou see yon church-spire, piercing the gray mist and 
 glittering in the one pale ray which the moon sheds from her 
 veiled throne ? Go thither and love, and raise thy wings 
 heavenward. Or here," lifting the folds of his robe and dis- 
 closing a small volume ; " here the Waters spring ; here the 
 Tree of Life flourishes. Search ! thou will find its blossoms 
 on every page." 
 
 "Not for me! Alas! not for me!" murmured the angel, 
 while Zillah, raising her forehead from the altar where it had 
 rested, and extending her hands, eagerly exclaimed, " For 
 me ! for me ! to fit me for the day when thy wings, my angel, 
 shall be full of glory, that we may mount together to the 
 throne of the Eternal. But, father, I would fain know when 
 that may be. We are to tread the earth until that hour." 
 
 " And I," returned the ancient, " have the same pilgrimage 
 before me," 
 
 " But when, oh when shall it be accomplished ? " 
 
274 THE angel's pilgrimage. 
 
 " Not until every altar like this thou hast reared shall be 
 cast down." 
 
 Zillah raised a startled eye to the face of the patriarch, and 
 cast herself precipitately before the altar. 
 
 " What ! have I not told thee that the Great Sacrifice has 
 been offered, and may not my testimony be believed ? Did I 
 not stand beside the cross, and, while bidden to tarry till a sec- 
 ond coming, see the sinless victim bleed ? What wouldst thou 
 more ? Canst thou not make the sacrifice thine own ? Faith 
 and love alone are required of thee — wilt thou not believe ? " ' 
 
 Zillah remained still meekly bending before the altar, but : 
 her thoughts had risen far above it. The light of truth was 
 slowly breaking over her countenance, illuminating each fea- 
 ture with a deep, subdued enthusiasm, tiU the frail, beautiful 
 daughter of earth seemed to bear more traces of heaven than 
 the exiled angel. 
 
 " Every false altar must be cast down," continued the an- 
 cient; "the commandment must be obeyed; the Fountain of 
 Life must gush forth in the midst of every people ; the jewels 
 of truth, borne through suffering and blood till nearly half the 
 world acknowledges their beauty, must be scattered freely 
 over every portion of the globe, and far above the standards 
 of the nations must float the banner of the Crucified. He that 
 was God, was man, and is the God of glory henceforth and 
 forever. The mighty work intrusted to us at that holy part- 
 ing moment must be accomplished, ' and then shall the end 
 come.'" 
 
 " I too will go forth upon this holy mission," said Zillah, 
 bowing her head meekly ; " perchance my weak hand may be 
 blest, since to all that share in the salvation has the sweet 
 work been intrusted." 
 
 " And I cannot loiter here," returned the angel, " though I 
 have forfeited my right to be in any way a ministering spirit 
 to the race. Go thou, my Zillah, and I will hover in thy 
 footsteps, I will nurse the flowers thou lovest, and scatter their 
 perfume in thy pathway. When evil is near, I will shield 
 thy loved head ; I will watch by thy side during the remain 
 
THE angel's pilgrimage. 275 
 
 der of this fearful night, and when the morning at last dawns 
 thou shalt know its approach by the ray which falls upon thy 
 angel's renovated pinions. To the work, my Zillah ; it is one 
 which will ennoble even thee." 
 
 The mild old man smiled ; and I almost fancied that I saw 
 something stirring at the side of the angel, a.s though every 
 fresh consecration of ransomed mortal brought nearer the houi 
 of final triumph ; and then the entire vision vanished. 
 
 I was leaning from my window as an hour previous ; but 
 the little girl stood no longer upon the bridge, and Strawberry 
 Hill and the hoary old trees above it were slumbering in soft 
 summer shadows. The moon, now a soft silver crescent, had 
 climbed far up her azure pathway, and lay a sweet smile upon 
 the face of the sky, and the earth was smiling back a beauti- 
 ful response in every dew-drop. For a moment I thought the 
 creatures of my drama were about me, but in the next I knew 
 that Zillah and her angel were born of the wildest fiction ; 
 and that the ashes of the beloved disciple, if not mingled with 
 the farthest elements, still slept at Ephesus. But much, very 
 much, had mingled in my thoughts in which dreaming had no 
 part. And as I carefully separated the threads of fiction that 
 hud entangled themselves in the richer woof of truth, I longed 
 to exclaim, in the words of my fabulous Ziflah, " I too will go 
 forth upon this holy mission ! " 
 
276 
 
 THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 
 
 God " bowed the heavens and came down," and breathed 
 upon the earth; and a "living soul" was born. It was not 
 an angel, to watch over the destinies of man, and interpose its 
 white wing between him and evil ; but it was a thing aa 
 lovely ; and so it looked about to find itself a fit dwelling- 
 place. While it paused in doubt, there came fluttering by ai 
 gay, beautiful creature, its bright wings woven in the loomi 
 from which the Iris sprung, all glittering in gold and crimson, 
 now bathing in the dew and now in the sun-light, brilliant! 
 and blithesome, and light as the air on which it balanced.. 
 The spirit grew glad at the pretty sight, and as the tiny won- 
 der again swept past, it thought within itself, " Wliat a delight- 
 ful thing to be a butterfly!" Instantly, a pair of gorgeous < 
 wings sprouted from the thought; and the embodied spirit; 
 flew exultingly up and down the earth, careering in the light, 
 and glorying in its new-found beauties. Sometimes it paused 
 to peep into the hearts of the young flowers ; and sipped dain- 
 tily the sweets which dwelt on their fresh lips, and fanned 
 them when they drooped, and bathed in their perfume ; and 
 at night it folded up its wings and made its couch where the 
 moon-beam lay most lovingly. But it could not sleep. That 
 was a breath from heaven, stirring those gorgeous wings, the 
 "living soul" within, swelling and struggling, conscious that: 
 it was not performing its mission. There could not be a 
 orighter nor gayer life, and surely the innocent little butterfly 
 was not guilty of doing harm ; but there was a chiding voice- 
 came up from within, and the dissatisfied spirit could not! 
 sleep. Finally, it grew sorrowful, even in the midst of its- 
 light companions, as they poised and reeled in the sunlight, 
 intoxicated by the mere bliss of living. And every day it; 
 grew more and more sorrowful, and its wings heavier, till at; 
 
THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 277 
 
 last it cried out in sharp anguish. Beautiful and innocent 
 was the life of the gay insect ; but the God-born spirit was 
 not created to waste itself on a sunbeam or a flower ; and 
 those magnificent wings were leaden fetters to it. A bird 
 was carolling on the tree above, and, as the saddened spirit 
 looked up, it thought of the happy hearts which the little 
 songster made, and how it praised God in its light joyousness, 
 and then exclaimed, pantingly, " What a sweet thing to be a 
 ibird ! " 
 
 1 A little child found a dead butterfly at the foot of the red 
 [maple tree, that morning; and as she stooped to pick it up, 
 there came such a gush of melody from the green aboxna, 
 that she started back in pleased astonishment ; and then, 
 clapping her soft hands together, she raised her infantile voice 
 in clear, ringing tones, fraught with the music of a mirthful 
 heart. On the instant, there came a rushing sound from the 
 massive foliage ; a pair of beautiful wings broke thence, and 
 balanced for a moment above ; then descended, hovering 
 about the head of the child, as though bestowing some word- 
 less blessing; and, finally, spread themselves for flight. The 
 bird paused where the laborer rested at noon-tide ; and the 
 eye of the strong man brightened as he wiped the sweat 
 away, and leaned against the rugged bark of the meadow-tree, 
 yielding himself up to the delicious influence of its music. 
 Then it flew to the casement of the invalid, and thence to the 
 roof-tree of the cotter ; and thence it still pursued its way 
 kindly and lovingly, pausing to warble a moment even by the 
 barred window of the criminal. For many a day, the bird- 
 embodied spirit was happy and contented, and believed itself 
 Bent upon earth but for the purpose of winning men, by such 
 smaJ, sweet efforts, from sorrow. But, as it nestled one 
 night in the foliage of the forest tree, there came a sad mis- 
 giving, to trouble it. It had heard of a nobler mission than it 
 had yet dared to contemplate ; it had looked into a path toil- 
 some, and difficult to walk in, stre\vn with thorns, and beset 
 with dangers ; but yet glorious in that it had been trodden by 
 a Holy One, who had linked it to heaven. The timid spirit 
 VOL. II. 24 
 
278 THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 
 
 trembled as it thought, and folded its soft pinions over its 
 breast, and strove to recollect all the good it had done that 
 day — how it had softened the nature of the sinful, and 
 dropped balm into the bosom of the sorrowing ; but it could 
 not shut down the high aspirations which were swelling 
 within it. It knew well that the spirit of the little bird was 
 not, like itself, an emanation from the Deity. When the song 
 was hushed, and the plumage drooped, it would " go down- 
 ward to the earth ;" but the living soul, born of the breath of 
 the Almighty, could not so perish. Should it fling aside its 
 loftier gifts, and take upon itself the mission (sweet and beauti- 
 ful though that mission might be) of the soulless bird ? " Ah, 
 no I " thought the pretty warbler, while its wings seemed 
 swelling to eagle's pinions; "the air is full of birds — the 
 world is ringing with melody — it is delightful- to swell the 
 care-free chorus ; but there is a higher, nobler mission, still." 
 As its breast heaved with these new emotions, a soft sound, 
 as of a lute, stole up from a neighboring grove, and an exqui- 
 sitely modulated voice, with deep earnestness, clothed its 
 secret thoughts in words : 
 
 " I waste no more in idle dreams, my life, my soul away ; 
 I wake to know my better self— I wake to watch and pray. 
 Thought, feeling, time, on idols vain I 've lavished all too long ; 
 Henceforth, to holier purposes I pledge myself, my song ! 
 Oh, still within the inner veil, upon the spirit's shrine, 
 Still, unprofaned by evil, burns the one pure spark divine, 
 Which God has kindled in us all, and be it mine to tend 
 Henceforth, with vestal thought and care, the light that lamp may lend, 
 
 " I shut mine eyes, in grief and shame, upon the dreary past. 
 My heart, my soul, poured recklessly on dreams that could not last, 
 My bark has drifted down the stream, at will of wind or wave, 
 An idle, light, and fragile thing, that few had cared to save. 
 Henceforth, the tiller Truth shall hold and steer as Conscience tells 
 And I will brave the storms of fate, though wild the ocean swells. 
 I know my soul is strong and high, if once I give it sway ; 
 I feel a glorious power within, though light I seem, and gay. 
 O, laggard soul ! unclose thine eyes. No more in luxury soft 
 Of joy ideal waste thyself! Awake, and soar aloft! 
 Unfurl, this hour, those falcon wings wliich thou dost fold too long; 
 Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze, and sing the loftiest song."* 
 
 * Mrs. Osgood. 
 
THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 279 
 
 The song ceased, and the struggling, God-horn spirit, 
 looked down on the cold earth ; and, not forgetting toil, and 
 suffering, and weariness — not forgetting the degradation of 
 sin, and the constant wrestling of the higher with the baser 
 nature — exclaimed, with deep enthusiasm, " What a sublime 
 thing to be a man ! " 
 
 A songster was missed from the woodland ; and that same 
 day knelt one in prayer ; and then, humble, but strong, and 
 happier far than butterfly or bird, went cheerfully fcrtn on 
 man's great mission — to do good. 
 
280 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 A WELCOME for thy child, father, 
 
 A welcome give to-day ; 
 Although she may not come to thee 
 
 As when she went away ; 
 Though never in that olden nest 
 
 Is she to fold her wing. 
 And live again the days when first 
 
 She learned to fly and sing. 
 
 Oh, happy were those days, father, 
 
 When, gathering round thy knee, 
 Seven sons and daughters called thee sire ; 
 
 We come again — but three ; 
 The grave has claimed thy loveliest ones, 
 
 And sterner things than death 
 Have cast a shadow on thy brow, 
 
 A sigh upon thy breath. 
 
 And one — one of the three, father, 
 
 Now comes to thee to claim 
 Thy blessing on another lot, 
 
 Upon another name ; 
 Where tropic suns forever burn, 
 
 Far over land and wave. 
 The child whom thou hast loved would make 
 
 Her hearth-stone and her grave. 
 
 Thou 'It never wait again, father. 
 
 Thy daughter's coming tread ; 
 She ne'er will see thy face on earth, 
 
 So count her with thy dead ; 
 
TO MY FATHER. 2SI 
 
 But in the land of life and love, 
 
 Not sorrowing as now, 
 She '11 come to thee, and come, perchance, 
 
 With jewels on her brow. 
 
 Perchance; — I do not know, father, 
 
 If any part be given 
 My untaught liand among the guides 
 
 Who point the way to heaven ; 
 But it would be a joy untold 
 
 Some erring foot to stay ; 
 Remember this, when gathering round, 
 
 Ye for the exile pray. 
 
 Let nothing here be changed, father; 
 
 I would remember all, 
 Where every ray of sunshine rests, 
 
 And where the shadows fall. 
 And now I go ; with faltering foot 
 
 I pass the threshold o'er. 
 And gaze through tears on that dear roof, 
 
 My shelter never-more. 
 VOL. n. 24* 
 
FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 
 
 " Farewell : 
 I may not dwell 
 'Mid flowers and music ever." 
 
 The hours of my childhood have gone back to their old 
 obliviousness in eternity; youth is on the wing, fleeing — 
 fleeing — fleeing. There is but a narrow shadow lying 
 between my foot and the grave which it seeks — a veil of gray 
 mist, that a few to-days will dissolve into — what ? — the 
 sickening perfume of dead flowers, or incense grateful to 
 Heaven ? 
 
 This is a beautiful, bright world, made for pure beings. 
 At its birth angels walked among its cool shadows, bent to 
 its bright waters, and inhaled its perfumes; and they fled 
 not, those holy ones, till their wings drooped beneath the 
 defiling heaviness of sin. A false breath played upon the 
 brow of man ; heedlessly he opened his bosom to it ; and 
 there it at once nestled, a fatal poison, ever distilling venom. 
 Still the flowers bloomed ; still the waters flashed and 
 sparkled in the warm light; still the breezes waved their 
 censers laden with rich perfume ; still the birds carolled ; the 
 stars smiled ; leaves rustled, kissing each other lovingly ; 
 dews slumbered in lily bells and the hearts of roses, and 
 crept around withering roots, and revived fading petals ; the 
 sun, and the moon, and the silver twilight, each wrought its 
 own peculiar broidery on earth and sky ; but upon the flow- 
 ers, and the fresh leaves, and the waters, and the breezes, 
 the gay, beautiful birds, and the silent dews, on sun, and 
 moon, and stars, on all, everything of earth, rested the taint 
 of sin. In the morning of this little day of time, what more 
 deliciously sweet than to recline among the blossoming luxu- 
 
FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 283 
 
 nance of Eden, and worship God, there, in his own temple ? It 
 was the object of life to enjoy its own blissfulness, and praise 
 Him who gave it. But when, on the whisper of the Tempter, 
 sin came, it brought a change. The poison hid itself among 
 all the beautiful things that we most love, engendering thorns 
 and producing discord : it festered in our hearts, revelled in 
 our veins, and polluted our lips, until the angels veiled their 
 faces in disgust, and man was left with " no eye to pity, no 
 arm to save." Then, from the dense cloud, broke forth a ray 
 of glory ; a crowned Head looked out in pity ; divine lips 
 bent to the poisoned Avound ; and lost, ruined man found a 
 Saviour. He was heralded by angels ; angels are still whis- 
 pering, "Look! look! live!" that Saviour is standing with 
 love-beaming eyes and arms extended; but men are blind 
 and cannot see his beauty. Shall I sit down among thy 
 flowers, sweet Alderbrook, while my Redeemer is dishonored, 
 and my brethren, the sons of those who walked with God 
 in Eden, die ? 
 
 "Faultless, if blinded?"— " The just God will not be 
 angry with those who, not knowing, have not loved him ?" 
 i Who has said it ? 
 
 ' Ah! '^'^ The hivisible thi7igs of Him from the creation of the 
 \ world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that 
 are made, even his eternal poiver and Godhead ; so that they 
 are without excuse." The beautiful page of hill and dale 
 and sky is spread open to all. I go to teach my brother how 
 to read it. 
 
 Dear, beautiful Alderbrook ! I have loved thee as I shall 
 never love any other thing that I may not meet after the sun 
 of Time is set. Everything, from the strong old tree that 
 wrestles with the tempest, down to the amber moss-cup 
 cradling the tiny insect at its roots, and the pebble sleeping 
 at the bottom of the brook, — everything about thee has been 
 laden with its own peculiar lesson. Thou art a rare book, 
 my Alderbrook, written all over by the Creator's finger. 
 Dearly do I love the holy truths upon thy pages ; but, " I 
 ntiay not dwell 'mid flowers and music ever ;" and I go 
 
284 FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 
 
 hence, bearing another, choicer book in my hand, and echo- 
 ing the words of the angels, " Look ! look ! live ! " 
 
 I stand on the verge of the brook, which seems to me more 
 beautiful than any other brook on earth, and take my last 
 survey of the home of my infancy. The cloud, which has 
 been hovering above the trees on the verge of heaven, opens ; 
 the golden light gushes forth, bathing the hill-top, and stream- 
 ing down its green declivity even to my feet ; and I accept 
 the encouraging omen. The angel of Alderbrook, " the min- 
 istering spirit" sent hither by the Almighty, blesses me. 
 Father in heaven, thy blessing, ere I go ! 
 
 Hopes full of glory, and oh, most sweetly sacred ! look out 
 upon me from the future ; but, for a moment, their beauty is 
 clouded. My heart is heavj'' with sorrow. The cup at my 
 lip IS very bitter. Heaven help me ! White hairs are bend- 
 ing in submissive grief, and age-dimmed eyes are made 
 dimmer by the gathering of tears. Young spirits have lost 
 their joyousness, young lips forget to smile, and bounding 
 hearts and bounding feet are stilled. Oh, the rending of ties, 
 knitted at the first opening of the infant eye and strengthened 
 by numberless acts of love, is a sorrowful thing ! To make 
 the grave the only door to a meeting with those in whose 
 bosoms we nestled, in whose hearts we trusted long before 
 we knew how precious was such love and trust, brings with 
 it an overpowering weight of solemnity. But a grave is 
 yawning for each one of us ; and is it much to choose whether 
 we sever the tie that binds us here, to-day, or lie do^vn on the 
 morrow? Ah, the " weaver's shuttle" is flying; the " flower 
 of the grass " is withering ; the span is almost measured ; the 
 tale nearly told ; the dark valley is close before us — tread we 
 with care ! 
 
 My mother, we may neither of us close the other's dark- 
 ened eye, and fold the cold hands upon the bosom; we 
 may neither of us watch the sod greening and withering 
 above the other's ashes ; but there are duties for us even 
 more sacred than these. But a few steps, mother — diffi- 
 cult the path may be, but very bright — and then we put 
 
FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK 2S5 
 
 on the robe of immortality, and meet to part nevermore 
 And we shall not be apart even on earth. There is an elec 
 trie chain passing from heart to heart through the throne of 
 the Eternal; and we may keep its links all brightly bur 
 nished by the breath of prayer. Still pray for me, mother 
 as in days gone by. — Thou bidst me go. The smile comes 
 again to thy lip and the light to thine eye, for thou hast plea 
 sure in the sacrifice. Thy blessing ! Farewell, my mother, 
 and ye loved ones of the same hearth-stone ! 
 
 Bright, beautiful, dear Alderbrook, farewell ! 
 
 Fannt Foeestek, 
 
 June 1, 1846. 
 
 END OF VOL. O. 
 
3W7-9