l2




THIE
LAST LEAF FRO0I SUNNY SIDE.
BY
H. TRUS TA,
AUTHOR OF a" PEEP AT NUMBER FIVYE "  TELL-TALE), 
"SUNNY-SIDE,' XETO., ETC.
WITH
A MEMO-RIAL OF THE AUTHOR,
BY
AUSTIN PHELPS.
TENTH THOUSAND,
BO ST ON:
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY.
1853.




Entered according  to Act of Congress in the year 1853, by
AUSTIN PHELPS,
tn the Clerk1'  Oflcc of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
ANDOVER: J. D..F LAGG
Steaeotyper anid Printers




CONTENTS.
M EM ORIA,...........................   5
THE PURITAN FAMILY.
I.  The Landing........................... 115
II.  Neighbors,............................ 121
III.  Winter in the' Wildernesse,'............  127
IV.  The Puritan Home....................  135
V.  The Prayer of Faith,................... 144
VI.  MeLcy Whitman,......................  152
VII.  Hetty in Trouble,..................... 160
VIII.  Cloven Feet,...........................   170
IX.  A  Hint,.........................   174
X.  The Escape,..........................   179
XI.  Life in Death......................... 186
XII.  The Retrospect....................... 194
TH'E- CLOUDY  MORNING,...................... 197
THE COUNTRY  COUSINS.
I.  The Start,.....................  235
II.  The Arrival,.....24........ 240




iv                     CONTENTS.
III.  The Next Morning,................. J i
IV.  Seeking Places,................ 2451
V.  iRuth's Introduction,................    7
VI.  Miss Darling.........................   2(;3
VII.  Money and Dress....................
VIII. A Chapter of Troubles.................  
IX.  A Change,............... I........... 
X. [Fruits,................................ 2
XI.'A  Tea Visit..........................  
XII.  How much ought I to do............... 295
XIII.  How much shall I give....    10
XIV. Another Change,..... 321
XV.  The Return Home,..................... 32
THE NIGHT AFTER CHRIST3MAS,................  S28




M E M OR I AL.
IT is related of an eminent Puritan Divine,
that, but a few hours before his death, he called
for a large collection of manuscripts, containing
the most valuable records of his life, and directed
that they should be burned in his presence. The
Christian world have sympathized with his biographer in lamenting the irreparable loss. Yet,
upon second thought, we cannot but revere his
memory the more for that single act. We can
scarcely say that we would part with it, even for
the recovery of the lost treasure. It is the very
nature of some of the most noble virtues, to seek
concealment. They cannot but choose to he unseen. They come not into the world conscious of
the high mission they fulfil; they come among us,
simply to exist. They ask but the privilege of
being. They perform  their mission in ignorance
of its import. They are all unconscious of the
bland enchantment which they breathe'around
them- with which the very atmosphere of their
presence is laden. When their charm is felt, and
1*




6              3 M M  P RI AL.
the world throngs around them, as it will, to make
obeisance to them, they hide themselves beneath
the drooping wings of evening, and look with an
eye of maidenly reproach, on him who would bring
them forth to the broad day to be seen of men.
Such virtues formed in part the character of her
of whose life it is proposed here to give a simple
narrative - and they have laid restraint upon the
effort.  Her strictly private journal, in which she
had recorded the details of her religious history
for the last twenty years of her life, she committed in her'last hours to the writer of these pages,
in solemn trust that he should give it to the flames
without inspection of its contents by any human
eye. The most valuable records for the present
purpose are thus removed beyond our reach. The
spirit of that trust has been extended also to many
fragmentary records that remained. It is necessarily, therefore, but a broken narrative that is
here offered as a memorial of her.
AIRS. ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS was born
in Andover, Massachusetts, on the thirteenth of
August, 1815.  She was the fifth child of Professor Moses Stuart, and the eldest of his daughters,
wvith the exception of one who died in childhood.
IIer ancestry in the maternal line, she was accustomed with pleasure to trace back to the family of




rEM  ORIAL.                  7
"4Old Governor Winthrop." The chief peculiarities of her natural temperament she inherited from.
her father, whom  in many other respects she
strongly resembled. His character could hardly
fail to exercise a formative influence on that of a
child even less positively disposed than she to sympathize with it. Among her earliest recollections
were those of her father's severe self-discipline.
In a paper found among her manuscripts since her
decease, in which she had recorded some reminiscences of her childhood, the first record is the following: "One thing made a powerful impression
on me; it was my waking early on cold winter
mornings, and looking fi'om my western window
into the wood-house chamber. There was father,
sawing wood by the dim light of his lantern. I
used to wonder, as I lay snug in bed, dreading to
hear' the first bell,' how father could force himself
out so early when it was so cold and so dark, to
saw wood. When I grew older, and learned that
he often did this after a wakeful night full of tossings to and fro, with snatches of unquiet and
dreamy sleep, and when I saw him coming in to
the breakfast-table exhausted and nervous, it taught
me how high a price he set upon those golden
morning hours."
The scene from  that'western window,' with
many others like it, affected her through life. She




8               MIEMORIAL.
learned to cherish a more than filial reverence for
her father's character. It roused her; it stimulated her to effort; it gave definiteness to her
objects of effort; it sustained the steadiness of
her exertions; its influence was exhibited even more
distinctly than before, in the last year of her
life; and in her last hours, her very features assumed a striking resemblance to his.
The predominance of her nervous system over
every other part of her physical nature, gave an
early and positive development to all her natural
tastes and traits of' character.  The movements
of her mind were naturally rapid, and strongly
marked, and yet accompanied with very great and
often excessive delicacy of sensibility.  Her temperament favored the formation of a vigorous yet
feminine character.
Very early in life, she manifested a keen sensitiveness to forms of beauty, both in nature and in
art.  The natural scenery at Andover had no
small influence in forming her mental habits. Her
letters to her young correspondents abound with
enthusiastic expressions of her fondness for the
hills and rocks, and " woody by-roads," and " speaking elms," and more than all, the " gorgeous sunsets," in the midst of which her childhood was
passed. In one of her little Sabbath school books,
she has mirrored forth the feelings of her youthful




3IEM3ORIAL.                  9
heart on a survey of Andover Hill after a sleetstorm; when the elm-trees "were cased in thousands of glittering icicles," and'bending beneath
the weight of' their shining armor, branch bore
down upon branch, forming what seemed a solid
roof of diamonds over the path."  "To her awestruck mind, it seemed as if God dwelt in that
shining roof above her; that she could see Him
and hear Him." The setting of the sun associated
itself so strongly with her earliest conceptions of
the immortality of the soul, that it became her
choicest emblem of that truth. She never wearied
of watching the infinite diversity of sunset pictures, as seen from her favorite'western window.'
She possessed, naturally, a passionate taste for
painting and statuary.  The first of these was
her favorite recreation through life; and in her
later years, such was the pleasure she derived
from it, that it became a part of her daily occupation.  The first serious enthusiasm which she
felt, as a child, in any plans for mature life, was
awakened by the purpose which she at one time
entertained, of devoting herself to the labors of
this art. She never permitted an opportunity to
go by unimproved, of visiting collections of the
works of great artists.  The occasion of her annual visit to the Gallery of the Boston Athenaun,
was for many years one of' her happiest anniver



10                EM O R I AL.
saries.  She often chose, in preference to all
others, that mode of spending the anniversary of
her marriage.  It was one motive to the fatal exertions she made during the last year of her life,
that she might earn with her own pen the means
of visiting the repositories of Art in the Old
World. Although neither her own proficiency in
painting, nor her limited means of gratifying her
taste by the labors of others, enabled her to
gather around her much that would be valued by
a critic, yet the desolateness of the home she has
left is relieved by the evidences of her taste, with
which it is filled. To the ear of affection, its silent walls are eloquent in the thoughts they
breathe of her.
She developed also, in early life, a taste for
music; and through life was often dependent on its
power to soothe her agitated mind, or to elevate
her depressed spirits. Her sensitiveness to it
was attested by her speechless struggling with
suppressed emotion, and the tears which she could
not suppress, when for the first time she listened
to the Seventh Symphony of Beethoven.  Her
imagination often disturbed her sleep with dreams
of harmony, from  which she would awake in
tears, and which she could not describe but in
terms of rapture.  So lasting were the impressions of some of these dreams, that they would




I EM  ORIA L.             11
not leave her until she had committed a record of
them to paper.
Her taste for the fine arts, even before she
seemed to herself to possess any religious principle, had mellowed and refined her character; and
it is the more interesting to her friends in their
remembrances of her, because of its association
with certain passages in her religious experience,
which will be noticed in the sequel. Very closely
allied with it in her nature, was her nice sense of
honor.  She manifested this early and always.
Without a knowledge of her sensitiveness in this
respect, a person could not understand her cllaracter. By nature, her conscience found its most
frequent, if not its strongest, development, in a
regard for the honorable and magnanimous. Her,sense of right appeared to be blended with her
sense of the noble. Her most intimate friends
find it most difficult to conceive of her as cherishing a mean sentiment. The chosen friend of her
childhood writes: "I cannot remember a single
instance in which I thought she ever intended to
deceive; and she never said or did a thing for
display."  Her contempt of dishonorable conduct
in others was prompt and keen, and fearless in
expression. Yet it was one of the singular evidences of the nobleness of her own nature, that
she was never quick to discern this defect in the




12             M1IE I o RIATL.
conduct' of others.  It was often fascinating to
observe the childlike artlessness, with which she
would attribute to others honorable motives, of
actions the interpretation of which, as the world
would give it, she seemed unable to understand.
As respects severe studies, her early tastes inclined to the study of mental philosophy and the
mathematics. Her love of natural objects does
not seem to have produced any fondness for natural science. Singular as it may appear, she had
none of her father's predilection for the study of
languages; it was rather disagreeable to her.
Her favorite department in childhood was that of'
the "belles lettres;" and in this, her childhood
was marked by uncommon mental activity.  She
very early exhibited *a desire to originate trains
of thought, rather than to accumulate the trea2
sures of others; and this was characteristic of
her mental habits to the end of life.
As early as at the age of ten years, she developed a tact in narrative composition. She was
accustomed at that period, to amuse the domestics
of the family and their friends, with her extemporaneous stories; and among the relies of her writings at that time, are found little volumes of narratives which she composed for the entertainment
of her younger sisters.  Her own earliest recollections of her mental history, were those of the




X E M O J, I A L.         13
tales she wrote, or of the materials for them
which she was constantly inventing and arranging
in her mind.
Her natural temperament was not well fitted to
produce a life of equable enjoyment.  Even in
childhood, she seems to have been subject to fluctuations of hope and despondency.  She did not
herself regard her youth as the happiest portion;
of her life. It was not, all things considered, arm
unhappy period; it could not well have been so,
in the midst of such a home as it was her privilege to enjoy.  She often referred to it in later'
life, with enthusiastic gratitude for the parentall
influences which were at once so vigorous and yet,
so genial. The affections of her childhood never'
decayed; they rather grew with her growth and,!
strengthened with her strength. Still, such was,
the quickness and power of her sensibilities, thatwhatever moved her, stirred the depths of her'
soul. She lived in a world of emotion. Any occasion of despondency took a strong hold upon;.her. She describes herself, in a letter to a friend,.
as having been by nature wild and wayward andimpetuous in her feelings, yet too sensitive to utter them often to any human being. An instinctwhich she could not resist impelled her to hoeld
herself in reserve from her nearest friends.  So
2




14             MEM ORIAL.
far as concerns expressionz of her inner life, she
passed the early periods of her youth in a solitude which is not very common even to sensitive
natures. This she afterwards regarded as a great
misfortune. Especially in its effects upon her
subsequent religious experience, it seemed to her
the occasion of irreparable evils. In a letter
written a few years ago, to a young friend who
was meditating a public profession of religion,.ehe remarks, with a severity in her judgment of'Herself which at that time had long been habitual
~with her: "I wish I could say anything to make
you see how deeply I regret having indulged my
natural reserve on religious subjects earlier in
life. It has made rimy Christian character onesided, and shut me out from many avenues of influence. Do not start in your Christian course
with reserve and half-revealings.  Speak- speak'out, openly, fully, honestly. Let it be called enthusiasm, or cant, or what it may. I wish you
could feel the importance of this, as I do." " You
love the Saviour, and why should you hesitate to
-speak of Him?"
It was indeed unfortunate, that a mind so active'as hers, should, from the very first of its earnest
workings, have been so constantly introverted
unpon itself. As might have been expected, her
early habits of religious feeling became morbid,




MEMORIAL.                 15
and tended strongly to bind her thoughts to some
one narrow circle.  The central object in that
circle was, Death. Her own record on this point
will best explain it. On a stray leaf found among
her papers, she has written as follows: " All my
early religious emotions were concentrated on the
one thought of death. I used to think much about
it.  It gave a melancholy direction to all my
childish feelings.  It was a naked sword ever
hanging over me by a hair. My nurse used to
take me to almost all the funerals that took place
in the village, and at last I was fond of going to
them; not because death had become any less
terrible, but because there was something in the
exciting stir of so strong an emotion as deep
grief, which suited my nature. I loved to have
my feelings powerfully worked upon; and in that
still village no agent could do this like death."
6" I can remember, as far back as when I was but
three years old, and firom that time onward, having again and again cried myself to sleep, because
I must some- time or other see my mother die."
The death of her mother was the affliction which,
in the prospect, often clouded her path, but from
which God took her away. Indeed, the invalid
life of her mother, who for many years was supposed to be on the borders of the grave, was probably the chief, if not the only, original cause of




16               1 E AM ORIAL.
the fascination which death acquired in the mind
of. the daughter.
The morbid association of her childish feelings
with death, was never wholly broken up. In mature life, she often could not withstand the gloom
with which thoughts of death oppressed her.
Long after she had learned to think and speak of
her own death with a calm hopefulness, she could
not meet with composure the death of friends.
Their lifeless remains - the bier - the pallthe tolling bell - the slow procession - the graze
-each, and all, were intensely painful to her.
They seemed to realize the idea of death to her
physical senses. They formed permanent scenes
in her mind's eye, remaining sometimes for weeks,
and even months.  She has often refirained from
sleeping for many hours of a night, because her
imagination was so much more painfully active in
the creation of such scenes in her dreams, than
in her waking thoughts.
Her early experience in this respect, was one
of the occasions of her subsequent interest in the
composition of books for children. It was her
conviction, tlhat much of our Sabbath School literature gives an unnatural prominence to the
single idea of human mortality.  This appeared
to her to be too often the only impressive thought,
which a book was designed to convey; and in




MEMO RI AL.                  17
many instances, she thought the legitimate effect
of' much that was written for the instruction of
children, was to associate in their minds early
piety with the necessity of an early death. She
believed this to be unnatural.  Yet, her own experience in the composition of books for the
young, taught her how easily a writer may be
tempted into this error by the prospect of artistic
effect. She gave to this subject much thought, and
has recorded briefly the result, in her own conviction that "there is something wrong —morbidly
precocious, in the mind of that child whose
thoughts are all colored by the idea of dying."
"The strongest appeals to the hearts of the young,"
she adds, "cannot be made by trying to force constantly upon them the thought that they are mortal. You cannot produce thus, more than a momentary good impression; it is crossing nature."
She did  not believe any such "crossing" of;" nature" to be necessary to an impression of religious truth on young Mnlnds. She has frequently
spoken of the abundance of materials for impression, which are furnished by the simple facts of
Scriptural truth, and which, as a whole, are eminently cheering in their influence.  The vigorous
system of religious doctrine with which she sympathized, left no apology, as she thought, for an
unnatural protrusion of' the image of death, in the
2*




18              MI EM OR IA L.
representations of religion which are made to
children.  This view led her to propose to herself
as the object of all that she wrote for Sabbath
Schools, the simple and natural portraiture of religious principle as it is in life, rather than as it is
in death.
AT the age of sixteen, she left her father's house
to enter the Mount Vernon school, an institution
-then existing in Boston, under the care of Rev.
Jacob Abbott, in whose family she resided for the
greater part of two years.  This period was exceedingly fruitful of events which affected her
whole chlaracter.  The secluded life she lhad previously led, rendered her transition to a large city
a great event.  New scenes, the formation of new
acquaintances, and subjection to a new discipline,
could not but impress a naqture so susceptible as
hers.  She ever afterwards cherished a grateful
recollection of the skill and vigilance, with which
r1t. Abbott at once checked and stinaulated the
development of' her hitherto unformed character.
Her mind now unfblded itself rapidly, and with
increased vigor of tone; lier tastes matured; and
especially did lher predilection for narrative writ-'ing derive advantage, from  her intercourse with
one'who wa$s himself a writer of such rare excellence in that style of composition.  It was under




I EM O RIAIAL.             19
his direction, that her first attempts were made in
writing for the press. They were in the form of
brief articles for a Religious Magazine of which
he was at that time the Editor. Those of her
companions at the Mt. Vernon School who still
survive, will remember some of the contributions
which she made to their amusement, under the
signature of "H E. Trusta,"-the same that she appended, twenty years later, to "The Sunny Side."
Her highest and almost only ambition in her first
efforts, was to write something that should attract
the notice of her father. It is doubtful whether
any subsequent success ever gave her keener
pleasure, than she felt when she first received from
his lips the hearty "1Well done," after the publication of one of her simple stories. But a few
weeks before she went to join himn in lHeaven, she
recalled with filial pride,. the occasion, the hour,
the trepidation she felt, the quick look of surprise
followed by the smile on her father's face, when
she put into his hands the few small bills she had
just received as a remuneration -for her first toils
of authorship; and the playful indignation with'which he tossed them back to her over the dinner
table, saying, "I want none of that."''"Her
heart," she said, in speaking of the occurrence,
"was as full as it could hold; she was happier
than a queen."  The narration of this little inci



20              ME OI 0 RIAL.
dent brought back the life to her pale cheek, as
the four hundred thousand readers of one of her
late productions could not do it.
During this period of her first residence in
Boston, she made many trials of her skill in
writing for publication, in some of which she was
successful, in others, not. One of her fugitive
pieces, published while she was a member of
the Mt. Vernon School, was very extensively circulated in various forms, being republished in
England and returned to this country accredited
to an English authoress, and afterwards published
also in France. For many years it was a standard
article in reading-books for children, and it still
reappears, occasionally, among the selections in
the' Children's Department' of our religious newspapers. Little instances of success of this kind,
were not fitted to induce the youthful authoress to
lay aside her pen. Indeed, from that time it was
never idle, till, at Death's bidding, it was laid down
forever.  Her letters, written during that period,
indicate the germinating of a sense of religious
responsibility for any power she might possess or
acquire, to'influence others. She seems to have
directed her attention with earnestness, to a study
of human character as it is seen in common life.
To a young companion, after expressing a trembling sense of the responsibility of those who may




-l EIMORI AL.             21
have inzfluence within their reach, she writes: "We
must not be idle - we must work, studying ]human
nature, that we may find the hidden springs and
touch them to any chord we please."  "It is no
trifle to hold even a silken thread around one
heart."
The period of her residence in Mr. Abbott's
family, is marked by the development of her first
effectual convictions on the subject of religion. Up
to this time, her religious opinions do not appear
to have been the subject of much reflection; nor
does she seem to have experienced anything unusual to children who have been religiously educated. Indeed, the fidelity of Christian parents
appears not to have produced in her case so great
distinctness of religious convictions, as that which
commonly results from such fidelity. The exclusiveness with which the idea of Death possessed
her childish experience on the subject of religion,
shut out, apparently, much of the more valuable
reflection which the children of Christian parents
often have in early life. In the friagmentary
record she has left, of the fascination with which
funerals affected her, she thus speaks: " The deep
solemnity which such seasons left upon my mind,
was the result of fear, and of that indefinable awe
with which a child looks over beyond the grave.
I used at such times to go often to meetings. I




22:1MEMIORIAL.
would pray much, that I might be forgiven and
accepted for Christ's sake. But I had no definite
ideas of w/at it was, for which I must be forgiven.
I read a great deal about dying, and about the
soothing presence of' Christ with his followers in
their dying hour.  When my fears were wide
awake, as they used most often to be at night, I
used to repeat before going to sleep,'Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are, etc.'"
She elsewhere speaks of having been often
anxiously interested in the salvation of her soul,
and she adds respecting these occasions, "They
were mostly at times of unusual excitement, caused
by some sudden death, or by a protracted meeting.
I particularly remember a visit of Doctor Nettleton's at Andover, and his' inquiry-meetings,' all of
which I faithfully attended. None of these impressions, however, were lasting; they died away
with the exciting cause."  This last remark must
be understood as true, only so far as concerns the
event of her immediate conversion, which is the
main subject of the sketch. In a letter to a friend,
written not long before this, she speaks of Doctor
Nettleton's visit to Andover, thus: "I remember
once at an inquiry-meeting, I could not speak to
him. He seemed to read my face without words.




MEM   r IAL.              23
Then, in a low tone, - I can hear it now, - he said
to me' Keep near to God —keep near to God."'
This single remark, dropped in the stillness of a
solemn hour, never left her. It often recurred to
her mind afterwards- even in the last year of
her life she spoke of it —and she distinctly associated it with her hopeful conversion, which took
place several years after the occasion on which
the remark was uttered.  She says of it, to one
of her correspondents, " It was the first still small
voice of peace and holy joy that made itself felt
to me."
The more general sketch above referred to, proceeds with an account of the manner in which her
mind was again engaged in religious inquiries. It
is interesting as an illustration of the diversity of
God's ways. It shows how He adapts His grace to
idiosyncrasies of temperament in those whom he
purposes to save. He leads them'by a way which
they knew not.' They' hear a word behind' them,
saying,'This is the way.' Often, silence is made
more eloquent than speech.
The narrative of the'great change' is continued. — "The course which Mlr. Abbott adopted,
was entirely the reverse of that to which I had
been accustomed, and which I expected. Instead
of urging God's claims upon me, as others had often done, he preserved an unbroken silence on the




24t:3 E31 0 R I A iL.
subject of personal religion.  This surprised me,
and:after awhile made me uneasy. I brought myself at length to ask him for the ceiuse of his silence towards me on that subject.  He told me
that he considered the circumstances under which
I had been brought up to have been such, that
every motive which could influence me had been
already urged, and that I had deliberately made
llamyr choice; and therefore that it remained for him
only to fit me for happiness as far as it could be had
in this world. This startled me, and led me to
look more earnestly into my heart.  From  this
beginning, I was led on gradually, and to myself
almost imperceptibly, until I began to dare to hope
that I had become a child of God, and to wish to.
take upon myself the name of Christ. I was conscious of a great change in me. Thoughts of God
no longer filled me with horror; but a view of His
holiness and purity was granted to me, which filled
me with inexpressible joy. I felt that life was an' unspeakable gift,' because there was a God. I desired most earnestly to approach as near to His
holiness as I was able, but many struggles taught
me' how strong a hold sin had in this heart. Here,
the atonement of Christ first met me with power.
I felt driven to it; and in view of it, even such a
sinning heart still dared to look up and struggle on,
feeling that its heaviest burden Christ himself bore.




M E MO R I A L.            2
I began to desire to give myself wholly to God ein
Chzrist. I wished to live and die for Him. I longed
to lose myself in Him. I wished to indulge no
plans, nor purposes, nor feelings, nor thoughts, of
which love to Him was not the guiding spring.
To live for His glory, seemed all that rendered life
worth possessing.  If I must cease to do this, I
would also cease to live. This was a great change
from my former self, and I have dared to hope that
it was God's own work."
The' gradual,' and to herself' almost imperceptible,' process of which she speaks, as having preceded the dawn of Christian hope in her heart,
was protracted through a period of nearly two
years. HIer susceptible nature could not but be
stirred to its very depths by earnest religious inquiry. Her experience was rendered the more
tumultuous in its character, by the fact that this
inquiry was awakened just at the time when her
whole intellectual being was opening itself to new
influences, and approaching the maturity of womanhood. The great thoughts of Life, and Death,
and Destiny, and God, swayed.her feelings impetuously to and fro. Often, for long periods, her
soul was too powerfully agitated to admit of her
resting in calm hope.
At least, such was the character of her expe3




2 6             I.1G1 O R I A L.
rience, as it seemed to develop itself to her own
consciousness, and as she recalled it in subsequent
years.  Yet, even at that early period, she had acquired a strength of character which prevented any
such tumultuous exhibition of her feelings to others. The impression which others received of the
workings of her mind, may be best inferred from
the judgment expressed  by Mr. Abbott, who
writes with regard to that passage in her history,'"My impression is, decidedly, that her religious
experience, in all its stages, though connected with
deep feeling within, was very calm, quiet, and
gentle, in all the external manifestations of it. I:
do not think there were any great fluctuations of
feeling. There always: seemed to me to be a certain principle of momentum, so to' speak, in Elizabeth's mind, which gave great steadiness to all its
action."
It was with the utmost difficulty that she brought
herself to communicate her feelings on the subject
of religion, even with the pen, and to those who
possessed her entire confidence. The inquiry which
opened her intercourse with MIr. Abbott on the
subject, cost her a severe struggle; and so sensitive was she to the sound of her own voice in the
utterance of religious feeling, that to the very last
of her conferences with her instructor respecting




M E Mr oR I Ax L.           27
her Christian hopes, she often preferred that her
pen should speak for her, although she was an inmate of his family.
From this excessive sensibility in respect to an
expression of religious experience, she never wholly recovered. She mourned over it, weeping in
secret places; and it was the occasion of many
struggles.  The brief record given above of her
early experience on the subject of religion, was
prepared many years afterwards, at the request
of a Committee of a Church with which she was
about to connect herself, -and this mode of communication was adopted, because, after many fruitless efforts, she found herself unable to appear before them and speak of that which God had done
for her soul.
Yet, this very delicacy of her too sensitive heart
gave a depth of tenderness to her'first love' of
her Saviour. That love was mingled with a feeling
of self-reproach, as if she wronged him by being
a mute f'Liend. It was one of the burdens of her
daily supplication, that her tongue might be unloosedl, to praise Him. To one who knows the
earnestness of her soul's desire in this respect,
there is a tearful pathlos in her appeal to her young
friend, after an humble confession of her own infirmity:'"You love the Saviour, and why should
you hesitate to speak of Him?"  Many of her let



28              ME M  o RIAL.
ters, written at about the time when she first indulged Christian hope, breathe the same spirit.
Her most importunate desires appear to have been
excited for the salvation of her companions. The
love of Christ was the unfailing theme of her correspondence with them. She. could not'speakl of
Him,' but she could enter into her closet, and having
shut to the door, under the Eye that seeth in secret,
she could pour forth her very soul, in written expostulations with her young fiiends. The delicacy
of her own feelings about these unstudied effusions
of her heart, forbids the transfer of them to these
pages; but a glimpse of the genial spirit that pervades them, may be caught from a transcript of a
single scene in one of the little volumes which
she has herself given to the world.  It is the
scene in the " Peep at;Number Five," in which
she records an interview between Grace Web'ter
and the Pastor.  Of all the characters in that volume, Grace Webster was her favorite; and to
one who knew her early history, this was not surprising. That character, rather than others which
are more fully delineated, drew her to itself by a
secret cord of which she was almost wholly unconscious. Without intending to do so, she has in
reality depicted herself in the following scene, so far
as concerns her early experience of love to Christ.
"Grace Webster was very engaging in her ap



Mi E Ao R I A L..           29
pearance; her manners were gentle, and she was
as timid as a fawn. Mr. Holbrook was at once
nluch interested in her; he tried to converse with
her, but could induce her to say but little.  H1er
mother, who had been watching her with intense
feeling, at lengtth spoke of the recent interest manifested in the church meetings, and of the seriousness of many of t.le young people, - tand our
Grace,' added she, with a faltering voice and a
burst of tears,'and our Grace wants to talk with
you.' Upon this she rose, and immediately left
the room.  Old Mr. Webster seemed to understand what was going on, for he resumed his seat
by the window, and his newspaper~  lie was very
deaf, and Grace was now alone with her minister,
who at once understood and entered into all her
feelings.  I-e seemed to know just what she wished to say. Step by step he gently led her on to
breathe out that confession, which, as )yet, she had
dared only to whisper in her closet to God.  Her
color came and went, - her breathing was rapid,
-her heart beat quickly,- and her deep blue
eye dilated with intense feeling when the young
hope, just born in her heart, found a voice; when
she ventured to speak of it to her minister, and
say that she hoped she had been forgiven, that
her name was enrolled in the'Lamb's book of
life.' From  that moment new ties bound her to
3*




30             M EMO  R IAL.
him. Her fears vanished, and, looking up into
his face with her earnest, tearful eyes, as a daughter looks to her father, she opened to him all her
heart. She told him of.' her joy, now that she
had found her Saviour; how much she had pined
for just such a friend, and that she now found in
Him all and more than all she had been seeking,
-perfect fulness of sympathy and love. Was it
not kind in Him, to come and thus fill her heart?
- she asked, was ever love like His? - how had
she lived so long without Him?  And yet,' said
she,'I think I should have been without Him
now, had it not been for you. I was interested in
you, and I believed every word you said. When
you preached so much and prayed so much about
the Saviour, and about trusting Him, I could not
forget it. On Sundays and on week days I thought
of it, -I knew that I was not loving Him, and I
had no peace until I began to pray to Iim, and I
did pray until I found Him   no, until He found
me.'                  *       *I"Mr. Holbrook rose and took his leave, and
Grace slipped away to her own room, and locked
her door, that she might be alone with her Saviour."
THus genially, after a long and cloudy night,
did the daystar arise in the heart of the young




1  NE Al  R I A L.          31
*iseiple. One might have hoped that it should
be the harbinger of a calm summer day. But
such was not, in all its parts, her Christian life.
The elements of a vigorous and yet sensitive
character are not often adjusted well to each
other, withtout many secret conflicts. Those conflicts are the more severe, when such a character
goes through the formative process under the influence of a bold, positive system of religious
faith. A gifted soul, under such a system, strikes
deep clown, in search of foundations for its rest.
It builds not on sands. In the case of the subject
of this sketch, religious character was developed
under infirmities of physical constitution, and
these were agglravated by positive disease.  The
period she had spent in the Mt. Vernon school,
had been one of untiring industry.  HIer studies
had been pursued with indomitable purpose. She
felt that much was expected from her, and her
spirit was too lofty to permit her to do less than
seemed to be due to the expectations of her
friends. She exerted herself beyond her strength.
She concealed the first indications of disease. Her
studies were pursued with unremitting ardor long
after she should have been under the care of a
physician. She was compelled to return to her
father's house, in the spring of 1834, bearing with
her the germs of the cerebral disease, which nearly




32              ME fORIAL 
twenty years afterwards terminated her life. For
three or four years after her return to Andover,
she was afflicted with severe and frequent headaches, accompanied by partial blindness, and followed by temporary paralysis of portions of her
body, and great prostration of the nervous system.
These affections seemed at length to reach a crisis
in an attack of the typhus fever, under which she
sunk so low that her life was despaired of;.and
her father at one timle entered her room to inform
her that she was supposed to be dying.  She recovered, however, and till near the time of her
death, fourteen  years afterwards, she enjoyed
many periods of comfortable health.  But her
constitution was broken, and she was not for any
long time relieved from  morbid affections of the
brain.
Under such circumstances as these, it was not
to be expected that her religious experience should
be as equable in its character as, even with her
variable temperament, it might otherwise have
been.  It is true, her outward life was subjected
to but few disturbing influences; the lines seemed
to fall to her in pleasant places; and to the majority' of those who knew her, it was not manifest
that her life was one of any unusual trial.  But
the few friends who were familiar with-the habits
of her mind, think of her now as having endured




EM]oRIALv 3A
a severity of conflict which was fully known only
to herself and God.  This was especially truce of
the first few years of her Christian life, in whickl
she was most severely afflicted with disease.
Her public profession of her faith in Christ was
an act of -great self-denial to her. Under any circumstances, the publicity of it would have beca
peculiarly painful to her.  It was rendered the
more so by the fact, thatof a large family, she was
the first who had been prepared for such a solenmnity, and also by the fact that she was called to it at
a time when her moral power was weakened by
the feeblen.ess of her healthi  She shrunk from it
as from a fiery ordeal.  For a long time, she could;not bring herself to the point of making the sacrifice, though it does not appear that her Christian
hope was at that time clouded. In a letter (already alluded to), addressed to a young friend
many years after, she thus re1ers to his trial of
her. early faith:"' I well remeamber when I stood just where you
are, and I should like to tell you briefly where I
erred. It required a very great effort for me to
break the ice and come forward, first in the fimily,
and make a profession off religion by joining the
Chapel Church. I shrunk fronm it more than I can.describe; and just as long as I did so, I was unimppy. I think the determining to do that thing,




34soM EM3  OR I ALand the doiw.g of it, cost me more of real effort
than any other one thing I ever did. And yet I
would not, for anything I can now conceiv6 of,
have had the trial less. My love to Christ needed
just that test, and through his mercy I bore it.
Now I want you to feel just this -that you are
to profess your faith in Christ because it is lli's
command, and that you will do it, though all the
world condemn you. It is a matter between your
own soul and God, with which a stranger intermeddleth not. The solemnity is so full of intense
interest that, you may depend on it, you will forget that you are in the presence of any one but
God and holy angels. God bless you."
She became a member of the church of tile
Theological Seminary in Andover, in the moluth.
of July, 1834. Soon after this, the increasing
violence of the disease which had fastened itself
upon her constitution, caused her much physical
suffering, and plunged her into great despondency.
Her way seemed to lie before her in deep shadow.
Her mind was tempted to swing loose from the
faith to which her childhood had been trained.
She saw  little to cheer her in this world, and,
often, as little in the world to come. Those were
years which in after life, she sometimes recalled
with misgivings, lest the cloud which overshadowed
them should gather again. She learned to regard




E MORIAL.                 35
them, however, as.having subjected her character
to a discipline iwhich it needed. They were the
season of her trial, preparatory to the usefulness
and peace which were afterwards to be given herb
They were necessary to subdue her wayward sensibilities, to strengthen her judgment, to rectify
errors of opinion, and to give definiteness to viewsof truth which she had held obscurely. They enlarged and invigorated her character, in every
way.  It is doubtful whether she could at that
time have borne with safety, a more gentle experience.  Such an experience could scarcely have
resulted in that intelligence and that depth of
religious convictions, which were needed for the
best development of a nature so vigorous and impulsive as hers. The truthfulness of this view will
be evident from a glance at one or two phases of
her life at this time.  They are: interesting, not
only as preliminaries to Izer subsequent usefulness,
but as illustrations of the ways in which physical
suffering is often made the instrument of mental
and: religious growth.
The discipline to: which she was at this period.
subjected, led, among other things, to a revision of
some of her views as to the nature of a religious
lifie. The first workings of religious principle in
her mind had given her, as she afterwards thought,
a theorg of practical religion which was not sym



S6              M  3 fEMORIAL.
metrical in its charaeter, and therefore not healthful in its operation.  Hear own experience under
it, first directed her attention to its ineompleteness.
She suffered for the want of occupations which it
did not allow to her. The difficulty which she had
specially to en-counter, was that her conscientious
scruples did not for a long time justify the indulgence of those refined tastes, which were so prominent a feature in the make of her being. They
were less obviously practical than some others.
She could not find a place for them in the routine of
areligious life. A suppression of them seemed to
her inevitable. Life was to her eye, a passage
through a great emergency.  It should admit only
the useful in action and the resolute in mental
habit. It should leave no heart for the enjoyment
of images of beauty or sounds of sweet melody.
Such was the language of the first rude instinct
of her religious nature. She has left on record a
brief account of this passage in her history. The
record was made in an attempt, some years afterwards, to aid the efforts of a young friend who
was struggling with similar affliction.
"Some five or six years ago," she writes, " when
I first began to feel the power of religious obligation, I became an absolute utilitarian. I thought
I had no right to employ my time or my talents
in anything that was not obviously useful —of some




IE O10   I A L.           37
solid, and visible, and tanlgible value to mIself' or
to others. What good did painting do? or music?
or poetry? or a thousand things I loved?  None,
that I could see. So I condemned them all. I
took up Philosophy, and studied, and wrote prose,
and' sewel,  and what cot. M3y  days were all
given utp to the'solid and useful,' as the world
would say. I felt, as every one feels, a sort of
happiness in making a sacrilcee with a good mo-:
tive. This sustained me at times; and the regu —
larity of my employments did more.  Y7et, I wcas
not hapcpy. M3y soul did thirst for the beautiful
and the true.  Suppressed longings, and unsatisfled tastes, and despised capacities, at length took
their revenge. They fretted, and chafed, and
wore upon the delicate frame-work that enclosed
them, until it gave way. Then followed four long,
dreary years.
If I was a Christian then, I certainly was not a
happy one, I was a burden to myself and others.
AMy mind became morbid.      It
was a long process, and a troubled one;. but I
learned at last to be happy as God would have
me be. I found out, that I-Ie who made me knew
better than I, what He made me for; and that
He had not given me tastes, and inclinations, and'
talents, all in themselves innocent, to be supres4




38'M E 3I 0 R IAk L.
sed, and to have others substituted for theml. I
turned over a new leaf;' I did it with trembling;
but I did it. And now, I follow all my natural
tastes, so far as they are in themselves harmless.
I do not hesitate to gratify them, so far as I can,
aiming only at a right regulation of them by the
principles of the Gospel, and trying to feel that
they and I belong to Him who gave them.  If the
bringing to perfection the nature which He gave.me, does not sooner or later fit me for my highest
usefulness to others, it must be because I am not
sincere in my entire consecration of it to Him.
Well, what is the result?  Why, from the very
first fhalf hour in which I broke down the barriers
of my old system, and took up my pencil, I said,'Good bye to doctors.' I have been happier, I
have been better, every way. I can now often
bring to the altar- oh, how much oftener than in
days of yore —the offering of a grateful, cheerful, satisfied Ieart.  I do not find in the Scrip-.tures any jarring with my present view of my
duties in life. And I am taught by the beauty of
morning and evening clouds, by the sunshine, and
the rainbow, and the singing of birds, and the,sweet breath of flowers, that a cultivation of our
tastes for the beautiful in His works and ways,
sweetens life and refines the he'art, and makes it




IE A MouBLAL.               39
easier for us to be holy. You will find sonme
goodness in the hovel where there are flower vines
at the window.''    X      But it is
time my strain was over."
The infirmity here disclosed, is no uncommon
one in the early religious life of cultivated minds.
The two processes of intellectual and of religious
cultivation, do not always, in fact, run parallel
with each other.  The adjustment of them, in its
perfection, is the result of time and growth, often
of mistakes and conflicts. If the subject of this
narrative suffered more than others from  this
cause, it was in part the consequence of her natural strength of character. If she held an opinion,
she held it positively; if she felt a conviction, she
felt it deeply; if she formed a purpose, she clung
to it long —it was so in everything.  Besides,
her first experience of vital religion occurred during the most romantic period of her youth, and
as has been already observed, was simultaneous
also with the attacks of severe bodily disease.  It
is not singular that the revision, of her theory of
religion should have cost her some struggles with
herself:
She was much assisted in this process of adjustment between her natural tastes and the
claims of conscience, by a peculiarity which she
adopted in her mode of studying the Scriptures,




40(            DI E 3I Og I A L.
It was her practice to observe in her reading of
the Bible, all those historical scenes which seemed
to her to be good subjects for representation on
the canvas.  She thus associated her taste for the
arts with her love of God's Word, and rendered
each in turn the handmaid of the other. Amonu
her papers are found fragmentary criticisms, expressing hints of her ideas of many scriptural
scenes, which had thus been made the themes of
her study. A  single specimen of these may be
given here, not for any artistic merit (which it
may or may not have), but merely to illustrate
the original mode which she adopted for the discipline of her own mind, in respect to the tastes
which had caused her so much trouble.
"Matt. 14: 25.'And in the fourth watch of'
the night, Jesus went unto them walking on the
sea.'  This is a very difficult scene, and has
been often attempted; but, so far as T have seen,
with not much success. The ship tossed with the
waves, could be finely represented. There should
be a spirited, not a tame storm. The artist. should
learn whether there are any appearances peculiar
to a storm on the sea of Gallilee. In the dimness, a few anxious faces from  among the fishermen should be partially visible. The confusion
on board should be in keeping with the storm.
Then, in a line of' light -- on a pathway caln as




ME aO RIAL.                41
if oil had stilled the angry foam - the figure of
the Saviour should be seen.  In all scriptural
scenes, I would have our Lord's face partly concealed. In this instance, a mantle should envelop
it. The calm majesty of his figure, and the firmness of his tread, should be such as to give us the
idea of the supernatural. Opposed to this, should
be Peter, - the boldness of his face fading away
as a huge wave comes rolling up, and the one beneath him sinks.  It seems to me, this point in
the scene would be the finest, because it would
give us at a glance the full moral of it, — the
Divinity of Jesus, and the unsteady boldness of
Peter. This, if the night and storm were well
done, would be a most thrilling picture."
By such studies as this, did the troubled spirit,
in its humble way, strive to solve for itself the
problem which so many gifted minds have cast
friom them with disdain, - of reconciling Duty
in a world of sin, with the aspirations of Genius.
While these changes in her views of practical
life were in progress, another process was going
on, of equal importance in its effects upon her
character.  Those' dreary four years,' together
with several that followed them, were marked
by many temptations to doubt the truth of the
theological system under which she had been educated. Her earlier inquiries on the subject of
4*




42             M3 E O 3  R I A L.
religion do not appear to have raised any doubts
in her mind.  She had received without question
the faith of her fathers, She had felt little interest in theological speculations.  The Being of
God, her own sinfulness, and the Atonement by
-Christ, seem to hlave been almost the only points
of religious doctrine which her own experience
heretofore had rendered necessary to her. And
these she had received, because she had for the
timeJeit them to be true.  When disease and suffering forced upon her a frequent suspension of
this experie?',ce of truth, they forced upon her also
the necessity of reexa.mining her faith even to its
groundwork.  This was a kind of efflor to which
1er mind had never accustomed itself. She seems
to have engaged in it, for a long time, fitfully, and
without much satisflaction.  The personal independence which was innate in her, sometimes inclined her to question proudly what others believed.
Her wayward spirits, now more frequently depressed than otherwise, gave a magnitude to objections which in later life she smiled at. The Old
Testament Scriptures perplexed her. She even
admitted at times questionings of the Being of a
God. It is not probable that any of these difficulties would have taken the painful form they
sometimes assumed, if disease had not so sorely
oppressed her.  Sooneri or later, however, a mind




MlE M ORIAL.              43
like hers must have encountered them. Perhaps,
for thoroughness of discipline, it was better that
they came when and as they did. One or two
extracts from her papers, will exhibit the most
truthful view of the unsettled state into which her
mind sometimes fell, and of' the rebound of her
soul, after all, to its early faith, which it would not
let go.
In a letter to a friend, written on a Saturday
night, she writes: " I am startled to see how many
atheistical thoughts I have had this week. I am
reading in course the Old Testament.  I cannot,
at some noments, resist the feeling, that if it were
not hallowed as God's Word, we should reject it
with contempt.  Then I put down the feeling,
and think that, as the rude ancients would have
laughed to scorn the idea that the sun stood still
and the earth was in motion, so it may be that in
a region of clearer light, all these dark places will
be illuminated.  Then again, the 3Mosaic account
of the creation puzzles me.  It seems like the
stories by which we attempt to satisfy the curiosity
of children.  But, be it what it may, Christianity
is the only religion on which the soul can rest. A
religion it must have; it cannot believe its own mortality. Then on this faith, glorious if it be obscure, I will rest.  Here I intrust this soul. If




44              M E M E  O RIAL.
this faith be a fiction, it is the only one in which I
can live; and as its convert, I am willing to die."
At a somewhat later period, in recording some
thoughts suggested by reading the'MIemoirs of
Goethe,' she writes as follows: "I have been accustomed to regard everything of a religious nature as sacred; all prayers, by whomever offered,
all acts of worship, all good books, as above all
criticism and cavil.  Even on the border-land of
Eden, Reason should fold her wings, and retire
into the background.  It may be that this is the
safer and happier course: but for a long time it
has not satisfied me. The hitherto calm surface
has been ruffled by doubts, curiosity, inquiry.  I
believe the foundations of my faith are immovable as the pillars of the universe, but in its superstructure I find a host of difficulties.  This book
has affected me powerfully, -I do not know that
I can add, happily.  It has given shape and coloring to many vague sentiments which I have had,
but dared not express, - particularly this one, that
religion has not a distinct character of its own;
that it is not always recognizable; that it is cameleon-like, and assumes the color of the heart where
it dwells. Every one frames a Deity for himself,
and offers a worship peculiar to himself.  No two
individuals worship the same God.  How is it




rl E  R 0   I AL.          45
possible, then, to have any test or standard of piety?  How unlike is the piety of Professor —
and that of old Mrs. --! How unlike their respective Deities! How unlike their interpretations
of the Bible! Where are the points of resemblance to prove that if one is a Christian, so is the
other?'Why, each one acts according to the
light he has.' Granted; then religion is no definite kind of feeling and conduct; it is the peculiar
development of each heart in its attempts to obey
its own ideas of right. Then, how liberal ought
we to be! -why not see good Christians everywhere?
" After writing this, I went out in the evening to
a lecture on Hindostan.  The absurdity, wickedness, and vileness of the Hindoo religion, fill me
with horror. But here is a religion of man's own
imagination. They follow the " devices of their
own hearts." They obey their voice of right.
True religion surely is something more than this."
In another connection she expresses briefly and
more generally the restless state of her mind during this period.  She writes: "I seem to live in
another world. It is difficult sometimes, with
everything around me that heart could wish, to
live in this world at all. There are but few hours
in which my nature rests satisfied. I get impatient and homesick for heaven. I feel like a wan



46A M E MIORIAL.
derer —I am seeking, seeking, seekingr ever like
a child lost in the fbrests."  No words could form
a more significant epitome of her mental experience for many years after her profession of Christian faith, than these — " seeking, seekin, seeking, seeking."
This period of her lif;e should not be regarded,
however, as strictly a period of religious scepticism, or of even an inclination to such a state.
She did not herself so regard it, in looking back
to it, after her opinions and character had been
matured.  The foundations of her faith were
never really shaken.  Her confidence in the religious system which she had been taught in childhood, was never really suspended.  The perplexities she experienced were those to which every
inquiring mind that has been religiously cultivated
in childhood, is liable, when it comes to the process of examining for itself the creed it has been
taught to believe. The inheritance from its fathers
is to be now vested in its own right, and it scrutinizes with new solicitude the validity of the title.
In the case of her to whom the tribute of these
pages is rendered, the perplexities of religious inquiry were rendered more painful than they would
otherwise have been, by the disturbing and depressing influence of physical suffering.  The earnestness of her soul under this discipline, is evident




3MEM OoRI AL.              47
in all the records that remain of her experience
during this period. They are remarkable for the
exhibition they make of the struggles of a tempted
spirit. "'Lord, I believe -help thou mine unbelief," is the prayer they seem to breathe. Rarely
is an expression of doubt or of perplexity recorded,
which is not immediately followed by a more positive expression of faith.
The confirmation of her religious opinions was
by a very gradual process, and it appears to have
advanced nearly in proportion with the improvement of her health. Yet, some more direct means
were of great advantage to her.  Of these, the
study of the Scriptures was, doubtless, the most
important. They were her daily companions.
She commenced the practice, which she continued
at intervals, to the end of hel life, of employing
her pen as an accompaniment of her Biblical
studies. An abstract of a scriptural passage was
first recorded, and then followed the difficulties she
experienced in understanding it, or the inquiries
which it raised in her mind, together with the best
answers that occurred to her; or if no answer satisfied her, the almost never failing expression of
the faith of her heart, which no "obstinate questionings " could destroy. She derived much benefit from the study, in this way, of her father's
Commentaries. She read them all with pen in




438             MEM  OR I A L.
hand, except that on the Apocalypse.  Upon this
she was engaged during the last year of her life,
and had nearly finished it when she was called
away. There was something in her father's direct
and manly mode of treating the difficulties of
truth, which charmed her.
Another method which she appears to have
adopted, of fortifying her mind against the perplexities that disturbed her peace, was that of
recording, in a manuscript volume, the religious
convictions expressed by the most distinguished
Christian minds. This volume she specially valued.
She preserved it for many years after she had
ceased to feel the need of its contents. She regarded it as a representation in miniature, of the
features of' her own mind during a perilous period
of' its history.  A single circumstance is worthy of
notice in the construction of this little volume
it is indicative of the whole working of her mind
on religious subjects.  She has gathered together
il it such expressions as she had met with in her
reading, of the religious opinions of the world's
great thinkers —ranging from Socrates down to
Edmund Burke, - and then she has summed up,
apparently, the' conclusion of the whole matter,'
by transcribing copious extracts fiom the address
of JErHOvAr, as recorded near the close of the
Book of Job.' Gird up now thy loins like a man,




M1 EI O   I AL.             49
for 1 will demand of thee, and answer thot me,' etc.
Thus earnestly did her mind strive to throw itself
back upon the spirit of that faith to which human
skepticism and human authority are alike vain.
A very important influence in effecting her deliverance from waverinfg of religious convictions,
arose from her study at this time, of the doctrine
of the' Divine Decrees.' A series of discourses
preached in the Seminary Chapel on this subject,
was the'word in season' to one that was'weary.'
Her views of this doctrine before this time, seem
to have had little of positive influence upon her
character -none, certainly, that aided her in her
perplexities. It now assumed a richness of value
to her which it never afterwards lost. She recorded, at the close of a Sabbath which had been
devoted to meditation upon it, her new sense of its
importance. The record appears to be in part an
abstract of portions of a discourse to which she
had that day listened, and in part an expression of
its effect uponaherself:
" This subject," she writes, " has opened a new
world to me. I shall be better for it as longr as I
live. I am better and happier now, though I went
to church with an aching heart."  "It is well to
loose the spirit from its earthly ties, and suffer it
to soar away to that point in eternity when JEHO



r0          A1 E 5, MO R I A L 
YvtA  existed, alone. Then were all po ssible rVetrts
of time decreed by thlat mighty Mintd.  The path
of the planets was mapped out, ndi that. of the least
grain of sand; and in those same pathl.s must they
mlove with undeviating exactness, as if they had
been placed in iron grooves.  Not an atom floats
in the sunbeam, but that, from atll eternity, had its
curious revolving and intricate wa.yr fixe d.  Not
the smallest animalcule upon it, which born at
inaoon perishes before night, but- that had friom
eternity arranged fbr it by this Infinite mind, the
exact way in whilch its opening mouth should be
filled.  N5ot one of us, but that had our memoir's
then written in His m nihbty book. We were of
consequence enouCgh then to have every plan and
event of our lives fixed; the mome1nt of our birtlh,
our names, Ithe (lay of our death -all], Jwere then
fx. ed.  Iave we a secret sorrow we wEould not
whisper out - it is not the result of accidelnt.
avery tear that chases its fellow tear down the
eheek has been counted -just'so many shall fall,
and not one more.  Every sigh has been numbered, and just so many shall be sent, and not one
m3ore. Let us raise our drooping and weary heads
and repose them safely on fixed Eternal P7p~ose.
Like children in the arms of everlasting Love,
lelt nus repose wit.hout a fear. XWe can put on these




n.r   r o RIAL.               51
fire-proof garments, and though the furnace be
seven times heated, the smell of fire shall not pass
over thenm.
"' I never could understand or divine, before, my
claim upon the Deity's overruling care.  Now I
do get a glimpse of it -  enough to make me feel
like an infant in its mother's arms.  Every event,
of every day, of every hour, is unalterably fixed.
Eaelh day is but the turning over a new leaf of my
history  already written by the finger of God, -
every lettIer of it.  Should I wish to rewrite -to.
alter - one?  Oh,   o! no!  no!!! "
A-t about the same time, in another connection,
she         "Irites:    "  do. like John Newton's Lettersthe sincere piety-  the calin reliance on God,
whichl they bL eathe>.  There is something majestic
in his views o0f life, his firm  conzsciousness tlhat
every evtent, greatl and small, is directly ordered
and controlled by such a Deity.  How beautifully
he spea'  of afig'ction aind the deatl of his wiLfe
Wh't a d>ii t!'erent tlace such a spilit mrakes of this
worrid!  IIow l xI wish I were 1worthy to possess it!"
Thie very powerful effect of tliis doctrine, thus
vivified in her nmind, was not transitory. The doetrine, eivh  the whole group of trutlhs kindred to it,
friom that time took a permanent place in her Maf
ftctions.. It nas' as an anchor to her soul, sure
and stxeadfast.'   It gave her new conceptions of the




5~2             1 E 1iEMOR IAL.
value of existence. In subsequent years, allusions
to it became habitual in her expressions of religious experience. In times of severe affliction
especially, her feelings seemed to cluster around it,
seeking refuge in its strong holds. Her constitutional despondency rendered it often invaluable to
her. To her'aching heart' it was' as the shadow
of a great rock in a weary land.'
THE life which she had thus far led, had been
one of comparative seclusion. A quiet country village had been her home. ]With the single exception
of the period she spent in Mr. Abbott's family, she
had not been long absent from her father's house.
Her mind and heart had been developed in the
thoughtful atmosphere created by the literary
institutions around her. This had been well for
her. It had given a strength to her character,
which she could scarcely have gained elsewhere.
Even the confinement of a sick chamber, and the
comparative isolation to which years of convalescence had consigned her, had been not all evil.
She had been thrown back from the world upon
her own resources of thought.  She had been
led to sound the depths of her own heart. She
had communed much with God. The mysteriousness of God's dealings with her, had led her to
think much of the principles of His government.




ME M O12RIAL.               53
Her first crude views of a religious life had matured simultaneously with her growth in Christian
knowlecdge; her conscientious mistakes being rectified as she advanced to a more intelligent faith.
The discipline had been severe; she had suffered
much; the marks of its severity were destined
never to be wholly eiceed in this world.  But,
under Godl it had made her what she was.
"' o the foundations of [her] mind were laid."
But the time had come for-her to go forth into a
broader theatre.
She was married to Rev. Austin Phelps, then
pastor of the Pine Street Chur'ch, Boston, in the
Autumnn of' 1842, and she resided in that city until
the Spring of 1848.  These five or six years of
residence in Boston, she regaftded as the happiest,
and ini some respects, as the most profitable, years
of her life.  The change affected her character favoraoly, in part because it wacs a change.  It introduced her to new varieties of human nature and
to new rmlodes of life. She was brought by it more
constantly than before into contact with life - with
men, women, and children, as they are in a busy,
and on the whole a happy, world. It added to the
lessons of' seclusion, those of society, and to the
discipline of study, that of action. It was a change
of moral climate, which, just at that time,,her con



54              ME M O RIAL.
stitutional temperament greatly needed. She felt it
through her whole being, and was happier and better for it.  She began soon to be sensible of an increasing sympathy with human life. Even her
tastes as respects the fine arts were insensibly modified. A fondness grew upon her for those works of
art which represented living chctecter, rather than
for those which represented only material nature.
In a letter written firom her birth-place, a few years
after her removal to Boston, she writes, "'Andover is looking most deligl:htfully.  The birds sing,
and the cool winds are refreshing, and the eye is
filled with beauty.  As I looked out last evening
on these arching elms lighted up by the moonforming a bower fit for a poet's home - I could not
resist the feeling, that the scene had become to me
like only a gorgeous picture. I could appreciate it, I
could love it, but there was a soul wanting."
Very similar to this, was the effect of the change
upon her religious character. The ordinary experience of Christians in the humbler walks of life
was new to her, and she became much interested
in observing it.  She found her own soul insensibly sympathizing with it.  She would often speak
of its simple-hearted manifestations with a glad
surprise, as if in the plain unlettered stranger
whose words were of the Saviour, she had suddenly found a friend.  "It does me good," she would




TI Eo310 R I A L.          55
frequently say, on returning from  the weekly
church-meeting, "to hear these people talk. They
speak so feelingly and so honestly what they think
and what they want."  Respect for the common
developments of Christian character and modes
of Christian speech, became a Very positive feature of her own piety. Few things could rouse
her indignation more quickly, than to hear them
spoken of slightingly. More than once has her
eye lighted up and her cheek glowed withl the zeal
she felt in vindicating them from undeserved contempt.  She made no secret of her own readiness
to sit as a learner at the feet of any who seemed
to know the love of Christ.  So strong did her
sympathy with the common Christian mind become, that she acquired an enthusiasm bordering
upon reverence, for the work of the Pastoral office.
It was a severe trial to her feelings, when her
husband exchanged that office for a Professorship
at Andover.
Yet she was accustomed to regard herself as a
recipient rather than a doer of good, in the position she held as a Pastor's wife. The extreme
sensitiveness of her nature rendered it impossible
for her to perform some services, which are commonly regarded as the duties of such a position.
The infirmity which she had lamented in her earlier
Christian life, embarrassed her still.  She could




vG               E 1 E31 0 R I A L.
not speak, directly or indirectly, of' her religious
experience, except to her most intimate companions; nor, indeed, at all times to them. Any duty
which was expressive of personal religious feeling,
affected her so painfully as to render naturalness
and truthfulness. in its performance impracticable.
IHer physical constitution, and all her early and
long-rooted habits of mind were unfavorable to any
effort she might make, of such a nature. To these
was added the unaffected lowliness of her judgment of her own religious character. She seemed
to herself unfit to stand as a guide' to others. The
humblest of her fellow  Christians seemed to her
to possess higher qualifictations for such a position
than she had.  She was not accustomed to speak
of herself as a Christian.  She would sometimes
lwr ite that which implied that she thought herself
such, but her nearest friend never heard her say
it.  Her lips refused to utter that which, in her
conceptions of it, had a sacred significance. An
imperative instinct of her nature bade her to stand
aside, and permit others to do what, if she had
found it practicable, would have devolved, by right
of position, on her.  She did not now, any more
than in earlier life, regard this peculiarity of her
religious temperament with leniency. She was
quite severe enough in her judgment of it. In
writing about it on one occasion she says, " it seems




TME O   o R IAL.            57
as if it arose from  the very malke of my mind.
Those who would flatter me, would call it sensibility.  But it is owing to a weak faith, and my
slow progress in the Divine life."  She did not
content herself with a severe judgment of her infirmity - she resolved that it should be overcome.
A particular duty, which was the severest test of
it that could well be devised, had attracted her attention, her own thoulghts having guided her to
the conviction that it was her duty. After many
weeks of secret struggling with herself; she resolved to go and do what God seemed to bid her
do.  When the dreaded day arrived, she devoted
the morning to secret prayer, and without informing any friend of her intention, went out in the afternoon to make trial of her resolution.  The occurrences of that afternoon are not k-nown to the
writer of these pages.  She returned home unable to speak of them, having lost all consciousness
of them, through the severity of their effect on her
physical system.  hier duty in respect to that class
of religious exercises was done.
There are struggles in the unwritten experience
of many a sensitive mind, which are not often appreciated in the estimate men form of them, but
which IHe who' knoweth our frame,' numbers with
the last words of martyrs.
This period of her residence in Boston was




68              ME 31 OR IA 1.
marked by a further development of her tastes
and power as a writer. Previously to this time she
Ilad written much in the form of articles for newspapers and magazines, and children's books.  She
had invariably published her writings anonymously; and when they were once published, she
thought little more of them.  There are scattered
through several periodicals, and on the shelves of
the American S. School Union, and the Mlass.
Sab. School Society, many of the productions of
her pen, which it is impossible now to identify as
hers. She herself was often unable to recognize
with confidence her own volumes, after years had
passed since she wrote them.  She has several
times been seen bending over the counter of a
bookstore, in perplexity as to the authorship of
some little book which she held in her hand, seeming to detect some familiar traces of her former
self, and yet unable at last to decide whether she
were the author of it or not. 1Her own account
of her earlier writings, as given in subsequent
years, renders it probable that not more than one
third of the little books she has published, can be
now distinguished as hers.
Almost all that she had written before taking
up her residence in Boston, had been of an elementary character, for children; and this still continued to be her favorite department of literary




I 11 n0 R I a L.           Q59
efiort.  But her observation of more mature character gradually led her to write for older readers.
Composition had become a daily habit. She became unhappy, and even desponding as to her
Christian hope, if her mindwere long deprived of
its customary gratification at her writing desk.
Every new class of minds that were brought under
her observation, seemed to suggest to her new
themes with which to fill her portfolio.  Thus, her
intercourse with the people of her husband's
charge, interested her in writing upon the Pastoral Relation. Her observation.of the poverty of
a city, directed her attention to that class of writings which are designed to elevate the poor. The
cares of domestic life sprung up around her into
homely narratives of the common, but not often
written, experiences of housekeepers. Her domesties were always objects of great interest to her,
and more than one of her little books, she wrote
for them. She kept a journal of the infancy of
her children, preserving thus all the little incidents
which usually form  the materials of "Mothers'
Stories."  Distinct from this was her " Family
Journal," consecrated to the more private experiences in which her family shared.  This journal
was subjected to review on certain choice anniversaries, and in her affections stood next to the Family Bible.  If she lost a friend, she loved to




60             M1 E   O  R I A L.
express her sense of the affliction by writing something which should portray that friend's character.
She tried her skill in several of these modes, without at first entertaining any idea of publishing
what she wrote.
The study of human character became more
than ever her untiring occupation.  She took
great delight in her daily rambles through the
metropolis. The hours thus spent were her most
studious hours.  She would go out of her way to
walk in the thoroughfare, where she could see life
in its greatest variety.  She would often pause in
the street to watch the sports of' a group of children. She could draw a picture of the young girl
she saw behind the counter, or the trio she met at a
confectionery.  She could characterize and caricature, with pen or crayon, the motley company she
encountered in an omnibus. The busy hum of
voices continually dropped something which  her
quick ear appropriated, storing together the aphorism of gray-haired wisdom with the prattle of a child
at a toy-shop window, and the harangue of a truckman to his horses. She would pay a street-beggar
for a five minutes' conversation; and a talk with
an apple-woman on Boston Common, was a treat
for the day. She has been known to sit fbr hours
observing the ways of an emigrant party in the
steerage of a steamboat; and on one occasion she




ME 1MORIAL.                 61
became so absorbed by her interest in a little
Swiss child, that she could scarcely be dissuaded
from making an attempt to obtain leave to adopt
it as her own.
She strove to aid still farther the improvement
of her own tastes in writing, by-the direction she
gave to her study of books at this time. Thus,
she at one period read largely the works of several popular writers of fiction.  She did this with
the eye of a critic, intent on discovering where lay
the secret of their influence. The results of her
criticism, as she has recorded them among her private papers, are exceedingly interesting, as exhibitions of her industry in disciplining her own
mind. 5With the same intent, she devoted much
time to the study of the Old English Poets. During one winter, she read with great enthusiasm
Spenser's' Fuerie Queene'; and displayed daily at
her tea-table the gems she had selected during the
day from the royal treasury. For several winters
in successi'n she enticed her husband fiom his
study, at least one evening of each cweek, for the
reading of Shakspeare at their fireside.  She was
commonly the reader on these's Shakspeare evenings;' and one must have heard the vivacious intonations of her voice, and seen the changes of her
tpeaking countenance, to understand fully thle in-.
telligence and sympathy of her communion with
6




62              XM E.M O R I A L.
the great artist of human character.  Mfore than
all else, however, she valued as works of art the
narrative portions of the Bible.  These she often
adduced as the most perfect models of narrative
composition.  Among her manuscripts are found
criticisms upon some of these, or rather studies of
them, in which she has noted the peculiarities which
seemed to her to constitute the charm of scriptural
narration. Her own simple Saxon style was derived in part from this source. At the same time,
she gathered from her miscellaneous reading all
the valuable hints she met with respecting the best
modes of writing, and these she recorded also for
subsequent reference. Thus laboriously did she
strive to form her own tastes, and develop whatever faculty she might possess in the use of her pen.
It was during this period of her residence in
Boston, that her social character was first fully
developed.  How can this be portrayed?  Yet, it
was in truth her crowning excellence. She possessed a rare combination of literary.tastes and
literary industry, with the more unpretending virtues of a woman.  Her attachment to her friends
partook of the mingled intensity and endurance
which characterized all her sensibilities. The loss
of a friend, either by death or otherwise, was to her
a life-long affliction. The society of those she loved
was as necessary to her as her food. There is not




ME MORIAL.                 63
one of the few friends with whom she was intizmate,
to whose influence she has not ascribed some definite and permanent improvement of her own character, for which she felt grateful to them, - so generously had her affections responded to theirs, and
so trustfully had her heart opened itself at-their gentle bidding.  A few names were inscribed on her
memory, as a constellation whose genial influence
ruled her destiny. Whenever one of these chosen
friends passed away, she invariably committed to
paper her fresh remembrances of the lost one.
Several such tributes to the memory of the departed, are found among her papers, written for no purpose but to give vent to bereaved affection which
could not be suppressed. IMost touching words,
which probably she never summoned courage to
speak to them while they lived, she thus breathed
forth to their voiceless spirits as they hovered over
her.
In the ordinary manifestations of her social
character, there was a rare mingling of freedom
with reserve, of self-respect with generous trust.
None could more successfully than she repel by a
look, anything that jarred upon her feelings; yet
none could respond more gracefully to an expression of natural refinement.  She was independent
in her opinions and made no secret of them; yet,
where she recognized the ability, and therefore




64              11t E I O R I A L.
the right, to correct her judgment if it were wrong,
she was as docile as a child. She considered pride
as the besetting sin of her nature; yet, she was
wont to exhibit the most perfect abandonment of
self to the influence of delicate kindness on the
part of others. She loved to go among the people
of her husband's pastoral charge, as one of them,
restrained by no' proprieties of position,' but fiee
to rejoice with them as her prompt sympathies
bade her.  Their generous attentions were her
constant delight. Their gifts she would receive
with a child's artlessness in the manifestation of
her pleasure. If the gift were but a flower, or a
cluster of grapes, she seemed always gladdened by
it as much as if it had been gold.  She possessed
very much of her father's versatility of talent in
conversation. She had cultivated her mind in this
respect, with great care.  When her spirit was
fully roused, her words possessed a magnetic power.
There was no class of' society which she deemed
beneath her or above her, and none with which she
could not, from the heart sympathize in something,
and therefore be at her ease. This apparent' diversity of gifts' was the charmn  of her presence.
Even the stranger, who partook for but a day of
her hospitality, went away to speak, years afterwards, of' her unaffected grace and dignity and
sweetness of manner and pious conversation.' In




MB EM 0 R I AL o     65
her own house, she strove to spread around her an
atmosphere of cheerful piety. This was an object
of much solicitude with her. It was a matter of
most shcred principle in her plan of life, to suffer
nothing to come between her and her familiy. "She
would be a true wife and mother, if nothing else."
Eer literary pursuits, and the gratification of her
taste for the fine arts, were religiously subordinatedt
to her duties "at home."  This wras not a mere
sentiment in her mind - it was her daily study;
it cost her thought and labor, and was achieved
only by an indomitable resolution. WVith her
feeble health, to perform with her books and hpr
pen and her pencil, all that was necessary to satisfy
her own mind, and yet to preside over the household of a pastor, was not- a pleasant song. She
accomplished it by the most rigid systematizieg of
her duties fiom morning to nighlt.  She remembered the " wood-house chaamber" as seen from the
"western vindow" in her fther's house.  Every
hour had its allotted duty, and the duty was clone.
Her plans for weeks in advance were all recorded
with her pen. Among her manuscripts are now
found, "'3Iemoranda of Housekeeping," in which
are written her plans for the work, of her servants
and for her own - even weekly "bills of falre," in
which are arranged the order of every nmeal for
the week. There are found, also, fragments of
6*,,




66              I E   O RIA L.
journals, in which are recorded the history of esperiments in housekeeping and their success or
failure. That untiring pen seems to have performed an almost incredible amount of service.
The result was, that she accomplished her design.
She for many years could reserve habitually two
hours each day- -no more, no less - fbr her
writing table, and keep in constant progress her
studies and her miscellaneous reading, and find her
recreation in her pencil, and yet the order of her
house was like clockwork; her children never
showed the want of a mother's care; her home
was never the less a home on account of' her passionate attachment to literature and art. The sincerity
of the religious convictions which she carried into
these household plans, she has undesignedly illustrated in her little New Year's Story —" The
Angel over the Right Shoulder," - and her jealous
vigilance over her own tastes, lest they should encroach on the comfort of those who were dependent
upon, her, is intimated by another of her Homesketches - "The Husband of a Blue."
It was the struggle of her life to control the
fickleness of her physical temperament, and rise
above despondency. " Nobody knows," she would
often say, " how I do struggle for it."  It was her
habitual fear that her family might suffer for the
want of a cheerful, sunny home. This is a dis



i MEMORIAL.                  67
closure, however, which will surprise the majority
of her friends - so vigilant was she in watching.
her own varying moods, and so successful in
breathing the spirit of joy around her.  Her
presence in any group was almost invariably a:
guarantee ofvivacious and genial conversation. She.
often concealed physical infirmity, that she mightcome to her little home circle with a cheerful look.'Wit-h a heavy heart' she would'sing  songs' for
them.  She bestowed much attention on the celebration of festival days, for her children's sake.
By gathering around her whatever could innocently please the eye or the ear, she made the
place where she was, the abode of all that was
attractive to their young hearts.
i lay the writer vwho offers this tribute to her
worth, be permitted so far to overstep the limits
which perhaps ought to restrain him, as to insert
here one or two extracts from her p-apers, which
will give a glimpse more truthfil than other words
can give of her, as she was' at home.' The first
is from a paper addressed to himn on the occasion
of a family festival, and containing her review of
the preceding year. " This past year," she wrote,
"has been a most eventful one to me. All at once,
from  many quarters, I have met with so much
new  encouragement to write, that it has halfbew:itched me. 9First of all came my' ~'* * story.




3 IEM O RIAL.
I felt about this, that if I could only get it published in the   *  * X,and read it to you without your knowing that I wrote it, I should feel
perfectly happy.  I heard nothing from it for
several weeks. One evening I took up the *' * 
carelessly, and saw a notice that it was received
and would soon appear. I watched for it for
several months, and had almost given it up, when
one Saturday evening I stumbled upon it. I did
read it to you; you did not know a word about
who wrote it; you seemed much interested; you
listened to the end without speaking, and then you
said,' Well, somebody wrote that who knew how.'
I felt well repaid. I thought I had quite reached
the goal of my desires, and now    *'  "
The other extract is a narrative criticism of a
story written by a popular foreign authoress. The
criticism is thrown into the epistolary form and
addressed to her. It was originally written with
no fictitious design, but for some reason it remained
in the writer's hands. It is as follows:d "BoSTON, IMAY -, 184-.
"To Miss Frederilca Brerer: —
" If one had a child in a distant country, a letter,
even from a stranger, which told of the child's
health and happiness and every-day employments,
could not but give pleasure to his parent. I suppose an author looks upon her writings with a pa



33t  E1E E  R I RA L.     69;
rental eye; alnd though they wander to a new world,
and put on a strange costume and speak in an unknoWvn tongue, still she cannot forget that they are
hers, and it cannot be uninteresting to her to hear
how they are received and how they demean them-,
selves. I have written all this in the opening of
my letter to Miss Bremer, that it may serve me
as an apology for all that I mean to write, and I
place it before me as a shield, if my letter- should.
be received as an intruder. It comes simply to
tell thee of the pleasure which sprang up. around.
one single fireside far away in a strange  land,,
through the timely introduction of one of these,.
thy brain-children.' The Neighbors,' it is- called.
It chanced to make our acquaintance at a time,
When it was a most welcome visitor. I say'our,'
for we had started a little home of our own. This
home was in the city, and the husband being a professional man, the day was all filled up with professional duties on his part, and with calling and
callers, on mine.  When the rare treat of an un-,
occupied evening came, and we lhad finished the
discussion of the day around our tea-table, then we
drew up our stand before a bright fire, rolled up
the sofa., and lighted the study-lamp. I took my
work, and the gentleman took' The Neighbors'
and read aloud. I should like to have had you,
see the enthusiasm with which we followed the
newly married pair- how readily our sympathies
were enlisted for them — how I had half a mind
to fall in love with the rough, good-humored Bear.
— how we laughed till we cried, at the untiring:
vivacity of his little wife. I would believe that
it was all true, and that the little wiie had in reality




70             M E 1SM o RIAt L.
sent us her experience over the waters, that we
might look into the future with a calm trust.. It
must be no common talent that can so accurately
describe from observation — rather, it is a high
order of instinct. I thank Bear and his wife for
their truthful history.  IMa Chere Mere' is a
character which we never meet here; yet some of
her wise sayings have already passed into proverbs
among' The Neighbors' friends.  There was one
thing, however, which our good New-Englanders
shake their heads at —it was her fiddling for her
servants at a dance on the Sabbath. Our Sundays
are sacred days; we keep them as days of rest
from all worldly employments, and such recreations
are never tolerated. The capricious little Ella we
laughed at, and yet we could not help liking her.
Serena we thought too good; it seemed as if she
belonged to another sphere. Bruno, I could not;
admire, although in the scene of reconciliation with
his mother, I hid my face, for I half thought I was
too old to cry over such stories. Yet, elsewhere,
I had no sympathy with a character so morbid and
passionate.  He seemed at a great distance from
the heroes who walk around me in this Yankee
land. There was Hagar, too, —I wished her out
of' the way entirely.  She brought in an element
of the tragic, which seemed poorly to suit the
healthful object of the tale.
"aTWhen we had finished'The Neighbors,' we
felt as if we were parting with a friend, and I
could not resist the impulse to return my thanks
to the author of so much innocent delight.
"In our good city of Boston, your books are
advertised in every bookstore window. They are




M1 E  O  R I A L.          71
much read here, and much liked.  liss Mary
ilowitt has given us in beautiful English,'The
Neighbors,' and'Home.' These are by far the
greatest favorites with us. In the'H. ]Family,'
and'The President's Daughters,' there is too much
spicing with German Philosophy, and too much
obscurity as to the real meaning of the religious
creed, to please our more sober thinkers. In these
two, also, much more than in the others, the true
object of life, and the true preparation for death,
are discussed in a way which does not harmonize
with the simplicity of our views of the Christian
faith,
"Yet, for an exhibition of the social virtues,
elevated in their character, firee from selfishness,
and made attractive to all classes of readers, we
have had nothing for a long time that can be compared with Miss Bremer's stories."
THIE approach of death, even in the distance,
seems often to be foreshadowed by an increased
rapidity in the development of character.  So it
was, apparently, with her whose. life is here sketched. Her friends, in recalling the closing years of
her sojourn with them, can see that they were to
her years of rapid intellectual and moral growth.
There was a quick blossoming of powers which
had long been hidden in the bud, and which the
approach of her life's autumn as quickly ripened
into fruit, Her soul seems to have put forth its
strength, and gathered up its immortal possessions,




72              AlME M3 OR IA L.
as if the coming summons to depart had been long
audible.
She removed from Boston to Andover in the
spring of 1848. The change was not an agreeable one to her. It was often an occasion of unhappiness, and at times a positive affliction. Various causes contributed to this result.  She had
become warmly attached to Boston, to the life of
a Pastor's wife, to the church with which she had
been there associated, and to personal friends
whom she had met -there.  Her heart was bound
there with a strength of tie, of which she was not
herself fully aware, till the tie was broken.  Her
affections, never weak when once called into life,
had become rooted there.  She wished for no
change, and saw no inducement to change. Her
own convictions and habits of feeling respecting
that juncture in her life, are clearly intimated bysome of the closing scenes in the " Peep at No.
Five." Her health was also more than usually
feeble at the time of her removal from Boston,
and continued so for a year afterwards. At the
same time, affliction fell suddenly upon her fther,
and also upon her husband.  Great uncertainty
hung over the future; and that seemed a dark day
to her in which she had bidden farewell to the
place where she had passed, as she thought, her
happiest years. Her associations with place were




MIi E    R I A L.            73
naturally very strong; and it was not strange that
a return to her birth-place should, under all:lhe
circumstances that attended it, revive in some degree the affliction  hlle had experienced thlere in
former years.  Such was the result.
On one occasion she thus writes respecting the
effects of her return to Andover, viz: "IMany
things about this place do oppress nme very Tnuch.
The last years of my life here - years in which IT
thought and felt the most deeply - we re not aiappy.
I had a great many hours of suffering which still:'cling to certain spots and certain states of lhe:
w;eather here, so that many times they roll back.
over me with a'force that is irresistible.  I carryabout with me a sore and anxious hleart so much:
of the time, that it is almost the habitual state in,
which I exist. The life that flows friom this is not:
very sunny; I already live in the past."
It was not the past, however, nor any assoei ations with place, that created the chief burden of
her spirit at this time.  She proceeds to say:' One thing, in particular, hangs over mne like a
pall, too often oppressing me with its black shadowv;'
it, is the breahking up of my father's fhmily.  I do
not kniow that I can have strenth enough. to live
here cheerfully, when I have only tlheir graves to:
visit.  I suffer a great deal also fiomn religious de —
pression. There are times when I almolst aband1on
7




74'EM O RIAL.
my Christian hope,' and feel that I ought not to go
again to the communion table. It seems to me I
have no such experience as other Christians have."
Until the question of her husband's resignation
of his pastoral charge in Boston was decided, she,
withl her usual generosity, concealed in great measure the foreboding with which she anticipated the
change, lest his decision should be unduly influenced by a knowledge of her feelings.  When the
change was made, it was for a long time the almost hourly struggle of her life to resist the depression that weighed upon her mind. The severity of this struggle can scarcely be appreciated
by those who possess a, more equable temperament
than hers. At times, darkness deepened so oppressively around her soul, that direct intercourse
with God was the only source of even temporary
relief. Long continued seasons of secret prayer
became necessary to preserve a sufficient degree
of composure to enable her to discharge her domestic duties. During one of these seasons of extreme dejection, the only instance occurred in
which she ever turned away from the offer of that
human sympathy on which she had learned to
lean. (' Not now," said she;" I must go to the
Saviour; there is no one else to whom I can go
now."  And she went, and' drew near to the thick
darkness where God was.' Yet, a wrong impres



M E M ORIAL.                75
sion would be received from this narrative, if it
should be inferred that the trial here referred to,
cast visible gloom over this period of her life. It
was not so. She had become so accustomed to the
ruling of her own spirit, that but few even of her
personal friends knew the intensity of her trial.
She did not withdraw herself from  society; she
sought incessant occupation; she allowed herself
but few hours of solitude; she forced herself into
plans of secret usefulness. Hers was by no means
the dejection of a prostrate, inactive soul. Such
was the readiness of' her sympathies, that she did
succeed in really enjoying the happiness that she
diffused around her. It is doubtless true also, that
in the expression of her feelings as recorded above,
she has represented her experience as it seemed
to her in her hours of solitary reflection.  It was
probably varied in the reality by her busy and generous life. She had, moreover, a very high standard of Christian cheerfulness in her mind. An
ordinary degree of happiness in' this life did not
content her.  So vivid were her conceptions of
God, as a God of Love, and so radiant in her
view was the light which the work of Christ has
thrown over this world, and so intimate was her
own heart with Him  as with a personal friend,
that she experienced a sense of guilt if she did
not enjoy life.  She reproached herself for varia



7"6            M E 3 0 R I A L.
tions of feeling about which many would be less
scrupulous.  "Rejoice in the Lord always; and
again I say, Rejoice," was a command to which.she gave heed with uncompromising fidelity.
-The conflict with her desponding spirits during
the period now under review, was almost entirely
successful; and it was the probable occasion of
the very rapid development of her character,
which soon began to take place, and of which she
herself was in some degree sensible. After some
years had passed, she was able to write in the following strain:- " There are bright spots on the
canvas, after all. I do not see why my working
years should not yet come, nor why I should not
do my work well. I never can expect always to
pitch my tent by the "still waters."  But it is
cheering to me that I do see much more clearly
than I did, what is my duty, and that when I am
thrown off the track, I find my way back sooner.
All is not'chaos and old night.' I have a centre
to which I can turn in my flight, and where I can
rest; so that, in my heart, I am happier than I
was."
At a still later date, she writes: — "As to the
great point of contentment with life, I really think
I have gained upon it. It has been a thing for
which I have struggled and prayed; and for the
most part, my mind is at rest, and my heart con



M E M O R IAL.             77
tented. I think I can say this; and what is equally true, a feeling of habitual gratitude has gained
ground within me. I do carry about with me, a
great deal of the time, a thankful heart. I am so
grateful for the bright rallying-points around
which my thoughts cluster, I make a great effort
to keep them  constantly in view. I feel that I
should be guilty, not to do so; and month after
month, I think I can see that it becomes more and
more natural to me to look on the bright side of
things."
On another occasion, in speaking of' her children, she says: —"I do not know how to be
grateful enough for them. They have been a Godsend to mie, — stars in a dark night. I have been
so afraid of loving them  too much, that I have
constantly brought home to my heart the commission,' Take this child, and nurse him for me.' l/My
strong and habitual feeling is, that they are not
mine, - they are lent to me. If I can but do my
whole duty to them, I shall feel that my life's
work is well done. I want a cheeLful Christian
home for them to grow up in. I want them to be
happy Christians. I believe that is the best style
of piety. I suffer from the want of a cheerful
spirit.    X    *    *    *    Yet, I do think
I am enabled to rise above my constitutional
gloom better than I once did. I have many hap7*




78              M. E t 0 R I A L.
py hours, - sometimes whole days, - sometimes
many days together. I somehow am able to feel
that much of my despair has arisen from physical
derangement.  Better health, change of scene,
anything that enlivens me, seems to change, as
by magic, my spiritual prospects. I have found it
so, many times. Now, though I have more doubts
and fears than I wish I had, yet for many months
I have experienced much enjoyment.  Sometimes
I think that if I anlm ever to be saved, I shall not
die until mny piety, if I have any, has become more
mature and symmetrical."
She was nearer the goal of her desires than she
supposed. The last of the above  extracts was
written but a little more than a year before her
death. The growing maturity and symmetry of
religious character which she was only beginning
to hope for, were, in the view of her friends, already hers. They could not but observe the increasing loveliness of her chastened spirit. They
saw her growing'faith and hope and charity.'
The change was visible in her softened eye, and'in the increasing gentleness of her tones. The
doctrines of the Gospel were evidently becoming
more precious than ever to her heart. During the
last year of her life, she rewrote entirely one of
her Sabbath School books, because the story at the
first writing had not clearly and precisely shadow



irI E  R I A L.            79
ed forth the views of Regeneration on which she
had intended to construct it. Little evidences,
which cannot be recorded, disclosed her deepening
love to the person of the Saviour. She would
often speak of him in terms of personal endearment, and yet with a reverence for His divine nature, which was but feebly expressed by the opinion
she held, that no painter should attempt to portray
in full that countenance to which, as she thought,
no human imagination could do justice. The books
she chose for her devotional reading, indicated her
sympathy with some of the higher forms of Christian experience.  Although she felt little respect
for any exclusive model of Christian character, yet
she found much to which her heart responded, in
the written experiences of Madame Guyon and
Catherine Adorna. These, together with' Bridges'
Exposition of the One Hundred and Nineteenth
Psalm,' and her long loved favorite-s'Jeremy
Taylor's Holy Living and Dying'- were her
constant companions.
Her daily effort became more manifest and
more successful, to breathe the power of holy principle into every purpose and action of her life.
The graces of her natural character blended themselves more and more genially with those that
were peculiar to her Christian experience. It was
instructive to see her, during one hour of each




80              MEM o ORIAL.
day, bending with a countenance brilliant with
emotion, over a painting which she was executing,
- and perhaps the very next hour absorbed with
a different and yet not less enthusiasm, in taking
notes of her father's Commentary on the Apocalypse.  She turned away to conceal her tears at
the sight of a painting representing' the scourging
of our Lord,' and for a long time afterwards, was
unable to banish the scene fiom her mind. At the
same time, in unconscious imitation of His spirit,
she would go far to carry a bundle of clothing to
a poor woman's child; and would herself perform
some menial service, that her domestics might
have an uninterrupted hour for their daily task in
learning to read and write. Throuogh all the closing years of her life, she went month by month to
a neighboring village, to superintend the interests
of a friendless girl from a foreign land, who had
been disabled by an accident.  Slhe obtained for
her employment, and received and disbursed her
wages in such manner as to save for her a little
fund against a time of need. She had long been
accustomed to seek out secret and neglected modes
of doing good. On one occasion, a female member of the church had become involved in a difficulty which threatened to subject her to the censure of her brethren. All the ordinary efforts for
a happy adjustment of it had failed. One, and




M E MI OR IAL.              81
another, and another of her friends had withdrawn
their sympathy from her.' iMrs. Phelps requested
at last that she might be permitted to visit the unfortunate woman.  It was proposed  that she
should go as a committee of. the church. She
promptly refused. "No," said she, "I shall be no
committee. Let me go as a woman to her sister."
She went.  Her woman's instinct and her Christian heart accomplished what a sterner fidelity had
not done; A single interview restored the erring
one to confidence, and she still lives beloved fobr
her Christian virtues. This was a specimen also
of the enlarged charity, which had always been
characteristic of Mirs. Phelps's judgment of others,
and her appreciation of their difficulties in opinion,
or infirmities in temperament.
Yet, in these last years of her life, it was touching to see that, while this magnanimity to others
seemed to be almost daily enlarging her heart, the
severity of her judgment of herself increased.
She struggled long and hard to assure herself that
she was honest in her scrutiny of her own heart.
She often wrote her prayers with reference to
certain  difficult subjects  of  meditation, and
certain intricate varieties of religious experience,- so solicitous was she to discipline her
mind to truthful expression in her devotions.
She was so fearful that her private journal would




82              31EM OR IAL.
be vitiated by a secret sense on her part, of the
possibility of its exposure to other eyes than her
own, that whenever in writing it she detected any
such. thought in her mind, she was accustomed instantly to record some most sacred secret of her
experience, which she was sure she could not wish
to whisper in any human ear. In her intercourse
with others, she often did herself injustice, by appearing to be destitute of emotions which were
struggling within her, lest she should perhaps express more than she really felt. It pained her
that others should think of' her more highly than
she deserved. The lowliness of her own opinion
of her Christian character, could scarcely be exceeded. "I have no reason to think," she writes
at one time, " that I ever lived one day so as to
wish to live that day over again."  "I do not deserve this," was the frequent remark with which
she would receive, and sometimes with tears, even
the common evidences of God's kindness to her.
Hir family she would often speak of as undeserved gifts. The inquiry was many times on her
lips, " Why have these been given to me?"  On
one occasion, when a favorable opinion had been
expressed of one of her little books, she recorded
the opinion, and followed it with an expression of
the instinctive feeling it excited in her own mind,
by inquiring, " Can anything that I do, do any




ME MORIAL.                 83
good to a child?" One who has been in daily intimacy with her, cannot but remember these tokens of the maturing piety which shed its pure
and mellow light over her closing years.
There was also, during these years, an obvious
expansion of her mind.  She engaged with increased zeal and enlarged plans, in writing. She
rewrote "The Sunny Side," which had lain neglected in her desk for several years. This volume
had been originally written with no distinct intention to publish it, but simply to portray for the
gratification of the author, the character of a deceased friend. Several months elapsed after it
was completed, before the thought of giving it to
the public distinctly occurred to her. It was at
different times offered anonymously to five different publishers, and with such modest representations of its value that it was as many times
rejected. An edition of but five hundred copies
was at length issued by the author's friends. At
the present time, less than two years from its first
publication, the fortieth thousand have been printed; and it is estimated by those who are most
familiar with the channels in which it has been
circulated, that its readers number from three to
five hundred thousand.
It was in connection with this little work, that
she first became known as an authoress. Its un



84.             At 1f o R I A L.
expected success increased her desire to improve
to the utmost whatever talents she might possess,
in the preparation of books for the young.  She
wrote in rapid succession' Tie Kitty Brown Series,'
fbr the American Sunday School Union. Her fugitive pieces were scattered through various periodicals.'The Peep at No. 5,' which she regarded as her best production, she wrote and published
but a few months before her death. In less than
one year from the time of its publication, it had
reached the sale of the twentieth thousand.  At
the suggestion of an unknown correspondent in
Ohio, she gathered and arranged the materials for
another narrative, to be entitled the "Minister's
Widow."  It was designed to be a twin-volume to
"The Sunny Side." She had also in mind the materials and plan of a work in similar style, designed
for young ladies in the advanced stages of their
education. To prepare herself for this latter work,
she re-read, critically, the' Life and Letters of Dr.
Arnold,' in order that the theory of education which
should pervade her book might breathe his enlarged spirit. Upon these last two works her mind
was intent when her failing health obliged her to
desist from the use of her pen. It was one of the
trials of her long confinement, that she could not
commit to paper the characters and scenes which
crowded upon her imagination. When a temporary




MEM O R I.A L.              85
suspension of disease caused her strength to rally
a little, she for several days dragged herself to her
writing-table for one half-hour each day, that she
might finish the revision of a collection of her
miscellaneous narratives, which she had promised
to the publishers for republication.  IHer mind
seemed to find no rest but in incessant activity.
It had long been her practice to write much,
simply for her own gratification or improvement.
During the years of her final residence in Andover,
she wrote much for her children, without any design of publishing what she.thus wrote.  Such
was her solicitude in regard to the earliest impressions made on their minds, that she could not at
all times find in the common collections of children's books, just such reading as she wished to
put into their hands.  Some truth for which their
minds seemed to be in waiting, she could not find
so stated or so illustrated as to meet her views of
their wants. When such was the case, she was
accustomed to write books for them, which should
realize as far as was in her power, her own idea
of what they needed. Several of her published
volumes, with much material that is yet in manuscript, were written with this design.  She often
wrote in the morning, the chapter which was to
be their entertainment when they retired for their
evening meal, before going to rest. At the hour
8




86              lM E 3 0 R I A L.
of twilglJht, she habitually went witl them, anid
gave them  her personal attendance at their bed-`
side.  " She did but bathe the weary feet of her
little children, but the Angel ever the 2r-ight sho2ul
der —wrote it downs,"  " These duties and cares
acquired a dignity from the strokes of that golden:
pen."  That hour was as dear to her as a Sabbath
hour.  It was called in the family dialect,' The
children's hour.' HI-er owvn countenance was as
radiant as theirs, when their beaming eyes and
lor otten meal testified to the interest with which
they listened to their mother's stories.
It was one indication of the growth of her mind
during the closing years of her life, that she attached less value than she had previously done, to
fiction as a medium of conveying truth.  In her
maturest efforts, she drew but little upon the resources of her own invention.  Real life became
more exclusively her chosen source of materials.
Upon principle and by preference, she made real.
characters the object of her study, and facts the
subject of hler pen.  For this purpose, she kept a
distinct diary whenever she went on a journey;
and scareely would she suffer a brief excursion
from her home to pass, without some contribution
to her stores. She made it a part of her plan of
life, to visit once in each year some large city, or
some region of the country that was new to her,




-MEM  ORIAL.                 87
and to devote several weeks to the opportunities
which should thus be afforded, to observe varieties
of real life, and to gather truthful materials for her
little books. A visit which she thus made, a year
before her death, to Niagara and the Heights of
Quebec, she regarded as an epoch in her life —
so suggestive was it to her mind, of new thoughts,
new scenes, new characters, and new stores of illustration for her eager pen.  With the same enthusiasm, she anticipated a visit to Europe, as a
means of- furnishing to her materials for a life's
work. But — an unseen Hand was guiding her towards a I better country.'
It must not be inferred, however, from her enthusiasm in writing and in her plans for the future,
that she herself entertained any high opinion of
what she had already written.  On the contrary,
her estimate of her "foolish little stories," as she,
was accustomed to call them, was not an exalted
one.  Hers vwas the modesty of unconscious excellence.  Slhe had written rather because she
could not refrain from doing so, than because she
expected to do any great good to others. Unfavorable criticisms upon her productions, she was allllost
alhvays ready to believe to be well-founded.  A
singu!lar illustration of her spirit in tlhis respect
was afforded in one instance of her early experience as a writer.  She had sent a manuscript to a




88              ME  O R I A L.
publisher who courteously returned it to her, with
the censures of a certain critic upon its literary
character.  She thought the censures just, and
wrote a second time, endeavoring to profit by the
advice she had received. Again the manuscript
was returned, with further strictures. Her spirit
was roused, for she still felt the justice of the criticisms, and she resolved that she would write and
rewrite, and write again, until her manuscript
should be worthy ofmpublication through that channel, and acknowledged to be so by that critic. The
third effort was successful. Her opinion of " The
Sunny Side," before its publication had tested its
value, may be gathered from the following extract
from a letter addressed to one of the few friends
who had seen it in manuscript, and aided in giving
it to the public:"I have had some troubled feelings at my foolishness in permitting my friends to spend their
money so, -but the more I think of it, and the
more I sift my motives, the more T think I have
a sincere desire to make the most of any talents I
may have, in service of the good cause. I love
writing; it has become a habit with me; and is it
not possible that this taste may yet be turned to
some good account? I do not anticipate much,
however, from this offering. I am fully convinced
that it has found already, its most partial readers.




ME M1 o R IA L.             89
I do not mean to be disturbed by any fate that
may await it. AMy chief' desire is, that I may myself derive so1me good from the writing of it. But
my heart did misgive me last Friday, when I saw
a boy crossing over to the bindery with a larger
budget of copies than he could well lift. I felt
like hiding my head, or putting my veil down."
Even after the very favorable reception of her
little book, she could not persuade herself that this
argued any considerable merit in the author. She
attributed its success to the rare worth of the leading chlaracter it portrayed, and that being taken
from  real life, she did not seem to herself- to deserve much credit for her skill in the painting.
The large and rapid circulation of this volume and
others that followed it, bewildered her.  Yet, it is
needless to say, that she enjoyed her success - she
did so with the same enthusiasm that she felt in
eveytlling that faMy enlisted her interest.  More
than this,- she felt grateful fbr the opening prospect of usefulness in a way which was so congenial
with her tastes.  When reports came back to her
of the favor with which one after another of her little  offerings' were received, she would sometimes
burst into, tears of grateful surprise.  She could
never be persuaded, however, to append her name
to, any of her publications.  It was painful to her,
to learn that her name had become known as that




90             MEM ORIAL.
of the authoress of "The Sunny Side."  That
book would never have been published, if she had
anticipated such a result.
A brief extract from her'Family Journal,' written after her books had begun to attract attention
to herself, will illustrate the modesty of her
thoughts respecting them. The extract is interesting also, for the shadows which it discloses as
appearing to cloud over her vision of the future.
"It has succeeded," she writes, alluding to one
of her recent publications, " beyond my most sanguine dreams. It appears to me that the way is
now opening for me to write, — a way which I
have sighed for, long. I do pray that my fondness
for it may not lead me to overrate my ability for
it, or its comparative importance. At present, I
do not understand either what I can, or precisely
what I wish to do in this way. I work in the
dark.  Everything lies in chaos before me.:{My
life is a riddle to me; the past is all I can read.
1 cannot tell a letter of the ftture."
One year from the time when this was written,
she was sinking rapidly to her rest. Did the " Angel with mild and loving eyes " hold before her the
"' Book" whose " golden clasps " were so soon to
be closed upon her life's work, that He might kindly hide the future from her hopes?




M E Mt OR IA L.            91
DEATH had, from her very childhood, been too
familiar to her thoughts, to take her now entirely
by surprise.:No other single object had gathered
around itself so many of her thoughts, fears, struggles, hopes.  She had accustomed her imagination
to face it, in a thousand forms.  She had often
summoned it from the distance, and looked upon it
steadily, till, in magnified stature, and swift-footed,
it seemed to stand just before her.  She had thus
endeavored to try her strength with the great enemy. Among the varieties of the modes of meeting death, of which she had often thought, she had
anticipated, years before they came upon her, very
nearly the precise circumstances in which she was
at last called to die. They impressed her mind so
powerfully, that she recorded her feelings under
the fiction of a dream. To read it now, it seems
to have been almost prophetic. It is as follows,
viz.:
"I have had a dream. I was in a darkened
chamber, and there lay before me a pale sufferer.
I could see her face distinctly, for above her hovered an angel from whose form light radiated.
This, I saw, was the Angel of Death; and yet he
was not terrible. He looked earnestly with mournful and yet loving eyes, on her pallid countenance,
and words seemed to come from  him  without
breath.'Then, choose, my child; I have here




92             M EM AO RIAL.
for you a crown.  Come with me, and it is surely
yours. Your sins are blotted out f6rever.' One
stepped up, and reached to her her. first-born.
She gazed at it long-she touched its innocent
forehead - she looked at the angel —her lips
moved, as if' she would say,' What, alone in'the
world?''And God tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb,' was the reply. Then her dark blue
eye turned on one who stood weeping by her side.
1Her lip quivered; a stern struggle was in her
heart. That breathless voice spoke again,' Life
has rich gifts of love fbr you; but sin is here.
W~ill you. leave with me for Heaven?  Choose,
my child.' And the struggle convulsed her frame
with mortal agony; thea it ceased, and all was
calm.  Without a tear, her eye turned on death.
She placed her hand in his. Music and light,
such as angels love, filled the air; and death took
his gift. Yet, I saw that he left a form, cold though
it was, whose expression was still so radiant with
rapture, that as we looked, our hearts were comforted. I awoke in tears, but they were not for
the departed; they were fbr the solitary mourner
who was bending over her."
More than fifteen months befobre her decease,
she expressed the conviction that her constitution
was failing. The severe illness of one of her
children at that time, had greatly exhausted her




M E i ORIAL.               93
strength.  This was soon followed by the sudden
death of her father- an event which shocked her
whole system.  The foreboding with which for
many years she had looked forward to the'breaking up of her father's family,' seemed about to be
fully realized. The affliction sunk deep into her
soul. I-er father often seemed present with her
in physical form.  He sat and talked with her in
her dreams. I-er spirit seemed unwilling to let
him depart from her. The cord that had so long
bound her life to his, would not break.  She suffered too great intensity of feeling for her exhausted body. At her father's funeral she expressed the belief that she should be the first of his
family to follow him into eternity.  She sought
relief in redoubled exertions at her writing table.
Within the space of a short time, she wrote and
rewrote the " Peep at No. 5."  It was an untimely, anid —in connection with the events that preceded and followed it - a fatal effort. She passed
the ensuing summer in a state of great prostration.
The apprehension that she should not recover, often suggested itself to her mind, and she put her
house in order, in anticipation of the possible, perhaps probable, event of her speedy departure.
A short time spent at the seaside in July, caused her strength to rally a little.  There she enjoyed much in riding several hours daily on the




94E M OMORIA L.
beach, now listening to the reading of some of he;r
favorite authors, and then communing in silence
with the sea.  She conversed freely respecting
herself, recalled many of the most interesting passages in her life, spoke gratefully of those to whom
she was indebted for valuable influences upon her
character, and expressed many wishes with regard
to the training of her children, if' she should soon
be called to leave them.  With the most melting
tones of self-humiliation, she expressed her sorrow
fir the' waste of years' which, to her severe
judgment, seemed to constitute her past life, and
for her great unworthiness of the blessings with
which God had filled her life up. "And yet,"
said she, " I have struggled hard to know my duty
in life, and to do it. I do not feel as if I had succeeded, but nobody knows how I have struggled
to do right. And now, if it is God's will that I
should die, I think I can say that my mind is at
rest in whatever I-Ie wills. For myself, I think I
need not fear, but I do not see how my family can
spare me yet, nor do I know that I feel ready to
leave them. If it comes to that, I think God will
prepare me for it."
To one of her old school-companions, whose
Christian counsel had for many years been a solace to her, she wrote at this time as follows:"After all, I have more hope than fear for the re



MI E     M O R  I          9 L5
sult of this sickness, though sometimes I see it just
as it is, doubtful. Dear A  -, if it comes to the
worst, I want to say to you, that from first to last,
you have been invaluable to me. If I could ever
do for any human being what you have done for
me, I should feel that I had not lived in vain.
This is all true; and if the great gulf separates
us soon, my best love stays with you; and if lam
fit, I know we shall meet in Heaven. I cannot
write much more. You must not infer that I am
gloomy — I am not. I dare not say how I should
feel with the certainty of death before me; but
now, in thinking of it, my mind is at rest. I am
willing to leave myself in God's hands. I do
think that the question of my life or death, and
what is more, the salvation of my soul, I am willing to leave there. I have no hope but in my
Saviour; and if He has not saved me, then this.
too I know is just, and God's Decree I would not
clange."
Thus cautiously, and with severe self-distrust,
did she express her Christian hope, though on the
verge of Heaven. It was with the same lowly
spirit that, eighteen years before, she had "begun
to dare to hope that she had become a child of
God."  To one who knows her habit of using few
and measured words in speaking of her own Christian experience, this brief extract speaks volumes.




96Mi E lI OR IAL.
Especially does its closing declaration reveal one
of the deep places in her heart.  Her now longrooted habits of rest in God's Decrees, led l her to
utter the most solemn words that can fall firom
human lips, —"  If He has not saved me, then tlis too
1 know is just, and God's Decree 1 would not
change."  This was, to her mind, no idle profession, nor had it any vague significance. She knew
what she meant by it, and she meant what she
said.  One who has been familiar with her ways
of thinking, and her use of language, can almost
imagine her as uttering the same words beyond
the confines of this world.
In the month of August, 1852, she gave birth
to her third child. For several weeks after this
event, her health improved, and her friends began
to lose their fears of a fatal termination of her
disease.  She herself engaged in new plans for
the employment of her pen for years to come.
Her love of life'strengthened as her hope of life
brightened. Life never before seemed so desirable
to her as now. New ties bound her to this world.
During her long illness, two objects seemed to flit
before her as emblems of her chief desires for the
recovery of her health; one was, her writing-table
-and the other, her seat in the little group that
had been accustomed to gather around her, at
" the children's hour."




M EMORIAL.                 97
In the early part of October, the improvement
that had taken place in her condition, seemed to
be secretly arrested.  The disease of the brain,
which had for many years afflicted her at intervals, began to develop itself with increased severity; and it soon became manifest that her whole
system was slowly giving way. About the first of
November, she was removed to Boston, in the
hope that change of scene, and proximity to the
sea-coast, and additional medical advice, might be
the means of her restoration. It was all in vain;
her physicians soon pronounced her case nearly,
if not quite, hopeless.
And now commenced one of the most striking
exhibitions of her character that her life witnessed.  It was, her calm, deliberate, conscientious,
determined struggle for Zife. She had scarcely
reached life's meridian.  Her powers as a writer,.
after twenty years of faithful discipline, had but
just come to their maturity.  The judgment of
severe critics had assured her, that a sphere of
public usefulness was opening before her. She
felt eager to enter it, and grateful for the privilege. Her home, too, called loudly for her. She
was a wife, and a mother. An infant family seemed to say to her that she must not die.  She felt
- and who of her friends did not? - that she had
everything to live for.  Yes,'Life lad rich gifts
9




98            nM E I O0 R I A L.
of love for her.'' She could not see- and who of
her firiends was more discerning? - the reason for
this rupture of ties which no human hand had
woven. God, in this emergency, seemed to make'darkness Htis secret place.' She had no wisdom
to interpret His doings; she could hear only the
summons of the'Angel' with'breathless voice.
She had long known the power of the mind
over the health of the body. The resistance of
disease by force of will, had been a habit with her
for years. Her resolute purpose and fidelity in
self-discipline, had often kept in check the malady
which now threatened to lay her in the grave.
After meditating long in silence upon the extremity to which she seemed now to be brought, she
called her husband to her side —her voice was
calm - her whole manner self-possessed - everything betokened the collected purpose of her soul.
As nearly as her language can be now recalled,
she said, "I do not wish you to speak to me of
death, nor tell me of any discouraging changes in
my state. Talk to me of God, and give me pleasant thoughts of Heaven, but not as if you expected
me to die. Be as hopeful as you can be, and help
me to hope. You need-not feel anxious about my
religious state, nor ask me about it. That is not
necessary. I am at rest.    *    *    *    *
When the time comes for me to go, you shall




M E  0 R IA  L             99
know it. I shall not die without being able to say
to you all that you will wish to hear. God will
take care of that, and HIe will take care of me.
If death is before me, I shall be ready to meet it.
Now, my duty is, to live; and you must help me."
This calm conviction of duty to live, from that
moment appeared almost incessantly to be active
in her mind. She concentrated the whole strength
of her being upon the last struggle for life. Never
before had she exhibited so noble an effort of
Christian principle as now, -through that memorable month of November. She watched in silence
the signs of her failing strength, but expressed continually her strong hope that she should yet recover. When temporary improvements took place
in her condition, she rallied her spirits, and threw
herself back into life, and formed plans, and conversed blithely, and even amused her friends with
her wonted pleasantries. When she was wearied
with the effort, she would request that a boquet of
flowers or a favorite picture should be placed bebore her, that she might rest in the enjoyment it
affqrded her. If a friend were overcome at the
sight of her wasting frame, she would request him
to leave her; and when it was suggested that her
elder children should once more visit her, she declined the proposal, for " she had no strength to
waste" on scenes of pain and parting, and "' it was




100            X EM ORIAoL.
her d7,ty to live."  Sometimes, for clays together,
so stern was the conflict, that those she loved best
could scarcely catch from her a word, a smile, a
look, that betokened her interest in them. They
feared that she might pass away in the silence of
those dreadful hours, unable to speak her last message. Yet, she seemed constantly more thoughtful of others than of herself.  The kindness of
friends around her, was often the only thing that
could recall a degree of' her wonted vivacity. She
seemed unable to express adequately her gratitude
to her faithful nurse; and to other friends whom
she thought God had directly sent to her in her
hour of trial, she would indicate in many nameless
ways how deeply she felt their unsought beneficence. Her mind associated them with Lim who
- went about doing good.' She told them that she
understood as she had never done before, why
Christ spent so much of his life with the sick and
the suffering; that nobody could know the good
which was thus achieved, except those who themselves lay on a sick bed. Her silent thoughts of
her own family, too, would sometimes break fronm
the restraint she imposed on them. In one instance, when her infant child was taken into her
room, it seemed to unloose her imprisoned affections, -her face lighted up with tenderness, her.eye assumed that depth of meaning wthich none




M E;r O  R I A L1. 101
but a mother's eye ever has, and for a few lnoments she poured forth her love in the dialect
which only mothers know how to rse - then fell
back, as if to renew more resolutely the struggle
against the disease that consumed her.  There
were occasions' of extreme and immediate peril,
when she would herself give directions as to the
various remedies she needed, and would mark the
time, minute by minute, at which the remedy
should be repeated. On such occasions there were
moments when, as if to proclaim its own immortality, the soul seemed to come forth fronm that
dimmed eye, and in almost visible presence, to
strike at the unseen foe. 3Meanvwhile, all that poor
human affection could do, was to stand near and
give in quick succession the weapons of assault.
For more than thirty days she thus maintained
the unequal conflict. At length, her hope began to
waver. " If it were not for my children," said she,
"I would not struggle any longer."  It was not
till the evening of the twenty-ninth of Noverrber,
that she became convinced that the strugcle was a
hopeless one, and that God was calling her to Himself.. She then gave up all, with scarcely a moment's agitation. "Without a tear her eye turned
on Death. She placed her hand in his."
The closing scene was just lilte her. Her whole
manner was so self-possessed - her words were
9*s




102            MEM o R I L.
so truthful - her spirit so self-distrustful, so severe
in judgment upon her own infirmities, so penitent, so hopeful, so thoughtful of those whom she
was leaving, so full of love to that Saviour who
was waiting for her coming — that it did not seem
like dying. It was rather, life drawing to its close
with a beautiful natzuralness.  She took her husband by the hand, and after speaking of the path
they had trod together, as none but she could have
spoken, she said, "You must not think I have
been unhappy during this sickness - I have not.
I have done the best I could do to live, but I have
not been unhappy. The Saviour has been around
my bed. I do not Hknow that I shall be saved, but
now I can only truest. He gave Himself to die
for sinners, and why should I not trust Him?"
After a brief season of exhaustion, her mind
seemed to be full of anticipations of Heaven, and
it presented itself to her view in the forms of material beauty, which she had always loved. She
repeated a line of one of her favorite hymns-'Sweet fields beyond the swelling floods,' —
then, after a little interval, added, "It is delightful
to stand on the banks."
After another interval of silence, in which she
appeared to be looking over the cold river to the




M RAlORIAL.                 03
fields beyond,' she collected her strength to express her wishes respecting her family and other
fiiends. IHer intellect was clear and definite in its
perceptions, her opinions prompt and positive, just
as they had always been.  She spoke of many
minute particulars relating to the education of her
children, descending even to an expression of her
judgment as to their physical training.  She re-"
called, distinctly, one after another of her friiends,
and designated the little mementos of her affection which she wished to present to them.  Having recounted these, it was just like her, that she
could not resist the kindly impulse that prompted
her for the moment, to bespeak a gentle treatment
for a favorite horse, which had been one of God's
gifts to her.  She repeatedly cautioned her attendants to preserve a composed spirit around her,
and seemed to strive to aid them  by speaking
pleasantly of her emaciated frame, and calmly expressing her wishes as to the place of her burial.
Her interest in her writings seemed to be as fresh
as ever. She desired that the publication of a little
volume which was then in press, should not be detayed on account of her departure; and it pleased
her to listen to the request of a distant publisher,
which was received that very evening, for another
edition of " The Angel over the Right Shoulder."
6Let it go," said she, "' it will do good."  She in



104             ME  OR IA AL.
quired, also, for the day of the month, and wished
to know the precise age of her infant child, and requested that he might be baptized at her funeral.
And remembering, doubtless, her own childhood,
she said, " Do not let my death throw a gloom over
the lives of my children." She gave a pleasing indication of the intimacy with which her refined
%tastes had become associated in her thoughts with
the more common modes of Christian usefulness,
by the fact that in the same breath in which she
requested that her daughter might be carefully instructed in the fine arts, she requested, also, that
her two little boys might be trained for the work
of foreign missionaries.
These thoughts of earth appeared to give rest
to her weary mind, and enable her again to revert
to the eternal prospect before her. She spoke of
the friends whom she should soon meet.  6 "There
are a great many there," said she, 1" and you will
all come soon, it will be but a little while - Mother
will come very soon."  This thought of meeting
friends in Heaven, however, seemed to be unsatisfactory to her. It instantly suggested her meeting
with Christ, and the infinite holiness of His presence appeared to overawe her soul. "'I do not
feel as if I were fit to go to Heaven," said she;
"' are you sure that He will save me? " Her severe fidelity to herself found expression in even




EM No 0RIA L.'           105
stronger language, when she added,' I do not feel
as if I were a Christian -but I cannot make my-self such. W hat shall I do if I am selfish in it
all? Mhy mrind is a little clouded - I am afraid I
am selfish."  Sonme passages from the Scriptures
vere repeated to her, which appeared to give
her comfort.  Among others, tile following, viz:
4This is a faithful saying and worthy of all aceepta-:ion, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save
sinners.'  The speaker paused here, and she instantly took up the passage, and added in tones of
most touching elmphasis, 6"of whozm I am chiee'
And after a few moments' silence, she continued
in the same earnest tones,   I do believe;" and
again, in answer to the inquiry,'" You know that
you love the Saviour, do you not?" she replied,
"I do love Him. I do trust in his atoning blood,
and in nothingq else. I give myself to Him."  As
one after another of the Scriptural assurances of
God's faithfulness to His children were repeated
to her, a tremulous pressure of the hand that held
hers told how precious tlhey were to her. After
some hours had passed, her physical distress led
her to ask for some anodyne that should give her
relief; but when it was prepared, she refused to
take it until she was assured that it could not obscure the clearness of her mind. As life ebbed
fast awvay, the thought of the.holiness of HI-eaven




106             MEMORIAL.
again oppressed her, and doubts clouded the prospect. " Are you sure lie will fit me for heaven?"
she asked; and nothing seemed to satisfy her
longing for a full assurance, but the very words of
God,' He is able to save unto the uttermost, seeing
that He ever livethl to intercede.'' He that comethl
unto me, I will in no wise cast out.''Let not
your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.''I go to prepare mansions for you.''I will not
leave you comfortless.'' I will come again and
receive you unto myself.''This day shalt thou
be with me in Paradise.' These, and many others
of like character, buoyed up her fainting spirit.
For several hours before she vanished out of our
*sight, not a cloud rested upon her vision. She desired to depart. Her last intelligible words were,
"How long?- how long?"
IT was on the morning of the last day of Autumn, after a still and cloudless night, that she'fell
asleep.' "Miusic and light, such as angels love,
filled the air, and death. took his gift.  Yet I saw
that he left a form, cold though it was, whose expression was so" peaceful, "that as we looked,
our hearts were comforted."
Her funeral was solemnized at her late residence in Andover, in the afternoon of' the third
day of December, 1852.  We sung her favorite




E EMO RIAL.               107
hymns* -one of which had been in her dying
thoughts, and the other she had, in her last sickness, pronounced the "most beautiful in the language." In accordance with her request, the rite
of Baptism was administered to her infant;ihildo
We could not but be grateful for such a privilege,
at such an hour; and when we learned that at that
hour the western sun had stolen into that darkened room, and sought out no object there but her
portrait whbich was looking down upon us, we could
not but be reminded that she had indeed smiled
upon the scene. She had always been grateful if
the winds were hushed, and the skies radiant, and
the atmosphere bland, when she followed a friend
to the burial,  and such was the hour in which
we followed her. Autumn, with thoughtful kindness, had lingered for us; loving spirits seemed to
move around us in the serene air; the'speaking
elms,' now shorn of their verdure, sighed in gentfe sympathy with our woe; and as we bore her
along the path which she had so often trodden
with us to the house of God, the setting sun -
her own chosen emblem of immortality- paused
on the horizon, to proclaim once more the assu* The first was the five hundred and tenth, and the
second was the three hundred and eighty-fourth tHymn of
the collection of "Psalms and Hymns" prepared under
the direction of the General Association of Connecticut.




108            M E M 0 R I A L. 
rance to our souls. The tolling bell seemed friendm
ly to us, now that it no more struck terror to her
heart; we were glad when we thought that it was
not'beyond the stars heard.' It was a comfort to
us, that her little ones mourned not, but followed
her trustfully., It helped to soothe us as we drew
near to the narrow house, that we could lay her
down to rest in that consecrated spot, where are
few, if any, for whom men have mourned as those
that had no hope; and where so many repose who
were'chosen vessels' unto God. We felt that
we brought her to join an illustrious company.
We thought, how peacefully she would rest by the
side of her father whom her soul loved.'With
kings and counsellors of the earth,'-and more, with
6kings and priests unto God,'-we left her. And
there, she sleeps to-day.  Yet, not there. We
have sought her diligently, and we could not find
her there. We have called to her; and she would
have wakened at our voice, if she had slumbered
there; but the winds answered us hoarsely. We
have lifted the cold mantle which we tried to think
winter had thrown kindly over her; and she
would have reached forth her hand to greet us, if
she had been hidden there; but we grasped only the
dull, frozen earlth. Then suddenly the grave grew
deeper, and the darkness thickened over it whenever we sought her there; and the stars seemed




MEMORIAL.               109
to draw lovingly towards us, and we heard a voicefrom Heaven saying, " What do ye here?  Why
seek ye the living among the dead?"  And so
we turned away. We sought her among the "living," and our eyes were opened to behold her. In
visions of the night, she sought out us, and we
took sweet counsel with her. She told us that she
had been changed, in a moment, in the twinkling
of an eye. She had been carried away to a holy
city that came down from God. It had no need
of the sun, neither of the moon, to shline in it, yet.
there was no night there. She had seen a pureriver of water of life, clear;.s crystal; and the,
street of the city was pure gold. There, was no,
more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, nor any:more pain, and we saw that all tears had been
wiped away from ]her eyes.  She told us, that
through the infinite riches of grace which are in
Christ Jesus, she had been welcomed there to amansion, of which she could only say, that He had,
prepared it fbr her. Her tongue had been unloosed,
to speak His praise. A harp had been given to
her, and her fingers had become skilful on its golden chords. She had been admitted to a choice
companionship. She was one of the swijft messengers. She was of those who mount up on
wings as eagles, - and many things had she seen
in her flight which it was not lawful for her to
10




110            M EM: O IAL.
utter. But, more than all, she had been with
Christ. He who had so gently walked'around her
bed' when she had fallen asleep, had been the
first to greet her when she woke. That countenance which she had believed no earthly art could
picture, had, with more than its earthly radiance,
smiled on her; and she was satisfied now, for she
had awaked in HIis likeness. Then we looked and
saw, that His name was written  in her forehead.
Yes, she had been with Christ.  She had seen
-GopD.
We comforted one another with these words.
Then we remembered the words which she had
spoken while she was yet with us, many years
before, and which she had recorded, as if to put
us in remembrance of her, when they should have
come to pass.
"Once, at the hour of twilight," she had written, "I sat at my western window, and watched,the dying out of day. To me, the scene is always
suggestive of the fading away of this life. I
strained my eyes to catch a glimpse beyond the
dark horizon. But the distant mountain and
nearer hill and valley faded into the grey twilight, and my thoughts turned from  the world
without to the world within. All at once, from
that spot where the red sun went down, arose a
bright cloud like a new sun. Soon I seemed to




MEMORIAL.                tll
be bathed in its light. The ebbing and flowing
waves bore up before me a shining mirror. I
looked upon this mirror, and saw reflected in it
my own image. It was a truthful mirror. What
a heart it revealed to me! How divided between
earth and heaven, between self and God! - 1Eow
feeble its best resolutions! How faint its noblest
aspirations!  How  corrupt a heart it was! I
wept, and through my tears I saw that the intellect, too, was fettered by prejudice, enslaved by
indolence, diseased by sin. Its enfeebled powers
returned no'usury' to the Giver. I wept more
and more at this sight. I bent over the image,
as if I would wash it out with my tears. As one
struggleth for life, so struggled I for something
with which I might blot it out forever.
"Again the sunlight waves ebbed and flowed,
and again the shining mirror was before me. Far
down in its silvery depths, I now discerned a figure
of glorious and yet familiar form and features.
No trace of care was on that brow, the eye
sparkled with beautiful intelligence, and peaceful
beyond description was the smile on the lip. I
looked within, the struggles of that heart had
ceased, its warfare ended. Sin no more had dominion there, - and now, like a pent-up fountain
suddenly released, its pure affections came gushing forth.:They needed a glorified body by which




112              E MORIAL.
to express themselves. That intellect, freed also
from mortal chains, how wondrous were its capacities! It sought out, and grasped, and appropriated to itself, all Truth. Free from  doubt, and
unerring in its decisions, it seemed like a giant
armed. Something whispered to me that this image which I now saw, was also my own. It was
the image of that which, when I had passed the
dim boundary of this life, I should be a redeemed
soul, with sanctified heart and illuminated mind.
I gazed upon it,'lost in wonder, love, and praise.'
I panted to be'unclothed,' that I might be'clothed upon."'




THE PURITAN FAMILY,
1o0g.








THE PURITAN FAMILY.
I.
THE LANDING.
IN the early part of September, 164-, occurred
one of the great events of those days, to the colony
of Massachusetts. It was nothing more nor less
than an arrival from Old England of a vessel
filled with emigrants who had come, some to seek
their fortune, and some to worship God. Boston
Harbor bade them welcome, and a crowd was
gathered on the wharf to receive them.  They
were a'goodlie companie,' and many of them as
they leaped ashore threw back their heads and
stretched their limbs, and took'long breaths,' as
if the relief they felt from the confinement of forty
days on shipboard were heightened by a new sense
of civil and religious freedom which expanded
their huge frames. A little apart from the crowd
stood a small group of three —Mrs. Allerton,
Arabella her daughter, and Hetty, a faithful old
servant. Mr. Allerton was running hither and




116        THE PURITAN FAMILY.
thither, collecting their most necessary baggage.
It was nearly noon, and the rays of the lingering
summer fell hotly upon them, as they stood there
unsheltered. Mrs. Allerton had passed the prime
of life, but was still attractive in person and manner. Her eye wandered over the embryo city
which had nestled down so closely to the sea, and
she did so with an anxious expression, fobr there
was to be her new home. Arabella possessed the
beauty of the lily, - delicate, almost too delicate,
it should seem, to bear transplanting; and she
stood with her pensive eye wandering back over
the waters, towards the home she had left. Hetty,
by no means an unimportant personage in the
party, watched with a jealous eye eachi piece of
baggage as it was handed over to a black man,
who had offered the services of himself and his
cart.
"We can't do without this; we must have that
- now that green box a'nt put in; MIrs. Allerton,
wont you please say, we must have the green
box?  We shall need it the fust thing."
"Never mind, Hetty," said Mrs. Allerton; "we
do not know yet what we want, or where we shall
go."
"Not where we shall go? 5My eyes! a'nt there
no hotels in this country? Curious place, I think,"
continued she - talking now to herself. "Wish




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          117
ourselves back, I am thinking, Miss Bell; only
see, Mir. Allerton don't think of the red trunk, and
it has got all your dresses in it, —not fit to be
seen, any of us."
" Hush, Hetty," said Mrs. Allerton, turning her
face towards the vessel, " they are going to prayer."
A large party of emigrants had crowded together on one part of the deck, around theii minister, - and with closed eyes and reverent posture,
they united with him in returning thanks to God,
for their safe voyage. At the close of this long
prayer, they sung a psalm, "O give thanks unto
the' Lord," etc. SMrs. Allerton joined them with
a sweet, rich voice, and as it appeared with her
whole heart. Arabella attempted to do the same,
but her voice trembled and she turned quite away,
to hide her tears. Hetty looked as if she thought
the service long, and the sun hot. The captain
and crew of the vessel paid little heed to the pious.thank offering of their puritan passengers, - for
during their long summer voyage, they had become
quite accustomed to their strange ways, inasmuch
as' having two ministers on board, they had had
many sermons to beguile the tedious hours.
The news of the arrival of this vessel soon
spread; and as the last strain of the chant died
away, a gentleman approached, before whom the
crowd parted on either side. His countenance




118        THIE PURITAN FAMILY.
was mild and benevolent, - his manners, polished
and winning. His beard descended to the ruff,
which he wore about his neck, and his dress indicated a person of authority. It was Governor
Winthrop.
He was watching the landing of the emigrants,
with much interest, when his eye fell upon his old
friend, Mr. Allerton. He hastened to him, and
grasping him by the hand, gave him a warm welcome. So cordial was the greeting, both to him
and his family, that Mrs. Allerton felt as if she
had met a brother; and the weary, and somewhat
dispirited, party revived under the tones of
kindness.
" My house is but a short distance from here,
Mrs. Allerton," said the Governor; "you must
make it your home for the present, and the sooner
you are out of this hot sun, the better. Arabella
looks half homesick already; see how she watches
the old ship, as if now it were more attractive than
our goodly town of Boston. Come and rest, child;
then we will show you something better than this
wharf. You will love New England, yet." Gov.
Winthrop drew Arabella's arm within his, and the
fair pilgrim felt somewhat comforted.
Mlr. Allerton and Hetty soon overtook them,
and the whole party proceeded to Gov. Winthrop's
house, It was a low, two-story wooden house,




THE PURITAN FAMILY,           119
painted with some attention to the ornamental, and
furnished with blinds. In the porch, which projected over the front door, stood Mrs. Winthrop;
and so heartily did she repeat her husband's welcome, that her visitors felt like expected guests.
After stopping a while in the comfortable parlor,
they were conducted to their own rooms that they
might rest, and prepare for tea.
The chamber over the parlor, with its nice white
dimity hangings, was assigned to Mr. and Mrs.
Allerton; a small room over the entry, to Arabella; while Hetty took her place in the servants'
quarters. Their baggage, as it arrived, was stowed
away in a loft in the barn, for the present, excepting the invaluable green box and the red trunk,
which Hetty made bold to tell the Governor "they
must have," and some smaller pieces. She bustled
about now, in earnest, and released the ladies'
dresses from their long confinement, and wished
them to appear in their best at the Governor's
table.
"Oh! pray Hetty," said Mrs. Allerton,  fold up
those damask dresses, and give us something more
simple. What will you wear, Arabella, dear?"
" Anything," said Arabella, looking vacantly out
of the window over the water. Mrs. Allerton noticed her absence and dejection, and spoke to her
in cheerful tones.




12A0       THE PURITAN FAMILY.
"How pleasant everything is here, daughter,is it not? These bed-hangings remind me of my
own room, and almost carry me back to it, they are
so like ours; and I noticed that the window of your
little room looks out to the west, just as the one
in your study at home does. Then to be received
so cordially, to meet such kind friends, and find a
home ready for us, and to have had so prosperous
a voyage, - why, Bella dear! we have a great
deal to be thankful for."
"I think so, too, mother," replied Arabella, "and
I shall soon feel cheerful and happy, for though I
love Old England, yet I love you and father more;
my home is where you are."
"Miss Bell," said Hetty, "pray, let me braid
your hair. Your father wont like it at all to see
you at the table with it in such a snarl - and the
Governor and his lady there too."
"Do what you please, good Hetty," said Arabella, pulling out her comb and letting her dark
hair fall down over her shoulders. She looked up
to her mother at the same time, and tried to smile
in answer to her good cheer. She had a little
struggle, but she kept back some truant drops, that
otherwise would have dimmed her deep blue eyes.
6 Poor little pilgrim!' she yearned for her old home.




II.
NEIGHBORS,
WHILE it was yet early, a little bell, ringing at
the foot of the stairs, announced the tea-hour at
Gov. WVinthrop's.  Our travellers, now dressed
sufficiently to satisfy Hetty, and being certainly
much improved in appearance, joined the Governor
and his lady in the parlor, where. the table was
laid.  Gov. Winthrop's son was now presented'
to the visitors.  He was social and courteous, and
made an effort to draw out the timid stranger.
With her beauty he had become quite well acquainted during the very long blessing which his
father, as usual, pronounced.
So many questions were asked and answered,
that it was dark when the party rose from  the
table. The evening wa- unusually mild, and the
elder gentlemen withdrew to the settee on the
stoop, to finish their conversation, while the ladies
sat back a little in. the parlor.  Mrs. Winthrop
was busy with netting, which, however, did not
at all divert her attention from her guests. The
younger Winthrop described to Arabella, some of
the attractions of~ Boston. Thus passed:our emi11




122        THE PURITAN FAMILY.
grants' first evening in New England.'When the
large clock in the hall struck the hour of nine,
Gov. Winthrop rose,"Our habits are very simple here," said he to
lMlr. Allerton; " it is the hour for family prayer."
Mrs. Winthrop called the domestics. The younger
Winthrop, by his father's request read the chapter
next in course; a psalm was given out in couplets,
which the family joined in singing; prayer then
followed, and all soon retired to rest.
Arabella accompanied her mother into hei
room, and seemed unwilling to separate from her
"A good night's sleep," said her father, " will
make Boston another place; come here, Bella; I
want to see more color in those cheeks; the sea
has paled them. Do not you think you will be
happy here?"
"I mean to be happy here, dear father," said
Arabella, throwing her arms around him, and
fondly caressing him.
" Let us unite in prayer in our own room," said
Mr. Allerton, "that we may render thanks unto
God for his mercies towards us individually."
Saying this, he knelt, with his wife and daughter
by his side.
" Now, good-night, my child;" and " good-night"
again, from the mother - and with Hetty to attend
to all her little wants, the idolized child retired to




THE PURITAN FAMILY.           123
her room tosleep soundly and sweetly, and wakefor the first time in New England.
A fortnight passed rapidly away, while Mr. Allerton and his family remained the guests of Gov.
Winthrop. At the expiration of that time, he had
hired a house, - out from the more thickly settled
part of the town, with, a small farm; hoping that
this, together with the remnant of his reduced
property, would suffice for the maintenance of his
family.
This house, after the fashion of the times, was
built two stories in front, and sloped down to one
in the rear. The small windows made of diamondshape glass, set in sashes of lead, opened outward
on hinges. A large yard in front, shaded by two
venerable elms, gave a pleasant and attractive air
to this spot.
"It is everything we could desire," said Mrs.
Allerton, as with real.pleasure she walked about
the premises.  "It is far beyond what I supposed
we could obtain without waiting to build. Bella,
dear, we will put a porch out on this side, and
transplant that grape-vine for you, and you will
like to sit there in the shade, and read and sew."
"I thought of that myself," said Mr. Allerton.'"It could very easily be done; we will attend to
it early in the spring."
"You should not think so much of me," said




124        THE PURITAN FAMILY.
Arabella. "s You must care for your own comfort,
dear mother. I am young" — " and strong," she
would have added, but checked herself.
"The water is nigh the house, and that is one
comfort," said Hetty, "but who are we to have for
neighbors, I wonder, in that little brown house
there? I hope they are good natur'd, as long as
they are so nigh."
"' Good day to you, good-man and good-wife, and
a welcome to our new country. You are to live
here, I suppose? " inquired some one so near that
it seemed as if the voice must have come from
one of their party. "4I am the neighbor whom
that woman was just asking for, and I live very nigh
you. Shall be glad to help you any about setting
to rights, if I can. Miy name is Mercy Whitman.
They call me 3Mercy, mostly. I am a poor lone
widow. Aly husband - the Lord love him -- was
shot by the Injins, more than five year ago.'The
Lord gave, and the Lord took away.'"
" IHave you children, Mercy?" kindly inquired
MIrs. Allerton. M3ercy, before replying, climbed
over a stone fence, behind which she had been
concealed, and approached nearer.  She was a
short, stout woman, dressed in a blue checked short
gown and petticoat, and'she wore a very highcrowned cap, which was not altogether as clean as
it might have been. Her gray, fiizzled hair, es



THE PURITAN FAMILY.         i125
caping from under it, hung about a sallow and
wrinkled face, lighted by a pair of keen gray eyes,
which had a sinister expression.  Hetty declared
afterwards that "they made her think of' a wolf,
or an Injin, or some such cretur."
" Not a living chick in the world," said AMercy,
"to call me mother. My'boy died the wintelr after
his father, and there he lies under that apple tree
in my garden."
Hetty surveyed the new acquaintance from head
to foot, and with a secret feeling of dislike to
everything about her, walked on rapidly and entered the house.
" Can't I help you any?" said Mercy. " I shall.be very glad to. 3ly work is up for to-day."
"No, I thank you," said Mrs. Allerton, stepping
past her. "W We have not much to do at present.
If I should want you at any time, I will call upon
you. Good morning."
Mercy saw the unpacked boxes, through the
half-open door; and vexed a little that she could
not satisfy her curiosity, and yet not daring to
press the matter farther with the stranger lady,
she returned the salutation, and left them; but
slyly went round back of the house to the kitchen,
hoping to find more favor with'the woman.'
Hetty was pulling violently at a cupboard door,
which seemed to be glued up.
11*




126         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
"Bless ye, let me try," said Mercy, "pull at top
and bottom both- here, I'll show ye - I'll have
it in a minute."
"No," said Hetty, not very well pleased, "I
thank ye; but if I can't open it myself, I'll let it
go."  Mercy looked on; Hetty tugged, and turned
red in the face, and broke her nails. Mercy stood
still and laughed. Hetty lost her patience —of
which she had not a very large stock.
" You had better be a-doing something else than
looking at your neighbors," said she, in a passion.
"' O that is it, is it?  Well, I'll take myself off,
then. It's a pity if folks can't be civil when others
come to do them a kindness, I think," said Mercy,
reddening in her turn.
Fortunately the door yielded, and HI-etty felt
better.  " There," said she, "if I had taken your
advice, Mistress Mercy, I should not have broken
my nails; and now if you will draw up a bucket
of water for me, I'll do as much for you some
time."
Mercy was but half appeased. The first shot
had been fired. It was said, many miles around,
that Mercy never forgot an injury, and people
generally were afraid of her.




III, 
WINTER IN THE "c WILDERNESSE."
By the first of October, our emigrants were
settled in their new home. Elegant it was not;
for as the deputy-governor had been censured for
wainscoting his house, Mr. Allerton would not
venture to offend the prejudices of the good people by any superfluities.  Mrs. Allerton and Arabella, though equally considerate, did not hit the line
so exactly; for many things which seemed to the
settlers as superfluities, were to them but matters
of ordinary comfort.  Some furniture they had
brought with them: a carpet that covered the floor
of the room which was to be both parlor and bedroom for guests; some heavy, curiously carved
mahogany chairs, standing on lions' claws; a small
bookcase; a set of oaken drawers, also curiously
wrought. These, with three or four family portraits in rich frames, gave an aristocratic air to the
best parlor. The other parlor, being the room in
which they chiefly lived, had no carpet.  Two
hearvy mahogany tables stood upon its white sanded floor, and its walls were thickly hung with Arabella's paintings, all of which her father had care



128        THE PURITAN FAMILY.
fully preserved. Two large, high-backed chairs
stood in each corner of the huge fireplace. Back
of these two parlors was the kitchen and a small
room opening into it, originally intended for a bed
room, but now used by Mr. Allerton as a library.
Here were collected all the books that he had been
able to bring over. Hietty's quarters were quite
capacious, and on the whole, convenient.  She
would sometimes grumble about leaving so many
comforts behind in England,- yet, in the main,
she found more to praise than to find fault with.
Thus, almost necessarily, their house had an
appearance of style which was much beyond that
of their neighbors, and which at first made the
neighbors a little shy.
But as acquaintance increased, this wore entirely away. MSr. Allerton became very popular, and
was esteemed as a kind, charitable, godly man,
one whose house and purse were open to relieve
the suffering, — a "real New England Souldier,
whom the Lord Christ having prepared for his
work in England, had now sent over to fight his
Battel."
Mrs. Allerton was courteous and hospitable, with
a word of sympathy for all who needed it. They
esteemed her as " likewise a godly Woman, indued
by Christ with graces fit for a Wildernesse condition, whose courage was exceeding great, and




THE PURITAN FAMILY.           1229
who, with much cheerfulness, did undergoe all difficulties; and who had brought up her child to be
an honour to Christ."
They were thus established in their house, and
in the affections of the people, when the cold, New
England winter -found them. It brought with it
many hardships.
The change from a condition of ease, plenty,
and comfort, to their present one, for Mrs. Allerton and Arabella, was very great. The winter set
in suddenly, and with violent snow-storms.  They
found themselves, one PNovember morning, almost
buried in the drifts. Their house was not tightly
built, and the bitter cold wind whistled in, all
around them. No part of the house was habitable
but the sitting-room and kitchen, and these were
made so only by enormous fires. Hetty affirmed
that 1" the side of the bed where she did n't lie was
covered with snow, and one end of her pillow.
froze down.  Such doings she never heard of
afore."
To sit over the fire and make themselves comfortable, was out of question; there was too much
to be done. No help could be hired in the region,
for love or money, and all the indoor work for the
actual support of the family, came upon these
three. Poor Hetty, scarcely allowing herself time
to eat, worked early and late to save her mistress




130         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
and BMiss Bella; but though she taxed her industry and ingenuity to the utmost; she could not do
everything. In this "wildernesse," through such:
cruel weather, all who lived must work.
This first snow-storm we have noticed, was a
fair specimen of the rest of the winter.
"Yes, snowing again to-day, Bella dear," said
Mr. Allerton, "but our logs burn cheerfully. Get
into the chimney corner, child. You had better
move up your stand there and finish that drawing;
it is a long time since I have seen you with your
pencil. It will amuse you this dull day, darling."
"I wish you would urge her to," said Mrs. Allerton;;" she works much beyond her strength; I
cannot persuade her to spare herself."
"When you will spare yourself, dear mother,
then will I," replied Arabella.
"No need of either of you working, and I tell'em so every day of their lives, but it don't do no
good; they will keep at it," said Hetty, who just
entered with an armful of wood. "I wish you
would put a stop to it, if you please, sir. Mistress even takes hold of the washing, as if I was
not old enough to do a washing. They'll both of'em kill themselves, and I tell'em so, but they
won't mind me, sir."
"Can't you get any help about the heaviest of
the work, HIetty," inquired Mr. Allerton.




TILE PURITAN FAMILY.           131
" Not a living mortal, sir, except Mercy Whitman, and for my part I'd work till I dropped, afore
I'd have her about. I believe she's a witch," mumbled she in an under-tone.
"You work now as long as you can stand, Het"_ Not 1, mistress; and if I do, it's not because
I work hard, or am getting old.  It is this villanous country, with its horrid storms. When one's
bed clothes freeze to'em, I do n't know why their
bones should n't ache. If we were only back again
in old England, we would think twice afore we
crossed the ocean, - that's my mind."
" Blessed be the Lord who has gloriously upheld
us," said Mr. Allerton; "if this great work of
planting here the pure religion of Christ were before me, and ten thousand oceans, I would cross
them all to do it."
iMrs. Allerton approached gently, and put her
hand upon his shoulder.  "Amen," said she, in a
deep, earnest voice. " Let us rejoice that we are
accounted worthy to suffer for His sake. Not for
all England could offer, would I turn back, if"the mother's voice trembled, for her moistened eye
fell upon her fragile daughter, and the sentence
was unfinished. For a moment, faith wavered.
"We will cast all our cares upon the Lord,"




132         THE PURITAN FAMILT.
said Mir. Allerton, "and assuredly the wants of
this wildernesse will never hurt us."
"I s'pose so," said Hetty, "but pray what are
we to do for bread; our last peck of meal is in the
oven baking, and we have had nothing to eat
this fortnight, but 6 mussells and clambanks.' Miss
Bell can't eat this corn bread, and the fish does n't
suit her. She has n't put enough into her mouth
this week, to keep a robin alive."
"You are mistaken, good Hetty," said Bella,
smiling.'You forget how much milk I drink.
What can be better than such nice fresh milk. I
miss our old luxuries much less than mother does."
" Our cattle will die next thing, if we have
many more such cold snaps," replied Hetty, quite
determined not to be pleased with anything in
a country where it snowed every day in the week.
Her remarks were interrupted by a violent rattling at the kitchen door.
"Who can that be at this time of day, I wonder," said she, as she hastened to open it. A
strong gust of wind blinded her with the driving
snow.
" I ran in to see if your- good-man was in want
of meal," said Mercy Whitman, pushing her way
into the kitchen. " I thought he, could n't get to
mill this week, and I have more than I need."




THE PURITAN FAMILY.           133
" It is very kind in you, Mercy," said Mrs. Allerton, speaking quickly, that she might anticipate
Hetty's short answer. "The last we have is now
in the oven. We will take it from you gladly."
"Wont you walk in and warm you? "
"Thank you, good-wife, but I can't stop this
morning, I'm in a hurry," said Mercy, at the same
time coming in. O no, no, child, keep your seat.
I've no time to spend warming my old bones; and
it's not much matter either; the Lord has'most
done with me for this world; I wait his summons.
This is a nice, warm corner, child, and I do not
care if I just turn the snow out of my shoes."
Arabella's seat was so comfortable, that Mercy
was not very expeditious in clearing her shoes.
She had as usual much scandal to tell, and many
impertinent questions to ask; our friends, though
they treated her kindly, were not sorry to see her
at length rise to go.
" I wish you would be quick and shut that door
after you," said Hetty to her; " you'll let in more
snow than I can get out in a week."
" You may shut your own doors," said Mercy,
" if you are a mind to be so crusty as that," - and
she left the door wide open.
Hetty bestowed upon her some epithet which,
fortunately, the howling wind blew quite out of
her hearing.
12




14           FI TRE PURITAN FA3MILY.'They never agree," said Mfrs. Ailertoii, closing
the sitting-room door) " and I do not mruch wonder
at it."
"How wonnderfully has the Lord provided for
us," said,Mr. Allerton, who had not noticed this
liltle episode between Hetty and Mercy.  "Assuredly, even at the last cast, he is near to those
who trust in Him. He put it into her heart to come
and offer us her meal, when our stock was gone,
and we could see no other way of obtaining it. I
believe that Christ would rather rain bread fronm
heaven than that his people should want, while
they keep about his work.  Let us return thanks
unto HI-im for this seasonable supply."
They knelt,around their crackling fire, and enjoyed to the full the expression of the sweet consciousness that God was feeding them; then, tley
went cheerfully to their day's labors.
Hetty's remarks about the work, however, made
a deep impression upon IMr. Allerton. So uncomplainingly and quietly, had his wife and daughter
performed the hard labor of the family, that the
necessary amount of' it had not occurred to him until
HIetty enlightened him. He saw now, plainly, that
they were taxed beyond their strength, and he
cast about in his mind to see what could be done to
relieve them.




I V.
THE PURITAN HOME.
A DESCRIPTION of one short day, during this
long and tedious winter, will answer for many.
Hetty rose at five every morning, -and bustled
about quickly, to have her fires well burning and
a hot breakfaist ready for the family at half past
six.  Often with sighs, and perhaps with tears
which she in vain dashed away, she dished up the
coarse, and sometimes scanty food, - and yet with
a delicate thoughtfulness, she would arrange it on
the table as much after the manner to which they
had been accustomed as the materials she had,
enabled her to do so.
Immediately after breakfast, prayers occupied
usually three quarters of an hour. MIr. Allerton
read'from a commentary, and invariably had a
psalm sung.  His wife and daughter were sweet
singers, and even HIetty could join in this part of
family worship. After this exercise, with hearts
comfortedl and faith strengthened, and hope smiling
upon them, they separated about their day's toils.
Their house, like many others built at that time,
"faced the south," that the sun might "shine in




136        THE PURITAN FAMILY.
square at noon," and mark the dinner-hour, which
was precisely twelve o'clock. This domestic sundial was very convenient.  Mr. Allerton had
brought out a valuable time-piece, but it had been
so much injured on the passage as to be nearly
useless.
At twelve, they refreshed themselves with their
frugal dinner. Mrs. Allerton would.often force
herself to partake of what was far from inviting
to her, for her husband's sake; but many articles
of diet so evidently disagreed with Arabella, that
her mother was not willing to have her use them.
Corn bread, in particular, poorly suited her. So,
at length, she was reduced almost entirely to milk
and the scanty supply of eggs they could procure.
Notwithstanding this, their meals were cheerful;
they received their food, as it were, directly from
the hand of God; and they felt that what He had
provided for them, was on the whole the best for
them. The very coarseness and scantiness of their
food they regarded as trials of their faith and love,
and a proof that God had not forgotten them, but
chastened them in love. Did they want for bread,
they cheerfully fed upon fish, and had heavenly
discourse of the provision which Christ had once
made for many thousands of his followers in the
wilderness. Thus linked to heaven and Christ in
heart and purpose, ever struggling upwards, and




THE PURITAN FAIMILY.          137
believing in the rich promises of success, their deprivation and toils shrunk away, and seemed to
them but as incidents to a glorious mission.
Their dinner over, a part of the afternoon was
occupied itn necessary labor. This through, Mrs.
Allerton and Arabella dressed, and sat down to
their needle. The shor4 twilight was soon gone,
and before tea and lights were brought in, Mr.
Allerton usually joined them, and drawing around
their bright fire, they spent the pleasant hour in
social and religious conversation.  After tea, Mrs.
Allerton resumed her needle, while Mr. Allerton
read aloud. Arabella, occupied with coarse woollen knitting, sat far in the chimney corner, often
listening to her father, and often looking up through
the huge chimney, to far distant, silent stars,
- as distant and silent, as the answering voice to
thoughts hidden deep in her soul.
Hetty kept still at work. Mr. and Mrs. Allerton often called her to join them, but she had always some excuse, and worked on,until smnmoned
to evening prayers. Then again they joined in a
song of thanksgiving for a day's mercies, and retired always at nine o'clock to rest.
Saturday night at sunset, all work was suspended. On the Lord's day, Mr. Allerton,. with his
fiamily, attended Divine service at the church in
12*




138         THIE PURITAN FAMILY.
Boston, under the care of Rev. 3Br. Wilson.  The
distance was so great, they rode, and were always
invited by the hospitable governor to spend the intermission with him. They also returned to his
house, at the close of the afternoon service, and
remained there until after family prayers. It was
Governor Winthrop's habit to assemble his family, to read to them from the Bible, and then repeat to them the sermons which he had heard
through the day. This he did from memory, as
he never allowed himself to take notes.  He Was
very constant in this, and required all his family
to be present.
Mir. Allerton was much interested in Mr. Wilson's preaching.  Governor Winthrop remarked
of it, "it was after the primitive fashion. It consisted chiefly of exhortations and admonitions, and
good wholesome counsels, which would excite good
motions in the minds of his people."
"Yes," replied {Mr. Allerton, " and sometimes
when I hear him, there is such a spirit in him, I
feel almost as if I were listening to an apostle."
Edified  and  encouraged thus by the godly
preaching, and also by the conversation and exfample of Governor Winthrop, the Lord's day was
rich in spiritual enjoyment to M3fr. Allerton and his
family. They hailed its return with joy, —and




TIIE PURITAN FXATILY.        139
with its declining sun they again thanked God that
he had brought them where they might worship
him in simplicity and truth.
The Sabbath also furnished to Arabella another
source of enjoyment. Herself and young Winthrop exchanged books, and in this way provided
themselves with reading, through the ensuing
week,- each selecting from their father's library.
Their little secret arrangement was, that Arabella
should leave her's on her seat in the carriage, from
whence Deane Winthrop should take it, leaving
his in return. This was not absolutely necessary,
as Deane most generally found something to call
him out to Mr. Allerton's during the week; but as
their reading was all of a grave character, it was
not unsuitable to their rigid habits in observing
the day.
One Sabbath in December, they met the younger
Winthrop, governor of Connecticut and New I-Iaven, who was on a visit to his father. Having so
delightful a party, they lingered somewhat longer
than was their usual custom. Arabella and Deane
were speaking, by themselves, of the young governor, whose appearance and manners had so
much interested Arabella.
" You must love him very much," said she.
" That I do," replied Deane, quickly, "though
he is not my own brother; we have different




140         THE  PURITAN FAMILY.
mothers, but it seems to me that he feels almost as
much interested in us as in his own little family.
He is very anxious to have us on the right side.
To-day, he handed me a letter which my father
wrote him some time ago, and requested me to
copy it and keep it by me always, and live up to
it."
" I should like much to see it, if I may," said
Arabella.
"Ti ost assuredly, it will give me much pleasure.
I have already taken one copy, which I will place
in the book, and beg you will retain.". Arabella thanked him, and found on her return,
the following, in Deane's handwriting, with a line
or two at the bottom of the page, which was not
copied, and which, therefore, we will omit.
There may be young readers at this day, who
can look over this old letter of Governor Winthrop, with as much profit as it gave to Deane
and Arabella.
LETTER.
"You are the chief of Two Families; I had by
your Mfotier 27Tree Sons and Tkree Daugkters, and
I had with her a Large Portion of outward Estate. These now  are all gone; Mother gone;
Brethren and Sisters gone; you only are left to
see the vanity of these Temporal things, and learn
W'isdom thereby, which may be of more use to
you, through the Lord's Blessing, than all that




THE PUnITAN FAMILY.            141
bnheritance which might have befallen you: And
for which this may stay and quiet your Heart,
Tihat God is able to give you more than this; and
that it hath been spent in the furtherance of his
Work, which hath here prospered so well, through
his Power hitherto, you and yours may certainly exp)ect a liberal Portion in the Prosperity and
Blessing thereof hereafter; and the rather because it was not forced friom you by a Father's
Power, but freely resigned by yourself, out of
a loving and Filial Respect unto me, and your
own  readiness unto  the Work itself[  From
whence as I do often takle Occasion to Bless the
Lord fbr you, so do I also Commend you and
yours to his _Fathlerly Blessing, for a plentiful Reward to be rendered unto you. And doubt not,
my dear son, but let your Faith be built upon his
Promise and Faithfulness, that as he has carried
you hitherto through many Perils, and provided
liberally for you, so lhe will do for the time to come,
and will never fail you, nor forsake yotue. k&@ son,
the Lord knows how Dear thou art to me, and that
my Care hath been more for thee than for myself.
But 1 lknow thy Prosperity depends not on my
love, nor on thine own, but upon the Blessing of
our Heavenly Father; neither doth it on tkle things
of this World, but on the Light of God's Countenance through the Merit and Mediation of' our
Lord Jesus Christ. It is that only which can give
us Peace of Conscience with Contentation, which
can as well make our Lives Happy and Comfortable in a mean Estate as in a great Abundance.
But if you weigh things aright, and sum up all
the Turnings of Divine Providence together, you




142         THE PURITAN FAMSILY.
shall find great Advantage.  The Lord hath
brought us to a Good Land,mand a Land where we
enjoy outward Peace and Liberty, and above all,
the Blessings of the Gospel, without the Burden of
Impositions in matters of Religion. Many thousands there are who would give Great Estates to
enjoy our Condition. Labour, therefore, my good
Son, to increase our Thankfulness to God for all
his mercies to thee, especially for that he hath revealed his Everlasting Good WVill to thee in Jesus
Christ, and joined thee to the visible Body of his
Church, in the Fellowship of his People, and hath
saved thee in all thy Travails abroad, from being
infected with the Vices of those Countries where
thou hast been (a mercy vouchsafed unto but few
young Gentlemen Travellers.)  Let him  a ha e the
Honour of it, who kept thee. Hie it was who gave
thee Favor in the Eyes of all with whom thou
hadst to do both by Sea and Land. He it was
who saved thee in all Perils; and He it is who
hath given thee a Gift in Understanding and Art;
and Hle it is who hath provided thee a Blessing in
Marriage, a'Comfortable Help, and many Sweet
Children; and hath hitherto provided liberally for
you all: And therefore I would have you to Love
him agaal, and Serve him, and Trust him fbr the
time to come. Love and Prize that WYord of
Truth, whichl only makes known to you the Precious and Eternal Thoughts and Councils of the
Light ]izaccessible. Deny your own Wisdom, that
you may find his; and esteem it the greatest I-Ionour to lye under the Simplicity of the Gospel of
Christ crucified, without which you can never enter' into the Secrets of his Tabernacle, nor enjoy




TIEE PURITAN FAMILY.         143
those sweet things which Eye hath not seen, nor
Ear heard, nor can the Heart of man conceive; but
God hath granted unto some few to know them,
even in this Life. Study well, my son, the saying
of the Apostle, hnowledgepuffeth up. It is a good
Gift of God, but when it lifts up the mind above
the Cross of Christ, it is the Pride of Life, and
the Highway to Apostasy, wherein many men of
great Learning and Hopes have perished. In all
the Exercise of your Gifts, and Improvement of
your Talents, have an Eye to your Mllaster's E nd
more than your own; and to the Day of your Account, that you may then have your Quietus est,
even Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant. But
my last and chief Request to you is, that you be
careful to have your GChildren brought up in the
Knowledge and Fear of God, and in the Faith of
our Lord Jesus Christ. This will give you the best
Comfort of them, and keep them sure from any
Want or Miscarriage. And when you part fiom
them, it will be no small joy to your Soul, that you
shall meet them again in [eaven."




V.
THE PRAYER OF FAITH.
MRS. ALLERTON, about mid-winter, was taken
violently ill. She had been enfeebled for some
time, looking pale, and making a great effort to perform her usual duties. She found herself at length,
one morning, unable to rise, and her illness increased rapidly during the forenoon. Mr. Allerton went into Boston and brought out the physician. He pronounced the disease to be a billious
fever, and said that it must "take its time; " ordered
some medicines; and prescribed "patience and
good nursing."  As soon as he had taken leave,
Mrs. Allerton sent for Hetty to come to her.
"Hietty," said she, "I am going to be ill for
some time; I feel it; and I shall be much worse
than I am now. I know very well that there is
no one to take a step for me but Miss Bella and
you. Now you must go at once over to Mercy
Whitman, and say that I should like to have her
come and help you, this morning. The bed and
hangings must be removed from the front room
into the sitting room, as soon as possible, that I




THTE PURITAN FAMIILY.         145
may get down there.  It will save you much
strength in taking care of me."
Mrs. Allerton spoke so positively, that Hetty
dared not object.  She called upon MIercy very
reluctantly; she had said that she would never
darken her doors, - but time pressed, her mistress
must be moved before night. IMr. Alerton had
gone to carry the Doctor home, and Miss Bella sat
with her mother. She delivered the message as,
graciously as she could, and MIercy returned withi
her.
3Mercy had many questions to ask about the cur~tains, as they took them down, to which ITetty's%
answers became shorter and shorter -" She neith —
er knew nor cared how much they cost, nor where:
they came from," she said. In taking down the
bedstead, another cause of dispute arose.'lercy.
insisted upon having her own way, and wrenche d
the posts in such a manner, that Hetty at length
told her, " She was a great fool, and she did n't be-.
lieve she ever saw a bedstead before."
"I should like to know whatt you think I lie,on?" said she.
"Lie on straw, like the pigs, for all I know on
care," said Hetty, as Mercy, in her spite, let a
heavy post fall on Hetty's foot. They exchangel
high words which were fast waxing into a hot dispute, when 3Ir. Allerton returued, and seeing how,
13




146         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
things were, dismissed tetty to the chamber, and
himself, with Mercy's assistance prepared the room
for the invalid.
irs. Allerton was exceedingly anxious to make
the change before night, thinking she might not be
able to do it at all, should it be deferred.  With
great exertion she came down stairs, and sunk exhausted upon her pillow. The effort, and the cold
air of the entries, increased her fever.  She tossed.all night long under its violence. 2ir. Allerton
sent Arabella and Hetty to bed, that they might
be able to take care of her during the day, and
himself sat watching by her side.  She seemed so
very ill that he went again early in the morning
for the physician.  The case had assumed a more
alarming aspect than the physician had expected;
and he remained with her, kind old man, through
the day. Still, she became rapidly worse.
The weather was intensely cold, and their provisions had fallen short. Almost everything that
was needed for the sick room, they were obliged
to obtain in Boston. It was a long, cold ride, and
-no one but Mr. Allerton could be spared for it, or
could, indeed, endure it. Sickness was so abundant around them, that it was impossible to procure
any one to assist Hetty.  She worled herself almost to a shadow. Arabella was with her mother
day and night; and could not be persuaded to




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          147
leave her.  For more than a week she had no
rest except such as she could take in her chair,
while her mother slept. Pale and anxious, scarcely eating or sleeping, she hung over the precious
sufferer, without a thought of her own wasting
strength.
Days passed; change was not for the better, but
rather for the worse. It was evident now, that
Mrs. Allerton was fast failing; and unless the fever soon reached its height, she must sinkl into the
grave.  One afternoon, the physician looked unusually grave. Arabella, with her pale, thin lips
tightly closed, fixed her deep, earnest eyes upon
him as if to wvatch every thought.  I-He turned
slowly from the bed, and drawing Mr. Allerton's
arm within his, led him into the parlor and closed
the door.  For a moment, neither spake.  "3lMay
God support you, my friend," said he, at lengtlh.
"And - I -must- lose her?" said Mr. Allerton
slowly; as if the thought could not find birth.
6I see no hope —I have done all," was the
reply.  The doctor pressed his hand kindly, and
with tears in his eyes, passed quickly out, and left
him alone with God.
What that struggle was, we do not know,  but
when he came from that room, it was over; rebellious thoughts were gone - " May God's will be




148         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
done, and his name glorified, though I suffer," was
the feeling of his soul. It seemed as if angels had
ministered to him, he returned so calmly to the bedside of his dying wife.
And Arabella, the gentle, fragile, dependent
child, seemed in this hour of sorest need, to be upheld by an' unseen hand. After the first gush
of overwhelming sorrow, when she found her
father had given up hope, she also became calm
and submissive. She returned to his side, speaking to him sweetly and affectionately, - restraining all manifestations of grief, for his sake; and
even striving to comfort Hietty, whose sorrow was
beyond control.
There, on that bed, lay the wife and motherfailing, still failing. On one side stood her husband,
about to be left alone in a strange land; in a desert
land; on the other side, the only child, a daughter,
frail as a trembling reed, to be left motherless; —in
the background the faithful old servant, weeping
violently - repining that she, whose old life was
worth so little, could not have been taken instead.
The cold, dreary storm howling without, - the
want of the comforts necessary to a sick room,the secret longing of the sufferer (if, indeed, she
still felt a wish), to die among her kindred, and
be laid to rest in the old church-yard with her




THE PURITAN FAiBILY.         149
fathlers. - Could the dim past start to life, how
many such scenes of suffering, among those who
prepared the way for us, would it picture to us!
"Father," said Arabella, "if mother should revive so as to be conscious, would it not be a comfort to her to see Mr. Wilson, and have him with
her in her last moments?"
Mr. Allerton had the same thought, but it was
storming violently; their physician had been called
in a different direction, and not a neighbor had
been able to come to them through the day. The
snow lay) in deep drifts, and the road was unbroken;
there was no one to undertake the journey but
himself, and it would, at the least calculation, take
him away from that bedside three or four hourscould that expiring flame flicker on so long? " Do
you think she would know him? " he asked Arabella, who was at that moment touching her lips
with wine. She appeared to swallow with less
difficulty than she had for some time previous.
"5iMother," whispered Arabella, "if you would
like to see MIr. Wilson, will you press my hand?"
She pressed it slightly, and made an effort to raise
her eyelids. This decided Mr. Allerton. I-He came
to her; he bent over her; the hot tears fell upon
her pale forehead; he knew he might be taking
his last farewell. "You know how much I have
13*




150         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
loved you," he whispered, and without another
look, left the room.
During his long ride, he experienced such a
sense of God's presence, of His holiness, of His
love, as he never had experienced before, and he
never forgot it. His whole being seemed elevated,
and he informed Mr. Wilson of his errand, without a murmuring word or repining thought.
Mr. Wilson listened in silence, but with great
interest, for he knew and justly prized Mirs. Allerton. When he had heard Mr. Allerton through,
he told him he would return with him,but not imnmediately; he had something to do in his study,
which he must first attend to. A shade of disappointment was for a moment visible on Mr. Allerton's countenance.  Mdr. Wilson withdrew, and
Mrs. WVilson prepared hastily a hot supper to refresh her guest. In about half an hour, Mr.
Wilson came down, his face bright with smiles.
"' Mr. Alierton," said he, "I have been praying
that God would spare your wife, and I am confident that she will li've; and now, if you please,'we will go to her; but first I haTe something to
-show you."  He went out and brought in his little,daughter, a fair-haired, sweet-looking child.
"We had had no children for many years," said
1he, "until we came here, and then God sent us




THE PURITAN FAMILY.           151
this blessing. I call her my' New England Token.' You see how he hath provided for us, and
thus will he provide for you. The wife of your
youth shall yet become the staff of your age, and
together shall ye depart to those heavenly regions
where you shall see Jesus."
At this time, so much confidence was placed in
MIr. Wilson, that his prayers were deemed prophetic. A trembling hope sprang up in Mr. A1lerton's heart, which agitated him. BMr. Wilson
withdrew to make preparations to return with
him. Mrs. Wilson had so strong faith in her husband's impressions, that she became very cheerful.
She talked with 31r. Allerton; she sought to
divert him, that the necessary delay might not
distress him. She related much of their own experience. One little incident particularly had interested her, and she told it to strengthen him.
She had been very unwilling to come to New
England, and had returned in great dejection with
her husband, when he came over a second time
for her. After she had been here a little while, an
old kinsman of hers sent her over by a friend,  a
present to console her in the American Desart.'
" And this is it," said she, taking three small rolls
out of a box. "First he presented me this Brass
Counter; if I made any show of discontent, he




152         THE PURITAN FAMIILY.
was to take no further notice of me. But I was
so much delighted by any remembrance from my
old kinsman, that next he gave me this Silver
Crown. And last of all, this Gold Jacoblus, and
with it, delivered this message:'That such would
be the dispensations of God unto me, and the other
good people of New England. If they would be
content and thankful with such little things as God
at first bestowed upon them, they should in time
have silver and gold enough.' This has proved
true," said she, "in a great measure; for God has
given us since, a Token which is worth more to us
than tried gold."
Mr. Wilson's sleigh now drove up; and MIr.
Allerton, much more agitated than when he came,
took leave. His mind seemed afloat; he had lost
his anchor; he could not rest on the Will of God,
for what this Will was to be, was now uncertain.
He eagerly strained his eyes for the first glimpse
of home, as if the icy roof could picture to him
death or life. It was soon in sight; the doctor's
carriage was there-again.  He feared to advance;
he could not recede;  is it life, or death?  He
drew nearer; the door opened; and as Hetty
came out to break the tidings, his heart sank. A
little behind her stood Arabella; they were now
in the yard; Hetty came tramping through the




TH-IE PWRITAN FXMILY.         15i3
deep snow to meet him. Mr. Allerton did not
raise his eyes. "All doing well, Mliss Ietty?"
said Mr. Wilson.
" All well, sir; a great change," replied Hetty.
Mr. Allerton looked up; there was a peculiar
smile on Hetty's face; it was always a good harbinger. He sprang past her, and Arabella received him.
" Dear father," said she, "there is more hope;
the crisis is passed.
"All true," said the good doctor, who stood at
the half-opened door. "INothing to do now, but
build her up."
"Let us go in and return thanks to God, who
has, in His infinite mercy, restored her to us from
the brink of the grave," said Mr. Wilson.  Such
a prayer this family had never before offered.
And in those moments of overwhelming gratitude,
they renewedly consecrated themselves to God.
It was so. The fever had attained its crisis,
and danger was almost over.
Mrs. Allerton knew them all, and from this hour
began slowly to recover, under the careful nursing
of Arabella and the untiring Hetty.




VI.
MERCY -WHITMAN.
EXPOSURE to the intense cold of this severe
winter, hard work and poor fare, made sad inroads upon Hetty.  She was attacked severely
with rheumatism; it became difficult for her to
move about; and for a time, she was entirely helpless.  These were such days as Arabella had
never experienced before. Her father assisted
her to the utmost of his ability, and neighbors occasionally offered their services; still she was
taxed much beyond her strength. The reed bent
almost to the breaking.  But she had not a
thought for herself. She went from her mother
to Hetty, and from Hetty back to her mother,
cheering first one and then the other, attending to
a little want here, and providing a comfort there,
— never complaining, never desponding, never
seeming weary. Her father looked upon her with
astonishment, to see how suddenly the frail child
had become a woman, and how rapidly strength
of purpose and mature judgment had developed
themselves, to a degree which he had not believed
possible. lIe observed also with inward joy how




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          155
beautifully her Christian graces were unfolded in
this time of trial; particularly, how much life
there was to herfaith in Jesus; with what childlike simplicity she trusted in Him. This it was
that sustained her, and gave to her, through this
season of toil and peril, a serenity which nothing
could disturb. Older Christians looked on with
silent, self-reproach, feeling that she had risen to a
height far beyond them.
Poor Hetty fretted under her affliction; it
grieved her so much "to have Miss Bella taking
steps for her," or to have her doing any part of
the kitchen labor, that it really increased her illness. Mr. Allerton at length removed his books
from his little library, and putting a bed in there,
removed Hetty to it, so that she could have her
door open into the kitchen, and direct about the
work. This was some relief to Arabella.
Among the many things reckoned as mercies at
this time, was the arrival of a black woman named
Rhoda. She had been a servant in a family who,
overcome by the hardships of the season, had returned to England. Rhoda, by her own request,
had remained with a little annuity, large enough
to save her from want; and, about the time that
Hetty was taken ill, had hired a room in the vicinity of Mercy Whitman's house.




156         TH-I  PURITAN FAMILY.
rhIda was a great comfort; she used to come
three, and sometimes four, days in the week. She
was kind and honest, though simple-minded.
Hetty felt grateful to her, and treated her with
a consideration which very soon won Rhoda's
heart.
Mrs. Allerton was beginning to enjoy the luxury of convalescence. Her appetite increased so
much, that it became a difficult matter to obtain
the proper food to satisfy it. This was a source
of great trouble to her friends. Arabella often
gave up silently her customary dinner of eggs that
they might in some way be served for her mother,
- and the unsuitable food which she was forced
to take in its place, prepared the way, in part, for
new affliction.
Upon what little hooks the happiness of a family sometimes seem to hang! Here, one day, simple, old black Rhoda is very busy at home doing
up her washing, and she cannot come in to help
them at Mr. Allerton's, when they must have someone,- for Hetty is helpless in bed, - Mr. Allerton is shut up with a heavy cold, and Miss Arabella
laid by for the day with headache, - and the consequences are fatal. Mercy Whitman must be sent
for, and Mercy Whitman comes.
1" You are to make some broth of that chicken,




THE PURITAN FAtMILY.         157
for mistress," said Hetty, issuing her orders mixed
up with sundry groans, from her bed-room.
"I knew  that afore," said Mercy. "Did n't
Good-man Allerton just tell me? Bless me, do
you take me for an adder?" 
"I know what I do take you for," muttered
Hetty to herself, under the sheet.
Mercy went about her work, fussing around the
kitchen, - putting everything out of place, and
grumbling and scolding.
Hetty was tried beyond what she was able to
bear, - for there she was, she could not stir hand
or foot, and Mercy Whitman was let loose in her
kitchen.
" Why do n't you put your broth on?" said she;
mistress ought to have had it an hour ago; you
never will get it done at this rate."
" Well, why do n't you keep your pots in order?"
retorted Mercy. " I can't find one that is fit to
cook in; they do n't look as if they had been
washed for a year."
"1 Wash'em out, then," said Hetty, biting her
lips to cut short the remainder of her sentence, -
and bravely covering her head with the bed-clothes,
that she might neither see nor hear her tormentor.
By a great effort she lay there quite still, until she
thought it was time for the broth to be done. She
14




1L58       TTHE PURITAN FAMSILY.
waited then a little longer -  much longer, --;er~
cy was still at work. Then sh1 looked outn.
"A'nt that broth done yet?" said she; "we
mighlt have sent to England for it before this
time."
"I am getting it done fast as I can," said BMercy,
" and if you want it done quicker, come and make
it yourself:" M3ercy was standing by it, thickeningl it with Indian meal, and preparing to put in
sliced turnips.
"STYou great fool," said I-etty, as she saw that
their last chicken was now quite lost; "you great
fool, you know that mistress can't toulch it with
meal in it, and I told you so, and you.l hlave spoiled
it on purpose to get it fbr yoursel — I do believe
you are an imp of Satan -"
MAercy dropped her plate -" An imp of Satan
- an imp of Satan!" said she, quite slowly -" may
the flesh rot from  your bones while the breath is'
in your body, for abusing a poor, lone, childless
widow thus -"
"Childless vwidow," said HIetty, whose anger now
passed all bounds,-" widow," and she laughed
sneering!y, -"  as much of a widow as I am, I
guess, and ilo more."
In an instant, as if with one spring, Mercy
Whitman stood by her bed; her eyes started from




THE PURITAN FAMILY.           159
their sockets, her lips were livid, she clenched her
fists, she shook them in IHetty's face!
i"'1l have my revenge," said she - and before
Hetty could recover from her amazement, Mercy
had gone.




VII
HETTY IN TROUBLE.
THE heavy falls of snow had ceased. Now and
then, a mild day brought forth the exclamation,
that "the back-bone of winter was broken." March
came blustering in -the first Spring-month, and
it was gladly welcomed by our emigrants. Mrs.
Allerton longed to be able to ride out, both for her
own sake and that of her drooping lily. Both herself and Mr. Allerton were anxious to see more
color in Bella's cheek, and they felt that mild
weather and spring birds and flowers would be the
best medicine for her.
One morning the family lingered longer than
usual at their breakfast table. It was a delightful
morning, — the wind seemed to have exhausted
itself the day before.
"I think you can venture to ride, to-day," said
MIr. Allerton to his wife; "by eleven o'clock it
will be quite warm."
"0 yes, dear mother; it seems as if summer
had come. Thbe fresh air will do you a world of
good. We will wrap you all up, and you shall ride
in, and stop and rest at Gov. Winthrop's; can she




THE PURITAN FAMILY.           161
not, father?  I do n't know why it is, but I feel
very light-headed to-day,- I should like to sing
all the time. Winter is over, and you, mother
dear, fast becoming strong, - and good old Hetty
getting well, too; you must make room for her,
flather, can't you? A ride will refresh her so
much!"
"Where shall we put you, Bella, if we take
her," said her father, patting her affectionately on
the head.
"L Me!  0, I will stay at home and have dinner
all ready for you, by the time you return."
" There is no necessity for that, for Rhoda is here
to day," said her mother.
" Well, I can ride under the buffalo, —any way,
so that Hetty can go. "
" If you ride there% you will hardly see the violets you are in such a hurry to pick," said her
father.
"' I can leave those until we go again," said Bella, laughing; " but we will take all our sick ones,
that we may see them grow in this fine air."
" Truly, our cup runneth over," replied Mr. A1lerton; "a few weeks ago, and there was scarcely
room to hope that our circle could remain unbroken, -yet God hath mercifully spared us to each
other, and carried us safely through the trials of
14*




162         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
this bitter winter.  How wonderfully did he help
us in our distresses!"
Tears came into Mrs. Allerton's eyes, — they
were all the reply she could make.'To lead the van'gainst Babylon, doth worthy Winthrop
call,
Thy Progeny shall Battell try, when Prelacy shall fall.'This couplet, sung in a loud, monotonous tone, interrupted the conversation.
"Rhoda feels in as good spirits as the rest of
us, to-day," said Arabella.  "'Rhoda, wont you
tell Bietty not to do anything this morning to tire
her, for we are going to take her into Boston, after
prayers."
Rhoda opened the door. " Mistress, there be a
good many gentlemen coming up the yard."
" What can that mean, at so early an hour,"
said tMfr. Allerton, with some astonishment.
A large party of men and boys, followed by
several women, passed the window, and entered
the house. MIr. Allerton immediately recognized
Judge Hiathorn, who stepping forward, saluted
him, and informed him that he, with another magistrate, had been sent for before daybreak, to
visit a poor woman, named Miercy Whitman, who
had fallen into very odd fits, of such a nature that




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          163
the spectators were forced to believe there was
something supernatural about them; and that she
called repeatedly for a woman named I-etty, who,
it was understood, resided with Mr. Allerton; and
that said Hetty was summoned by the magistrate
to appear in the presence of the afflicted. Then,
boys and women, all talking together, gave a confused and exaggerated account of Mtercy's sufferings.
"Mrs. Allerton is still feeble," said Mr. Allerton, addressing the Judge; "and this noise and excitement will do her much injury. If you will dismiss these good people, I will confer with you upon
the matter."
Judge Hathorn'immediately requested the crowd
to disperse. They began to do so, but not much
pleased, cast ominous glances at poor Hetty, who
sunk, pale and trembling, into a chair.
"Hang her for an old witch, said one. "H anging is too good for her," said another. "The Lord
have mercy upon her soul," said a third. " She
will cast an evil eye on us," said a fourth.
MAIr. Allerton closed the sitting-room door.''Judge
Hathorn," said he, "this is an awful accusation; and
I beseech you as you would not have the guilt
of shedding innocent blood upon your soul in'the day of reckoning, that you stop and consider. This woman has been in my family for




164         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
many years; I could answer for her as I could for
my own soul, that she knows nothing of witchcraft, and has had no dealings with witches. She
is a faithful, honest, kind-hearted woman; she
would not willingly harm  a fly.  This 2Mercy
~ihitman, who brings this horrible charge, I have
seen often, but I have never yet seen any good in:her.  She is in every respect ugly, and has quarrelled with Hetty, and threatened to have her revenge. Now, Judge, under such circumstances,
who do you think must be the innocent person?"
"I do not know," replied the Judge; " but it
devolves upon me to discover these abominable
witchcraftsmrhich are committed in this country,
that we may be rid of them; anid the woman, Iletty, must be brought before the afflicted, that we
may investigate the case."
"She is too ill," said Mrs. Allerton, " she is too
ill.  She has not stepped out of the house for
weeks. It will be the death of her to walk over
there."
" The distance is short, and we have no time to
wait," said Judge Hathorn.  "Woman, are you
ready?"
"Ready!" said Hetty, bursting forth in a violent tone.  "Ready!  I never will put my foot
within her doors, while the breath is in my body.
Get me there if you can.  I a witch truly! If




THE PURITAN FAMILY.           165
Mercy Whitman is not bound over to the Devil,
herself, then she ought to be, - that's my mind."
The magistrates exchanged a few words, and,
approaching Hetty, signified their intention to take
her by force.
" Hetty, dear - dear IHetty," said Bella, "pray
do not resist. You must go; and now if you love
me, go quietly. I will walk by you; I will hold
your hand. Here, wrap this around you. Now
we are ready, sir," said she. "Mother, do not be
anxious; we shall soon return, and all will be well
again."
It was but a few steps to Mercy aWhitman's,
and the throng about the house made way for
Judge Hathorn, who passing through them with
one hand upon Hetty's shoulder, entered the hut,
and H-etty and Mliercy stood face to face. Instantly, Mercy fell down upon the floor, strongly convulsed; her head bent back until it touched her
feet; her body writhed like an agonized worm;
her tongue was drawn out to an immense length,
and so swollen, that it seemed impossible that it
should ever find its way back; her eyes sunk so
far into her head, that they seemed to disappear.
If Hetty raised her eyes, Mercy would be drawn
up to the ceiling;' if she moved either arm, Miercy complained of pinches, and large black and
blue marks were visible.




166         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
"G Come up and place your hand upon this woman," said Judge 1iathorn.  Mercy attempted to
comply, but was thrown violently down upon the
floor, knocking her head in a most cruel manner,
and then she could not rise.
Judge Hathorn then held I-etty's hand, that she
might no more afflict, and commanded her to fix
her eyes upon him. He then requested Ilercy
Whitman to repeat the Lord's prayer, which she
was unable to do, being struck dumb. He then
lifted Hetty up, notwithstanding her struggles, and
forcibly placed her hand upon Maercy, who immediately recovered the power of speech, came out
of her fit, and was pronounced well.
"To prison with her!  To prison with her!
Hang her! Hang the witch!" shouted the mob.
"She must be committed for safe custody until
farther trial," said the Judge.
" Leave her with me; I will answer'for it that
she appear," said MIr. Allerton.
The Judge hesitated.  AIercy, who had until
this moment, firom the time Hetty touched her,
been calm, instantly relapsed into violent convulsions. One or two of the bystanders began to
groan and fall down, declaring that they also were
afflicted. "To prison with her! To prison with
her! " shouted the multitude.  "Chain her, or the
Devil will be on us all," said a gruff voice.




'TE PURITAN FAMILY.           167
One of the magistrates put heavy irons of eight
pounds weight upon her ankles, and the tumult
was somewhat appeased.
"We must take her to Boston prison without
delay," said Judge Hathorn.
Arabella disappeared, ran hastily home, procured cloaks and hoods for herself and Hetty,
and told her mother that she intended to go into
Boston, and if need be, spend the night with Hetty. It was, however, with much difficulty that she
obtained permission to accompany the. prisoner.
Placed in a wagon, ironed like a criminal, taking
notice of no one, not even of the compassionate
girl by her side, still and pale, as if suddenly stricken by death, the unfortunate Hetty passed her
home, and was soon lodged within the damp and
gloomy walls.
The lamb-like gentleness of the sunny morning
disappeared, and the sky, as if sympathizing with
our afflicted family, became overcast, and the blustering winds were again let loose. They pierced
through the cracks of Hetty's gloomy chamber,
and were merciless to her aching bones as man
had been. There was no bed, and there were no
comforts about her. Arabella sat down by her,
and begged her in this distress to call upon God,
who was able to bring her safely through. She
also knelt by her, and pleaded so earnestly in her




168         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
behalf, that Hetty was touched, and tears came
to her relief. She wept like an infant, and Arabella rejoiced much to see her come out from her
stupor.
The jailer, who was a kind-hearted man, came
in at this moment, bringing a feather-bed, warm
woollen blankets, and wood to build a fire.
" See, Hetty — look, I-etty, God already answers our prayer," said Arabella, "and HeI-I has
sent you these as a token of' His wonderful love."
"That is right, my daughter," said the wellknown voice of Mr. Wilson, who was following
the jailer, " and shall we receive good at the hand
of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil? Let
us trust Him at all times, and all will yet be well.
But this is too damp a place for you, my child.
Your father is waiting to take you home. Your
mother is much troubled for you; you must return
to her. I will take charge of Hetty; she shall
not want for anything that I can provide. Go
now, they will not allow your father to come in."
"Yes, Miss Bella, go back, go back," said Hetty, " to your mother. Perhaps I shall be there tomorrow. Do n't come here any more into this
damp hole, with that cough of yours."
Indeed it was too damp there. The cold ride
home also, exhausted as Arabella was by the excitement of the day, did "that cough" no good.




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          169
Mr. Allerton had enlisted the ministers on his
side, and' urged an early trial. It was appointed
for the next day; so that they with much reason
hoped Hetty's confinement would be short. In
addition to this, he visited Mercy, he talked long
and kindly to her, he privately offered her large
bribes; but revenge was sweeter to her than gold.




VIII.
CLOVEN FEET.
HETTY'S case excited great interest. On the
morning of the trial, the ministers from Cambridge,
Salem, and Dorchester were requested to meet for
prayer both for the afflicted and the accused. After this, the magistrates assembled, and Mercy
Whitman was early at her post.
Hetty made her appearance, still heavily ironed,
her face quite pale, and her dress much disordered. As soon as she entered, Mercy and one or
two young girls fell down in a fit. Two old Indians in the crowd, also began to wallow about the
floor like swine. The examination commenced.
A part of it was as follows: —
Mag. "You, Mehitable Hubbard, are brought
before authority upon high suspicion of witchcraft.
Now, tell us the truth of this matter."
Hetty. " I am no more of a witch than you are,
-and if you say so, you lie."
At this, Mercy appeared to be in great torments.
She shrieked violently, and declared that spectres
were tormenting her. "Where are they?" asked
the magistrate. " There," said Mercy, pointing to




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          171
a table just before Hetty. Upon this, Judge Hathorn struck the table so violently as to snap his
cane in two. A smile of derision passed over the
prisoner's face. Mr. Wilson went up to her, and
whispered a moment very earnestly in her ear.
After this, her answers were much more civil.
Mercy declaring herself relieved by the blow, the
examination proceeded.
Mfag. " Pray what ails this woman, called Mercy Whitman?"
Hetty. "The devil knows, I do n't," muttered
ietty in an under tone.
aMYag. "We desire you to speak louder."
Hetty. "She can tell that better than I can. I
know nothing about it."
Mag. " Do you think she is bewitched?"
Hetty. No."
lfag. " What are your thoughts about her? "
Hetty. "LSMy thoughts are my own while they
are in; when they come out, you may have them."
J.aMg. "Who do you think is her master?"
Hetty. "If you knew her as well as I, you
would n't ask."
Mag. [to Mercy.]- "Mercy Whitman, hath this
woman hurt you?" Mercy rolled up her sleeves,
and showed deep scars, as if of fire. " It is she
who did this."
fMag. "Whom  else hath she hurt?"  Two




17 12       THE PURITAN FAMILY.
girls instantly fell in a fit, crying, " She hurts us;
she hurts us."
May. "Why do you hurt them?  Tell me the
truth."
Hetty. "As true as there is a God, I do not
hurt them."
At the name of God, the afflicted lay like one
dead.
faig. 1 "Well, what have you done towards this?"
Hetty.  " Nothing at all."
Mag. "Why, it is you, or your appearance."
Hetty.  " It is neither. I am as innocent of this
as the child unborn."
-Mag. "Is it not your master?  How comes
your appearance to hurt them?"
Hetty.  " I call no one master, but God."
latg. "Bring forth the afflicted to touch her."
Mercy and the girls approach a few steps and fall
down again, violently convulsed. The old Indians
roll and tumble in a contrary direction.  One of
Hetty's hands are let go, and several others are
afflicted; she holds her head on one side, - all the
afflicted have theirs drawn one side in imitation
of her..Mag. "How doth this agree with what you
have said? "
Ifetty.  "It is she who bears me malice that
does this; I am innocent."




THE PURIITAN FAMIILY.         173
The court were alarmed; and judging that they
mdst investigate the matter more closely adjourned
to the 25th. Hetty was sent back to her dungeon,
and was soon followed by one of the magistrates.
He urged her vehemently to confess that she was
a witch. He told her the devil was then before
her eyes, and he would attempt to beat him away
with his hand. Hetty declared she was no witch,
and bade him leave her dungeon; and wished to
know if she was kept there to be insulted?
" No, no 1" said the magistrate, who had not yet
passed the period of youth; "but for the sake of
your friend, who loves you, Goodman Allerton's
daughter, I would have you confess, for if you do
not, you will be hanged."
"Ah! that is it, is it?" said Hetty,- -casting
at the man so keen a look, that he evidently winced
under it. " Let me tell you, that neither my master, nor my mistress, nor M1iss Arabella would
ever receive me again, if I confess to a lie. I will
not confess, though I hang for it; and if I do, on
your soul lie the murder. I have never covenanted
with the devil, neither do I know anything of his
temptations, excepting what I see in other folks'
actions."
It was all in vain; and Hetty was ordered to
be kept in close confinement until more evidence,
or a confession from her, could be obtained.
15*




IX.
A HINT.
IN the mean time every exertion to save her
was made, that could be made.  Gov. Winthrop
himself; from the interest he felt in MIr. Allerton's
family, used his influence in her behalf; Deane
Winthrop gave himself up to the matter entirely,
and was passing between lMr. Allerton's and the
place of Hetty's confinement many times a day,giving comfort at each end of his journey.
By request, all the ministers in the vicinity
were again convened at Boston, and consulted.
After much deliberation and prayer, they expressed
their minds thus: -
"They were affected by the deplorable state of
the aficted; they were thankful for the diligent
care of the rulers to detect the abominable witchcrafts which were being committed in the country,
and prayed for a perfect discovery thereof, - but
advised to a cautious proceeding, lest evils might
ensue; and that tenderness be used towards the
accused relating to matters presumptive and
convictive, and also, to privacy in examinations.




THEE PURITAN FAMILY.        175
"Nevertheless (the sum of the matter), they
humbly recommend to the government, the speedy
and vigorous prosecution of such as have rendered
themselves obnoxious, - according to the direction
given in the laws of God, and the wholesome
statutes of the English nation for the detection of
witchcraft."
From a trial which was going on at Salem it
was evident, after this recommendation from the
clergy, how matters would be managed in Boston.
All spectral evidence, and all malicious stories
were there received,- and it was easy enough to
see that they would be, in Hetty's case, notwithstanding the exertions of powerful friends. Mercy Whitman, -who apart from the pleasure of
gratifying her revenge, enjoyed her present notoriety, - did her best to spread the mania, that
there might be a large party of tormented ones to
cry out against Hetty on the day of her second
trial; and she was very successful. It was wonderful how many were tormented by day and night,
with I-etty's' appearance' urging them to sign the
black book, and often dragging them about by the
hair of their heads if they refused.
Hetty's prospects became darker and still darker; even the sanguine Deane began to tremble.
3Mr. Allerton and his family appointed a day of




176        THE PIJURITAN FAIILY.
private fasting and prayer in Hetty's behalf, and
requested Mir. Wilson to visit them. He did so.
"How  fares it with you, my dear friend?"
said he.
"Blessed be God," replied Mr. Allerton, " we
enjoy peace with Him, though we are in abundance
of affliction."
"It is so," replied Mrs. Allerton. "i He hath
delivered us out of many troubles; even when all
His billows went over us, still, His arm upheld us.
We are distressed, but not in despair. We feel
that God can turn even this mischievous wickedness to his own glory."
A response of heartfelt trust in God, seemed to
be the expression on Arabella's countenance. It
was hope smiling through her tears, like the sun
shining from behind a vapory cloud. After more
religious conversation, which greatly comforted
them, Mr. Wilson united with them in a prayer
which was earnest and affecting. It closed thus:" Lord, wilt thou take away the affectionate servant of these Thy children, who love Thee so
much, and serve Thee so faithfully? whom Thou
hast already much c(hastened, until Thou hast
brought them to love Thee more than all things
else? Do it not, 0 Lord, but deliver her fromn the
power of the devil, and from the hands of unjust




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          177
men who would shed her innocent blood, - and to
Thy name shall be all the glory."
After prayer, he walked the room a few moments, lost in thought. " I trust she shall yet be
saved," said he; " but no trial will save her. Will
she confess?"' Confess," said young Winthrop; who entered
at this moment; " not if they roast her alive. She
is firm as a rock.' She will never belie her own
soul,' she says."
" How is she to-day?" eagerly asked Arabella.
" Well, in body; the flannel I took over to her
yesterday, makes her very comfortable, and she
seems more composed in mind. The day of her
trial is near, and she has not a doubt but that she
shall be cleared.  She talks little, and sits and
counts the hours which are to bring her release."
" She must not stand that trial," said Mr. WVilson, pausing in his walk and fixing his eyes intently on young Winthrop.'" She must not stand that
trial, and she must be saved! "'  He drew on his
over-coat. No one spoke. He bade the family
good-day, - and as he passed out, touched Deane's
shoulder, --  The twenty-fifth is near; call on
me if you need help."
The idea ran through every mind like an electric shock. There was now but one chance for poor




178         THE PURITAN FAIILY.
Hetty, to save her from a disgraceful death — es.
cape! escape! But how and whither?
For the next few days, Arabella, though very
far from being well, rode into Boston every morning, in rain or sunshine, and was much alone with
Deane Winthrop. If others knew the subject of
their consultations, no questions were asked. Poor
Hetty.! if something could not soon be done for her,
she would cease to trouble any one. She had become so poor and haggard in her dungeon, as to be
frightfully altered. 5Mrs. Allerton had not seen
her. Indeed, the physician would not allow her
to do so, as she was yet feeble.
Days of trial and darkness these, truly; and
yet our pilgrims had sources of consolation, which
"' the world could not take away."




THE ESCAPE.
As we have before mentioned, Hetty's jailer
was a kind, considerate man.  He allowed her
every comfort which he was able to provide, and
admitted her friends freely to see her, provided
only one or two wished to go in at a time. The
ministers, in particular, had free access, that they
might attend to her spiritual wants, and if possible,
pray her out from the powers of the Evil-One.
Good old black Rhoda also came regularly, each:morning, with food for Ietty, which Arabella herself prepared. This was permitted on account of
the prisoner's illness.
One Mionday preceding the twenty-fifth, all the
family, excepting  irs. Allerton, were in Boston,
spending the day at Gov. Winthrop's. There was
coming and going, and much quiet bustle; and
there were whispered consultations and anxious
faces. Arabella and Deane were much together.
[Before daybreak, and while the streets of Boston
were yet silent, Deane had stolen down to the
wharf, where a ship, ready to sail for England, lay.
Hie had a short consultation with the Captain,




180        TIHE PURITAN FAMILY.
handed him a note with the Governor's signature,
and gave him gold. The matter, whatever it was,
seemed arranged to his satisfaction, for he met
Arabella with a glance of intelligent pleasure.
Very quietly, a large box was packed at Gov.
Winthrop's that day, and  several full letters
placed in it. Mir. and Mrs. Wilson often sent to
their friends in England; and towards the middle
of the afternoon, he was seen at the wharf entrusting the box to the care of the Captain, - who received it as if he understood. matters.
The tea hour came; neither Arabella nor Deane
were present. Mr. Allerton looked troubled, and
Mrs. Winthrop went out and begged Arabella to
come in and take some nourishment, for she
would need it before the evening was past. She
did as she was desired.
After tea, Gov. Winthrop prayed fervently that
God would appear for the safe deliverance of all
who were unjustly held in bondage; his hearers
were comforted and strengthened.
The sun set in clouds, and darkness came suddenly on. The party began to decrease in numbers; soon neither Arabella, nor Deane, nor Rhoda were to be seen.
A knock was heard at the outer prison gate.'" Who's there?" asked the jailer.
"Only I, good Mr. Littlejohn, with




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          18:1
and some medicines for Hetty. You will let us
in?"
"I do n't know about that, Miiss Allerton, it is
long after sundown."
O" Only a few minutes, good sir, only a few minutes, for we are in great haste."
"You always get your own way, Miss Bella. I
can't keep locked when you want keys. You'11
make me lose my place, one of these days. Not
but a minute now, you hear. If anybody should'
find me open at this time of night,'t would be as
much as my life is worth."
" Only a few minutes, good Mir. Littlejohn; and
while I think of it, will you be kind enough to!
give this warm shawl to your wife, as a present
from me, for she has been very kind to Hetty."
"Bless your heart, what a beauty, - why, it will.
be the making on her. I'll take it, and thank.
you too; it's many a day since she has had a
shawl to keep her old bones warm. Hetty, Hetty, wake up, here is something coming to cheer
you,- a whole basket full. Now, Miss Bella, I'll.
just run in to show my old woman tle. shawl, an-d
be back directly; you will be ready."
"0  yes, Mr. Littlejohn; and-while you are about
it, ask her if she would choose any other color; if
so, I will change it for her."
"Bless your kind. heart, I'll tell her."
16




182         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
The key turned in the door.
" Now, Hetty," said Arabella, calmly but quickly, "there is not a moment to lose.  You must
black your face, and change dresses with Rhoda,
and go out with me."
"Not I, Miss Bella; I'll not sneak out in that
way. Them what put me in, may come and tako
me out."
-" They never will take you out but twice more,.Hetty, - once to a cruel trial, and once to the gal-'lows."
"I  was just thinking as much," said Hetty,
"-afore you came in, and had pretty much made
up my mind to it. I've got to die sometime or
other; and I do n't know as it makes much difference whether it is this year or next;" and she sat
down on her bed.
"' You will die neither, dear I-etty; we cannot
spare you. You must live for my mother's sake.
A vessel waits for you; you go to England for a
few months, and then you can come back again
safely. Hark! I hear him! For God's sake,
HIetty, do not delay; you will break my heart."
".But will not she hang?" asked the relenting
IHetty, pointing to Rhoda.
"No, she is perfectly safe."
s" Don't mind me," said Rhoda, laughing till she
-shook her sides. "I should like to see'em hang




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          183
me for a witch. Come, now, we'll hide your white
skin, - hold still."
It seemed as if it were but a minute, and Hetty's face was so transformed, that Arabella started, as Hetty turned it full upon her.
" Capital! capital!" said she, "now  off with
the dresses." Life was dear, after all, and liberty
sweet.  Hetty worked now with willing fingers.
Dress and shawl, and hood, and heavy shoes, were
hlready on, when Mr. Littlejohn's step was heard.
"Take the basket, say nothing, and follow me,"
whispered Arabella.
As the rusty old lock turned, Rhoda blew out
the light.
" All ready, Mr. Littlejohn," said Arabella, stepping quickly forward.  " How was good-wife Littlejohn pleased? I hope she liked the shawl.
Good night, dear Hetty. You will sleep very
sweetly on that medicine, and 3Mr. Littlejohn will
let in no more visitors to disturb you till morning."
" Not I," said Mir. Littlejolln, " I disobey orders
now.
4 You are very kind, Mr. Littlejohn; get yourself a good package of tobacco before I come
again;" and she slipped a silver half-dollar into
his hand.
He was so full of his thanks, that he took no




184        THE PURITAN FAMILY.
particular notice of Rhoda, though he affirmed the
next day, that it did occur to him " that the blackee
went out taller than she came in."
And now the prisoner was outside the prison
walls, and heard the last bolt drawn behind her,
and stood once more under the cloudy heavens -
free. She paused, as if she wished to collect her
thoughts.
"Follow me, Hetty; not a moment to lose, -
just round the corner.".
They stepped quickly on, - they two alone in
the deserted streets, - they turned the corner.
Deane met them. Arabella pressed his hand, —
"All right. Now, Hetty, get upon this horse.
Mr. Deane will see you safe on board ship. Keep
close in your berth to-night, and to-morrow ask
for your box; everything is there."
Hetty turned abruptly round, and began to
walk off rapidly in an opposite direction. Winthrop sprang after her and caught her.
" Are you crazy?" said he.
" No, Mr. Deane," replied Hetty, " but I'll never desert my post; if I must die, I'll die there.
I am not going over the ocean to leave them alone
in this' Desart.' "
" Hetty," said Arabella, in a tone of command,
"you must go. Quick - quick - there is not a




TIMEi PURITAN FAMILY.        18S;
moment to lose; they wait for you only till nine,
and it wants but three minutes of that, — get on,
-get on."
Hetty pressed her young mistress convulsively
to her, -. Deane almost lifted her upon the pillion,
and then sprang into the saddle before her; and
putting the horse to the top of his speed, was soon
out of sight. They were just in time. She was
hurried on board, and before the sun rose, she
was beyond the reach of Mercy Whitman, and -
the Devil.
Late and dark as it was, Arabella found her
way back to Gov. Winthrop's, without molestation.
She entered their sitting-room, and joined the
group of anxious friends, with a smiling countenance, though she was very pale.
" My dear daughter," said her father, " where is
your shawl. Surely you have not been out this
cold night, without a shawl?"
Arabella related how she had parted with it,
she did not think she should miss it, but indeed
she was chilled through.
It was not long before Deane joined the party,
with his good tidings, and then immediately Mnr.
Allerton prepared to return home, and Arabella
could not be persuaded to remain. The long, cold
ride, she had occasion to remember.
16*




XI.
LIFE IN DEATH.
IT was later than usual the next morning, before Mr. Littlejohn discovered the trick which had
been played upon him. At first, he was very angry with Rhoda, but she soon soothed him, by assuring him that no one could blame him; and that
she was sure he ought to rejoice that such a good
old creature as Hetty had escaped hanging for
nothing. If he did not rejoice for her sake, he
certainly should for Miss Arabella; for, if they
had hung Hetty, it would have killed her outright.
Not very much noise was made about the affair,
and this led some of the people who pretended
to know more tllan their neighbors, to remark,
that the governor might tell more than he did, if
he chose. Mr. Littlejohn, perceiving that he was
not to be brought up, was, in his heart, right glad
of the escape.
Mercy Whitman was more disturbed than any
one else. She was at first inclined to wreak her
vengeance on Rhoda; but finding she could not




THE PURITAN iFAMILY.          187
excite any one to assist her in this, she did not
prosecute it long. Rhoda was suffered to return
quietly to Mr. Allerton's family, where she now
took up her abode. Mercy, having offended a
passionate man who lived near her, became frightened at his threats, and this, with some secret
reasons, led her to move away one night, and go
no one knew and no one cared whither.
April, with its smiles and tears, its snow-drops
and showers, found 3Ir. Allerton's family more
quiet than they had been for many months. 3Irs&
Allerton gained rapidly, and became even stronger
than before her illness. iMr. Allerton prospered
in his worldly affairs. The spring opened favorably for his farm, and he received a timely legacy
from  one of his distant relatives in England.
Several day-laborers offered their services for the
season, and Rhoda did her best to supply Hetty's
place in the kitchen. It seemed, for a time, as if
their troubles had passed with wintry storms.
They had " waited patiently upon the Lord," and
he had heard their cry, and twice appeared for
them when they were in deep distress.
"He is a faithful God, and he will continue to
provide for us," said MIrs. Allerton one day, while
her husband, as was his custom, was recounting
their many mercies. But God was to provide for
them in a way which they knew not. They need



188          THE PURITAN FAMIILY.
ed one chastisement more; one idol stood in the
way of the perfecting of their love; and one more
sorrow was near.
Arabella faded away so gently, and sweetly,
and slowly, that spring passed and early June
came with its flowers and its balmy breath, before
her friends were aware how near she was to her
long home, —how far from all hope of rescue.
~When they awoke to the reality, they endured a
long, terrible struggle, to bring themselves to give
up their first-born, their only child. Mr. Allerton
was first subdued to a perfect resignation to God's
will. At length the mother too came one day to
her husband,- her pale countenance radiant with
its look of peace. " It is over," said she, " I am
now willing to give her up.  Let us seek to make
her comfortable while she lingers with us, and to
strengthen her for the great change."
" Blessed be God, the sting of death is passed,"
replied he. " We trust she is fitted for Christ's
presence; we have not an anxious thought for
her. As for us, God will keep us by sharp travails, in a faithful, watchful, humble, praying
frame."
It was with much joy that Arabella observed
the change in her parents.  She experienced such
clear and delightful views of God's character,she felt so sweetly resigned to his will, — so wil



THE PURITAN FAMILY.            189
ling to lie passive in his hands, - to go or stay, -
to suffer much or little, - that it grieved her if
they found only "clouds and darkness" around
about him. When they emerged from these, and
like children received the bitter cup from the
hands of a kind Father, the last thorn was taken
away; it only remained for her to die in peace.
Arabella had made many friends. Mr. and Mrs.
Wilson came often to see her; as did also Gov.
Winthrop's family. Deane had been much with
her ever since Hetty's escape. That his interest
in her was not all unselfish, became very evident;
but it was as evident, that for some reason he kept
his feelings in constant check. He read to her
as long as she was able to hear reading;- and
brought to her sick room the choicest flowers of
summer.  She treated him as a brother.  She had
many ties to bind her to this world; but Faith,
who had been her companion thus far on her pilgrimage, now took her on his tireless wing to the
"City of our God," and her soul was filled with
its beauty. She seemed to linger here more like
an angel, whose message is delivered, - but who,
inasmuch as his heart is in it, waiteth yet, ere he
bear the record.
Very early one morning, Deane Winthrop came
in, apparently much agitated, and requested to see
Arabella alone for a few moments. Mrs. Allerton
hesitated, for Arabella had had a feeble night, and




190         THE PURITAN FAMILY.
had been rapidly failing for several days. Unwilling, however, to refuse him, she went to see if
her daughter were able to receive him.
"Most certainly, dear mother; I feel easy and
quiet now, — let Deane come in."
MIrs. Allerton left them alone; but finding that
Deane remained longer than she thought prudent,
she gently opened the door. Deane was standing
by the window, and there were traces of tears on
his cheeks.  Arabella lay quite still, with her
hands clasped, and her eyes closed as if she were
at prayer. Deane stept softly by her and passed
out, and Mrs. Allerton remained standing until
Arabella opened her eyes.
" Dear mother," said she, with a smile and a
slight flush on her pale cheek; " I have something
to say to you and father. Will you raise me a
little and give me my medicine?  Let in a little
more light, mother dear, and now call father."
Silently her mother obeyed her.
What have you to say to us, my daughter?"
said Mr. Allerton, —" we know that you are soon
to leave us- have you any requests to make? "
"Put your hand under me, mother, -there.
What I have to say to you is this: You remember
Francis Walton, and you know that we were
brought up together, - and I wish to tell you -
that we loved each other."
"Do not agitate yourself, dear Bella; mother




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          191
can easily understand that." Arabella turned her
deep blue eye full on her mother, as if to thank
her and went on
"I think Francis loved the Saviour; I am sure
he did; we talked much and often of Him. And
Francis would gladly have come with us here, that
he might labor for Him - but - "
" His uncle, upon whom he is dependent, utterly
refused. I know that, dear Bella, for I had a talk
with the old gentleman myself, and I did not think
it would be right for Francis to leave his uncle
alone in his old age."
" You were right in that, father; and it was
my duty to follow you, and so we parted, as we
thought - forever."
"My precious child," said her mother, "and
have you done all this, so uncomplainingly, for us?"
" For you and for Christ," said Arabella. "I felt
that it was my duty, and I have never regretted
it; God has made it a burden light to bear. Let
me say to you both, that I rejoice and bless God
that he put it into your hearts to come over here,
and gave me grace to come with you. It is a
comfort to me now. It is sweet to die among God's
chosen people. I feel it; and I hope you will
think of this when I am gone."
"And what of Francis? " inquired Mr. Allerton.
6He is here," said Arabella, gently; "he ar



192         T-IE. PURITAN FAMIILY.
rived last night. Deane has seen him. He loves
me still- as I do him. He has come to claim
me for his bride -"
"There was a long silence"And his uncle?"
"Is dead."
" To claim  me for his bride!"  Death has
prior claims, poor youth. Say, dying one! -doth
this last temptation gain the victory over thee?Art thou now unwilling to hear thy Lord call?
Not so- not so -" I know in whom I have believed, and nothing is able to separate me from the
love of Christ."  This was the response of the
young pilgrim.
"And what would you wish us to do?" mournfully asked the mother.
"Send for Mr. Wilson. Francis will be here
at noon, by my request. Prepare for me a dress
as I wish, dear mother; and let it be to-day. Time
presses, father. I may not see another dawn. I
would not leave you childless. God sends an affectionate son, who will comfort you. He will love
you for my sake. He will have nothing but you
left to love in this world. I would give him a
right to be called son, before I die."
At the appointed hour, Francis Walton arrived.
Arabella was ready to receive him. She had selected from her wardrobe a plain, white, loose dress.




THE PURITAN FAMILY.          193
At her request, her mother had plaited a wreath
of white rose-buds in her hair.
"Mother," whispered she, "let this be the last
dress which he shall see me wear."
Many tears dropped on that white wreath. The
mother decked her child for the bridal, and the
grave! Mr. Wilson and Deane Winthrop entered
the room at one o'clock, and the sad ceremony
took place. Francis supported his bride upon a
pillow, which was raised to rest upon his shoulder.
Mr. Wilson prayed that God would bless this
union, not of the living with the dead, but of a
mortal with an angelic being, whose wing was already plumed for flight; and that when she had
taken her departure, her partner might, in thought,
visit her so much in heaven, that it should be seen
and felt by all, that he walked with God.
Mrs. Allerton's fears that the bridal wreath
might not fade before being needed again, did not
prove true. Arabella seemed to rally, and lingered
yet a little longer to comfort and cheer her young
husband. Her last hours were sweetened by his
presence, and she was much comforted by his fervent and manly piety. She was grateful that God
had permitted her to see how he would provide
for her parents in their solitude. Thus, full of
peace and joy, with every earthly wish gratified
- she " fell asleep."
17




XII.
THE' RETROSPECT.
TuE following is an extract from a letter, addressed by 31r. Allerton, to a friend in England:"}Mine eyes drop down many tears, when I recall the way in which God has led us, and the
mercies which have mingled with all our trials.
When my dear wife lay at the point of death, He
gave unto us such support that I believe we felt
in our souls not a wish to detain her, if it were His
will that she should go; and when HIe had brought
us to this frame of mind, then I-He restored her to
us, like one "sent fiom the dead."  At the season
of our deep anxiety fobr our faithful old Hetty, He
raised up friends fbr us; and blessed the means
for her escape, and stilled the angry tumult around
us, causing even "the wrath of man to praise
Him;" — for our tormentor, who had done ts this
great evil, seemed as if worked upon by her own
conscience, to such a degree that she soon left us,
and our neighborhood was restored to quiet, and
not a complaint has been heard from that day to
this.  Then came heavier trials, — and larger
mercies. Our beloved and tender child sunk-under the cruel winter, and fell into a decline. But
her Christian graces ripened fast; we saw and felt
that she was " of the kingdom of heaven," and God




THIE PURITAN FAMILY.          195
brougilht both her and her mother, and myself to such
a state of heart, that we no longer desired to keep
her in this world of' sin. We blessed God that He
had given us such a daughter; and I trust we
cheerlfllly returned the gift, feeling that we should
not be fbrever separated. She was dismissed from
her earthly tabernacle without suffering, and fell
asleep in Jesus, as an infant falls asleep, lulled on
its mother's breast.
"And now, my dear friend, behold what great
care God took of us at this last extremity.  He
seat us over a most worthy and amiable son, who
had long known and loved our dear child; and
she was united to him, on her dying bed, that she
might give him  a right to call us parents; and
when she left us, her mind was sweetly at rest
concerning us. You know not what a comfort he
is; my wife seems to feel fbr him as for an own
child. I trust he will be the stay and comfort of
our old age. I have many more mercies to recount,
- among others, that- irs. Allerton and myself
have never been in better health than now. Francis, also, is well and cheerful.  Mly farm and merchandize prosper.  Good Hetty has returned to
us, bringing with her a pleasant niece, who will
assist her in her labors.  God smiles upon us
every way. He'lifts upon us the light of his
countenance,' - and we rejoice.
"I left my native land for' conscience' sake,' and
if God will employ so feeble an instrument in this
great work of advancing His kingdom, I will
spend and be spent for Him; rejoicing that I may
be accounted worthy to build up the holy things of
Christ.'-My angel-child had her heart much in




196          THE PURITAN FAMILY.
this work; she often told us this in her last sickness; and she hath left us the rich legacy of her
spirit. I trust we shall follow her example, until
our labor is also done, and we lie down to rest
with her."




THE  CLOUDY  MORtNING.
A TALE  FO'R  MOTHERS.
Beauty, thou art twice blessed. Thou art a precious
gift of heaven to those who love, and to those who wish
to hbe loved."
HELEN CLAY was an uncommonly beautiful
infant.  Her soft, flaxen ringlets, fell over a neck
and brow which were almost as white as alabaster.
Her clear, loving, blue eyes, laughed out from
under long silken lashes, and two beautiful dimples stood like little cherubs each side of her pretty mouth. " What a beauty! " exclaimed almost
every one who looked upon her. Helen did not
outgrow the beauty of her baby-hood. Every
year seemed to add a fresh grace.
It was far otherwise with her sister Laura.
She would have responded to the motto of our
story, with deep feeling. Nature, so lavish in her
gifts to the younger born, had been very parsimonious to Laura.  She was almost ugly in her personal appearance; and yet her face could not,
17*




198        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
with strict justice, have been called so, — for it
was a most expressive face; it was a great telltale. A more striking contrast, however, between
two sisters, is seldom seen; and this was not confined to personal appearance alone. Helen, butterfly-like, seemed made for sunshine; by a natural instinct, she seemed to find it both within and
without.  There are some such children.  She
was a bright, quick, active child, warm-hearted,
affectionate in her manners, and noisy in the expression of her love, whether it was for doll, kitten, playmate, or mother. She was ready to love
the object nearest her; though it were something
new every day, it seemed to matter little. Take
away her doll, she would play twice as much with
her kitten. Regret would not long overshadow
her path.  I-elen lived in neither the past nor the
future, - she was all for the bright sunny present.
Laura was a night-shade. The scenes which
she planned and acted in her baby-world, were all
tragic. They would be full of accident, and sickness, and death, and funerals. Her intellect was
not above mediocrity.  She had more imagination
than Helen, and a better memory, but her comprehension was much less ready; she had none of
HIelen's quick tact. In childish temper, also, they
were opposite. Helen's would flash up at a little
provocation, meteor-like, then all would fall softly




THE CLOUDY TMORNING.         199
as a snow-flake, and be quiet again. Laura's was
not easily excited; but. once roused, the stormlasted long; and a desperate fit of what her mother called'the sullens,' ensued. When Laura
loved, her words were few; but the last fragment
of the doll or toy with which she had long played,
was dearer to her than a new one. She was also
painfully awkward in expressing her feelings.
Helen could throw her arms around her mother's
neck, and, almost smothering her with her caresses, talk herself out of breath in telling how much
she loved her. Laura sometimes laid her head
upon her mother's knee, her little heart swelling
with feelings for which she could find no words.
She was not easily appreciated or understood by
strangers, - neither, alas! by those who should
have known her well.
Mr. and Mrs. Clay loved their clildren, and
took good care of them, -that is, attended to
all their obvious wants; but they were not
thoughtful parents. They never dreamed of studying the different natures of their children. Early
judicious management might have counteracted
the morbid and melancholy tendencies of Laura;
but every day brought its cares, every evening its
fatigues, and thus the years slipped by, and their
child was in one sense a stranger at home. They
at length settled into the conviction, that their first



200        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
born was rather an unfortunate, strange child, who
cared little for any one excepting herself. Yet,
she often made an attempt to open her heart to
her mother, and tell her the little thoughts which
were struggling there; but a careless word, an inattentive look, an inapposite remark, or, worse
than all, an ill-timed reproof, blasted in the bud
that confidence which it was of the first impor
tance to that child to have encouraged. She shrunk
away and said to herself, " I  nam a strange child."
This grew with her growth. Her active imagination aggravated every defect into a deformity,
every mistake into a fault. She early felt that
she had nothing in common with other children.
She feared observation; she became very often
depressed and discouraged. At school, she made
no effort to rise to even an equality with her
mates,- she felt sure that she should fail, if she
did attempt it. A few encouraging words now
and then, might have incited her ambition; but
how often does it happen in a crowded school-room,
that individual peculiarities are known and cared
for? Laura was reproved oftener than any one.
of her companions; this made her reserved and
silent, and therefore she was not much loved as a
playmate. Because of this reserve, her teacher
fell into the same error with her parents. A cross
word might be spoken to Helen, and there came




THE CLOUDY MORNING.          201
a violent flood of tears, which soon washed away
the sorrow. Let the same be spoken to Laura,
and perhaps the deepened color would be the only
evidence of emotion, - while in her heart there
was left a sting which she felt many days. She
would say nothing; they would call her sullen and
obstinate, and sometimes punish her again and
more severely, still with as little apparent effect.
She acquired at an early age a great power of selfcontrol for a child.
ONE: evening, Laura came to the tea-table with
a face unusually bright and animated.
"Father," said she, "may I go to ride with the
girls, to-morrow? There is a party going out on
horseback, and they are all to stop at Farmer
Hill's, and have a treat. May I go, father, tomorrow? 
Mr. Clay had just returned from a long walk,
and was tired, and heated. Sometimes, when a
person does not feel particularly good-natured, he
takes a delight in exercising power in such a way
as to give pain. It gives him the consciousness
that he has the power, and he is not in the mood
to think carefully, that he is making others unhappy. This was not Mr. Clay's mood.' "To ride? " said he. " It seems to me that you




202        THE CLOUDY MOtI1NING.
are always having some foolish thing going on. I
think the girls had all better stay at home and
mind their books."
"But, father, to-morrow is Saturday."'Well, what of that?  Who, pray, is going?"
"0, four of us, father."
"Foolish plan enough, I think.  Some of you
will get your necks broken."
"Do, father," said Helen, "let her go. I went
last time."
"'. Well, what of that?"
" I think, Mr. Clay, she may as well go," said
her mother, " our horse is very gentle."
He made no reply, but held out his tumbler for
some water. Laura filled the glass too full; it
spilled over upon his dinner plate, and ran down
into his sleeve. What a little thing will turn the
scale of an ill-balanced temper.  "Look out, Laura, you careless child! You never poured out a
glass of water in your life, without spilling it. If
you can't learn to be less awkward, I wish you
would keep away from the table till you can. Go
to ride! No, that you shall not, until you can
learn to have your wits a little more about you.
So, content yourself to stay at home, miss."
"0, father,-    " began Helen.
"Hush, Helen, I have settled it. I wont have
her riding about; it is not safe; she will have ther




THE CLOUDY 5MORNING.          203
neck broken, next, —she is so careless. If she
ever learns to be like other folks, I shall be glad."
Tears, scalding tears, started to Laura's eyes.
She took up her cup to hide them, and swallowed
them down with her hot tea; but they burnt to
her heart's core. No one spoke, and before long,
all rose to leave the table.
"Come," said Mr. Clay, who was now quite
good-humored, "who wants to go and rake hay
with me?"
",1 I," said Helen; "come, Laura, it is good
fun. Why do n't you come, Laura?  Where are
you going?"
"To my room to get my lessons. I do n't want
to turn hay."
"Come, come, Helen, Laura is sullen; let her
alone. I do n't want any sullen girls with me."
Still the child kept back the tears, until she was
fairly in her room, and had locked her door; then
the lacerated feelings found vent. The flood-gates
once opened, all control became impossible; she
threw herself upon the bed, buried her face in the
pillow, to stifle the convulsive sobs which she
could no longer command.  A  deep darkness
seemed to rest upon all the world; she saw no ray
of joy; she had no consciousness but of misery.
Now and then, through the still summer air, came
up Helen's merry voice, as she frolicked with her




204        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
father in the newly-made hay.' Laura heard it
with feelings perhaps not unlike those with which
the lost hear the angels sing, and it added much
to her woe. Childhood does shed bitter tears.
The happy voices at last ceased; darkness crept
on. Some one tapped gently at the door, once,
twice, thrice. "Laura! Laura! it is ne - only
me. The folks are all gone away. Let me in."
" Is it you, dear Amy?" said the child, unbarring the door, and throwing her arms about the
old nurse's neck, while her sobs broke forth afresh.
"La! now, I thought as much. What upon
arth have they been a-saying to you now, to make
you take on so. But there, Laura, don't mind
none of'em."  Amy seated herself in the rocking
chair, and drew Laura to her, and rested the little
throbbing head upon her bosom. "What has happened now, dearie? "
"' 0 Amy," said the child, in a tone of the deepest woe, "nobody loves me, Amy, in this wide
world. I wish I was dead, I wish I was dead and
buried, Amy."
The good old nurse wiped away her own fastflowing tears with a corner of her apron, and tried
to steady her trembling voice. "'Not love you,
Laura? nobody love you?  Bless your little
heart, do n't I love you better than my own soul
and body? How can you talk so? I guess some




THE CLOUDY MOR.NING          205
fblks that scold some folks will have something to
answer for, one of these days."
"They cannit help it," said Laura; "no one
can love me. I am not like other people. Helen
is good, and pretty, and happy. Mother loves her,
and father loves her, - everybody loves her, and
likes to have her about. But they do n't love me,
and they can't. I wish I was out of.their way-in
my grave, and then no one would have the trouble
of me, —yes I do! "
" There - there - do n't talk so any more,"
said Amy, coming to her better self-  they do n't
know they hurt. your feelins so much.  They
do n't know you've got any feelins; you never say
nothing. If you only cried, like Helen, they
wouldn't scold you.  Why'twas no more. nor
day afore yesterday, I heard your father say
to Helen,' What a great cry-baby you are; I wish
you would behave more like Laura; she does n't
make such a baby of herself.' There now, darling,
- everybody loves you that knows you, so do n't
cry any more. Bless me, how your temples beat;
and how hot your little head is! Does n't it ache?"
" O Amy, it aches very - very hard! "
"Well, there - there - do n't cry any more, -
everything will be right to-morrow."  So she
smoothed the damp hair from the child's burning
forehead, and rocked her to and fro, like an infant;




200        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
and soothed her with homely words, - but they
were those of love, and they were grateful as the
gentle dew. The tears of her littld charge ceased
to flow; the head became more heavy on the
nurse's arm; the sobs changed to heavy sighs -
then into occasional convulsive starts. She seemed to be listening to the old nursery songs, which
Amy was softly singing to her as she rocked her
there in the dark. Amy ceased at last, and bent over
her, - she had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Gently, as a mother dresses her first-born, Amy prepared her darling for bed, put her head upon the
smooth, cool pillow, waited awhile to see if she.
would awake - then kissed her burning cheek,
and wiping her own eyes softly left the room.
And all this suffering was for a few hasty, cutting
words, which her father, twice blind, thought had
fallen on stony ground. What can release a parent
from the duty of knowing his own child'?
"HELEN," said her mother one day, "I think
you need a new trimming to your hat; this never
was very becoming, and now it is faded."
-   Why can't I have one, too? I had mine just
when Helen did," said Laura.
"Well, that is no matter,-that is becoming
enough to you, and I can't trim but one at present."




THE CLOUDY MORNING.           207
"That must be Helen's, of course," thought
Laura, - " she is pretty, and I am not."  She did
not speak, how6ver, and her eyes returned to her
book. It so chanced, for once, that her father observed the flush on her cheek.
" How is this? " said he, putting down his paper;
"- mother, what is all this?"
"Nothing,, only I think it best to retrim Helen's
bonnet, and Laura is sullen about it; just as she
always is. It is n't best to take any notice of hler."
" I am not sullen now, mother," said Laura, trying to smile. Her father detected the tremor in
her voice. " Now, Mrs. Clay," said he, "I wont
have any partiality shown; if you get Helen a
new bonnet, you must get one for Laura."
"Why Mr. Clay, I tell you her's will do very
well for the present, well enough for her.  If she
is not contented with that, let her go without."
"Aye, aye i if that's the case, Miss Helen may
go without too." Helen put up her beautiful lips.
" Hush up there, now," said her father; 1"I'11 have
none of that. You are a great cry-baby. I'11 see
if I can't put a stop to it!"
"Well, if Helen does cry, it's all over with and
she is pleasant - and does n't go moping about all
day, as some othier little folks do."
Laura bit her lips, choked, and then turned over
the leaves of her book very rapidly, but her




208        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
father's eye was now upon her. "~ Well, the long
and the short is, Mrs. Clay, that I'll not have any
partiality shown. I don't think you do right to
find quite so much fault with Laura."
"J1! I am not finding fault, I am sure; I
was only speaking of the bonnet."
" Laura, my daughter, come and let father see
what you are reading." The unusually kind and
gentle tones in which this was said cut their way
to the child's heart. " Come, my dear, father will
see that his little daughters share alike." He
drew her to him, placed her on his knee, caressingly parted her smooth hair, and kissed her. They
might have scolded her from morning to night,
without drawing forth a word or a tear; but the
heart had no armor that was proof against kindness, - neither has that of any child.  Laura
threw her arms around her father's neck, and sobbed aloud. He was surprised- more, astonished.
He could not comprehend it. It was a new and
strange development.  He understood about as
much of the delicate net-work of that young heart,
as he who slaughters for the shambles understands
the mechanism of the human eye. Yet his feelings were touched, and something like self-reproach
arose. He soothed her as well as he knew how,
and wiped away her tears.
"What is all this about? " exclaimed Mrs. Clay,




THE CLOUDY MORZNING.         209
in wonder. " WLthy Laura, who would ever have
thought of your making such a fuss about a bonnet.
ribbon?"'"I tell you, Mrs. Clay, I'll not have Laura
blamed any more."
"I am sure I had no thoughts of blaming her,
31r. Clay. I should be very glad to fix her hat
too, if you think best. Laura, what color will you
have, green or cherry?"
"My dear," said MIr. Clay, after the children
had left the room; " it wont do to speak to Laura
so; the child has more feeling than we think for.'
"I always knew she had feeling enough," was
the reply; "but she is a strange child. I do n't
know what she will make in the world, I'm sure;
not much, I'm afraid.  Her teacher says she is
dull at her books."
"I6 do n't believe that - I do n't believe. that;
she has as good a mind as Helen's, and you are
spoiling Helen. The gypsy is getting very vain.
You flatter her too much."
"1 flatter, Mr. Clay? I never told her she- was
pretty in my life; it is you who tell her that. Besides, she must find it out some time or other, and
we cannot help it; a few months earlier or later
will make no difference."
18*




210        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
WITH such influences around her in her childhood, it is not surprising that Laura, as she passed
into her teens, became sober, thoughtful, reserved,
silent, unintelligible. Such was her character when,
at the age of fifteen, she entered Miss Merton's
boarding-school.
" What do you think of our new scholar?" said
one of the group of school-girls who were collected around the fire before breakfast.
"Who, that Miss Clay?"
"~ Yes."
"Oh! she is very homely, is n't she?"
"Yes; very, very! " echoed several voices.
" Now, I do n't think so," said Mary Hale; ""she
has a sensible face, and most beautiful hair, I am
sure."
" But she fixes it so out of all manner of taste
- so countrified.";" That may be the fashion where she came from;
she looks like a good solid girl."
"Why, Mary Hale, how can you say so?  I
never saw a more solemn face on any one. She
lobks as if she had lost every friend she had in
the world. I do n't believe she knows how to laugh!"
"She has left all her friends, and I dare say
the poor girl is homesick.  Do not you recollect
how you felt when you came among us a perfect
stranger?"




THE CLOUDY AMORNIN0.          211
But," interrupted another, "you did not look
so proud and haughty."
"How can you call her so?" persisted the good
Miary Hale; "I cannot see anything about her
that looks like pride."
"O, JMary, Mary, there you are wrong," exclaimed several voices at once. " She never looks
up," continued one; " and she goes about as if she
did not care to know us, and thought herself better
than any one else. Here is Mliss Merton, let us
ask her. If liss Clay is not proud and haughty,
then I lose mey guess."
" Now, do tell me the difference."
"Why, proud - is proud -"
" And haughty is haughty," added another."
" What is all this, young ladies?"
"WVe are discussing Mliss Clay, and all of us
think her proud and haughty, but Mary Hale,
who thinks every one perfection. Wont you tell
us what you think, Miiss Merton?"
" I think it would be a piece of injustice to pass
an opinion on a poor girl who has come among us
an entire stranger, and is depressed with homesickness."
4 "Well, do not you think she appears so?"
"Diffidence and reserve are very often mistaken for pride, by those who look only on the surface of things."




212'.THEE CLOUDY MORNING.'I am' sure she is cold-hearted," said a little
miss, who stood with each arm over a neighbor's
neck.
"And I know she has a bad disposition," whispered another.
We look for cheerfulness and good-humor in
youth, as much as we look for buds in May, - and
we have a right to do so. Woe to you, parent,
if you have brought a blight over life's spring-,
time.
Laura was perfectly unconscious what an unhappy expression had become habitual to her, and
how little there was that was really attractive in
her appearance. Neither had the thought ever
come into her mind, that she had any power over
the muscles of her face.
"' I hope," said Miss Merton, " that you will do
all you can to make Miss Clay forget that she is
a stranger among us."
"' I know I never shall like her," said a lively,
prating girl, with a toss of her head. " But, hush!
here she comes." The little mimic drew her hand
over her face, and extended it with a most woful
expression. She, of course, did not wish Laura
to see it, for she had turned her back to the door.
But Laura did see it and at once drew back, that
she might not enter a circle where she was an ob-.
ject of ridicule. That little mimic would have




THE CLOUDY MBORNINGr          213
gone a gleat while without her laugh, if she had
known the pain it gave.  Poor Laura's heart
swelled almost to bursting; she would at once,have returned to her room, if Miss Ierton had
not spoken to her.
" Good morning," said Miss Merton, cheerfully,
holding out her hand, "wont you come to the
fire?"   Laura timidly obeyed.  She scarcely
dared to raise her eyes; she felt that she was aa
object of dislike to the girls, - that they had been
making fun at her expense; and if it had not been
for her long —practised habits of self-command, she
-would have answered the kind voice of Miss Merton with a flood of tears.
When once more alone in her own room, sle
leaned her arm on the table, rested her bead on
her hands, and tears dropped fast over her open
book. Thus she thought, " So it is always, so it
has been, and so it must be. I am a doomed
thing. IHow foolish I was for a single minute to
wish to leave home, or to indulge a hope that if I
came among strangers, I might find some one to
like me. I wtill write, and ask to be talken back
again. Helen loves me, I think, and father and
mother too, sometimes. And Amy - dear, good
old Amy- if I could only put my arms around
her neck, it would do my soul good. Dear heart!
she, I know, misses mes" Thus her home came




214        TIE CLOUDY MORNING.
up before her as the only spot in the wide world,
where the light of love, feeble as it was, could
shine upon her; and her heart yearned for it.
She had left it with joy, to seek some better
land; but, with the cold chill of disappointment,
she turned back to it with fast-flowing tears.
What else could she do? The present was miserable, - the future, full of gloom, - so ingenious
had she become at the age of fifteen, in making
herself miserable. Father, mother! this character
was one of thine own forming.
Long had she indulged in this painful reverie,
— her lesson still unlearned. At last, some one
tapped gently at her door.  She started, gave a
hasty glance in the mirror; her eyes were red and
swollen.  She kept perfectly quiet. They tapped
again; still, no reply. The sound of retreating
footsteps left her again in solitude.
AFTER Laura had been for some time at school,
she made the discovery that there were two persons who had won, by a most judicious course of
kind treatment, both her confidence and  love.
These were Miss Merton and Mary HIale. One,
day, Miss Merton told her that she should be happy to see her in her room, after tea. Though this
was said with a winning smile, yet it brought the




THE CLOUDY MORNINGo-           215
color to Laura's cheek, and made her heart beat
like that of a little culprit. All day long, she
worlied herself with the most anxious and foolish
conjectures about the object of this private interview, and at the appointed time, she knocked
tremblingly at 1Miss Merton's door.
"Come in, my dear," said she, looking up from
a table coyered with papers.  "I am very busy
just now, and should be glad of a little of your
assistance.  Will you look over a few of these
compositions?  W~here you find three words misspelt, put a cross, and place it in that pile. They
worked awhile in silence, and at length, the business over, Miss Merton closed her desk, drew her
chair nearer the fire, and placed an ottoman at
her feet for Laura.
"Laura," said she, playfully weaving her fingers
through Laura's glossy ringlets, "if I am not mistaken in your character, you are one who likes
plain speaking; you can take a reproof for a fault
without its being so spiced with flattery as to lose
its taste."
"Yes, I am sure I can," said Laura, a little
proudly; "You, you, —I was going to say,that you know me better than most people" — and
her voice slightly trembled.
"I thought I was right, Laura. Now I have no
serious fault to find, but I have been wishing for
Aome time to speak with you about your studies."




21 G       THE CLOIUDY MORNING'
Laura's'brow clouded. A deep blush crimsoneb
her' cheek. ~ "Miss MIerton," said she, hesitatingly,'-"I cannot study as the other girls do; they hWave
better talents than I have."
" That is the very thing I was going to speak of,
my dear.  A great many people in this world:
overrate their talents; you, I am convinced, underrate yours."
" Indeed, I do not, Miss Merton," and the tears
were fairly started.' I think you do. You set it down at the outset, that you must fail in everything you undertake; and you expect, as a matter of necessity, to
have the worst recitation in the class. Your mind
never will act vigorously under such a pressure.
A sure way of obtaining a defeat is to prepare for
one.  Your natural abilities are good, and you
may take a stand with any girl in schools if yo&
would only think so. You can accomplish anything which you will determine to accomplish."
"I can never make a scholar; my teachers always said so, and father and mother think so;"
and Laura sighed deeply.
"Then show them all, my dear, that they are
mistaken. Remember,'Those who would shoot
high, must aim at the sun.' I wish to put you into
the first class of Intellectual Philosophy. Now,
will you promise me to feel that you can do as well
as.the others, and give the experiment a fair trial? "




THE CLOUDY MIORNING.            217
Iaura remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Such words fell like the voice of a trumpet
on het ear. Ambition started at the sound. Her
face lighted'up with an expression full of meaning,
sanld her eye sparkled with an honest pride that
had long been a stranger to it: "1  T'will try," said
she, drawing herself to her full height, and standing erect for a moment, as if breathing the atmos —
phere of the mountains.
" That is all I ask, and it is the signal of vietory!" said Miss Merton, affectionately kissing hercheek.  Laura, forgetting all difference of station,
threw her arms around her teacher's neck, and re —:
turned the caress ten-fold.  From  this moment.
might have been dated a new era in her intellectualworld.  She determined to deserve the first words
of praise which she had ever heard; and with a
heart made light by so slight an attention, her'
mind took off its garment of sackcloth.  Hitherto,.
her life had all been one of feeling; now she be-:
gan to think, to reason. She seemed like a new
creature; she surprised herself and every one else;
her self-respect daily increased, and her whole
manner showed the change.  Yet there were~
rocks, and snares, and pit-falls in her new path..
One day Miss Mlerton entered the school-room,.
and found her sitting alone, apparently think-.
ing very intently with her eyes fixed on the
19




218       THE CLOUDY MORNING.
grate. "Why, my dear," exclaimed she, "what a' brown study!' Do you find any familiar face in
the coals? Why are you here in play-time?' A
penny for your thouglhts.'"
"They are not worth a penny," said Laura, coloring, and taking up her book.
"' Aind is that part of our being which thinks,
wills, remembers, and reasons'- is that what puzzles you so, Laura?"
-' 0, no - but - "
o" What?"
-" Why, I really do n't know, exactly, what I.want to say. But after I have been studying, I
get to thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and
everything seems so strange and all mixed up."
"What is mixed up, child?"
"I know you will think me silly; if I were
more like other girls, I could understand better;
but I do n't see what matter is,. nor what mind is.
I was just thinking there is no world. - Here is
the fire - what is it, a picture on the retina of the'eye? I am all in a puzzle. What are you? and
What am I?  It is confused and strange; I feel
sometimes as if there were an iron chain around.me, — the farther I go, the more tightly it is
drawn. I am afraid I shall never make a scholar,
until this is in some way broken."
"That is an iron chain, my child, whose pressure




THE CLOUDY 3MORNING.          219
we all feel when we attempt to cross the boundaries
of human knowledge. This union of mind and
matter - this' What am I?' is a mystery, which
you can never. solve here. In another state of being,
-in heaven, Laura, if we get there, - we can
explore the whole ocean of truth without feeling
these shackles. Do not make yourself unhappy
because you do not know what God did not design
that you should know, here. You are by no means
singular in these thoughts and feelings; all. have
them when they first wake to a real consciousness
of-. existence."
"Well, — but Mliss Merton," said Laura, who
having once opened her heart seemed determined
to bring forth all that had been troubling her
there, " I do not kno-w what good it does to study.
Here we spend day after day, year after year learning books; at last we must die and be buried up,
and there is the end of it; and what good has it
all done us?"
"Is that the end of all things, Laura?"
"Well, but in heaven I thought they sung
psalms, and played on golden harps. I never
thought much else about it. WVe could sing as
well without studying all this Philosophy anft
Algebra  "
" Laura! Laura Clay! where are you?" shouted
a pleasant voice in the entry. "Oh, here, I pro.



220        THE CLOUDY MIORNING.
test, in the school-room, over your books, when we
are all at play. We want you to see our snowhouse; come, they sent me for you!"
" You had better go, my dear," said Miss ierton, gently taking her book from her hand.
TWILIGHT is the hour sacred to thought. It was
the hour our night-shade loved; the one in which
she often stole away to be alone in her room, or
with her friend AMary Hale. Once, she was sitting
at her window watching the beautiful sunset clouds,
with eyes filled with tears.
"Dear Laura," said Mary, seating herself by
her, " what is the matter now?"
" I am a foolish girl; Mary, and I am ashamed
of myself; but I will tell you all about it. I was
sitting here looking out, and before I knew  it
almost, I was thinking of home and had imagined
that father and Helen were dead. I was in out
large drawing-room; it was dark; on one table
there was a long coffin and on another there a
shorter one. Mother, dressed in deep mourning,
pale as marble, called me to come and give the
last kiss to the dead. A rough man was standing
near me; as soon as I had kissed one, he shut
down the lid and was screwing it down - I could
not help crying, I wish that I could hear from home."
"Why, Laura! are you superstitious?"




THE CLOUDY MORNING.           221';No, I am not."
"Well, I never saw a girl so ingenious in
making herself miserable in my life."
"Do n't you ever get thinking so, M3ary?"
" o, indeed, dear Laura; I should think it very
wrong to allow myself to do so. It is distrusting
the watchful love of God. I believe Him when he
tells me, that I-le will not suffer us to be tempted
above what we are able to bear;' As your day is,
so shall your strength be!' And if I did not, a
little observation as to how things really go in this
world, would prevent my being so unmercifully
wretched, - for it has passed into a proverb that
the evils we most dread never come, while those
we least think of are the ones at hand.  Why
should we embitter a short life with imaginary
evils? We need all the energy of feeling which
we throw away so, to meet the real calls of' life."
" Well, it is my nature, and I cannot help it,"
sighed Laura.
"Cannot help it!  Will you allow that you
have no powei' over your thoughts?"
" No, but -"
C "But, dear iLaura, you have not the resolution
to be happy; with everything in the world to make
you so, you still prefer the excitement of these
melancholy feelings; you voluntarily choose the
bitter waters."
19*




222         THE CLOUDY MORNING.
"Why, MBary, it is my nature.  You know
nothing at all of what such a person as I, has
to suffer. Excepting my love for you, — and I
do love you dearly, 3Mary, — life seems to me a
dreary waste. I am every hour oppressed with
the feeling that it is slipping away. I put my
head upon my pillow, not for pleasant dreams, but
to think, think, think that I am one day nearer the
gTave and the judgment. You cannot know anything of this, }Mary.  Life has been to you, one
long summer-day'And all that you wish, and all that you love,
Come smiling around your sunny way!"'
"I have seen trouble," said Mary, a shade passing over her sweet face, as she thought of that
hour in the early mornting of her life which left
her motherless; "and yet I have been very happy
thus far. In' to-day' I always find somethirng to
enjoy, and I always look for a brighit to-morrow.
I feel that I shall be taken care of; for the young
ravens and the lilies are, and why should not I be?
This is a pleasant world, and it seems to me uncrateful not to enjoy it. If I lose one friend, some.one else comes in to take her place. If I am dis1appointed in one thing, another, as pleasant, turns
up."




THE CLOUDY  rORNTING.         223
"W ell, Mary, everybody loves you. I wonder
why it is?"
"I do n't know, I am sure; I cannot tell. I
never thought whether they did or not. But it
may be, as the girl in the story said, because I
love everybody, - it seems to me I do."
" So do I, Mary, every one who loves me; but
those are very, very few. I can count them all
over on three fingers."
"' Well, Laura, one trouble with you is in your
manner. You feel that those you meet will of
course not like you, and so you draw back, and
your manner seems to say,' I will be beforehand
with you, and show you that I do n't care for you.'
This will not make friends."
")o you always expect people to like you?"
"'I never, somehow, think anything about it,"
said Mary, laughing, " but it so happens that I almost always find something to like in every one."
"Well, you are so social and open-hearted and
kind, no one can help loving you, Mary."
" I do n't know about that; but I am1 sure, Laura, if you would be more social and open, you
would be much happier. You are so reserved;
you keep Sour real feelings so much to yourself,
that it seems to say to others,' Keep your distance; I do not wish to be meddled with." Now,
girls will not take the trouble to force their friend



224        THE CLOUDY MORiNING.
ship upon any one, particularly if she stands aloof,
and seems to say,' I do not care for it.' It touches
their pride and self-respect, -' I will give as good
as I receive,' they say. Now, a hundred times I
have known the girls to say things which hurt
your feelings very much; yet, you looked so perfectly calm and composed, they thought of course
that you did not mind it at all. This provokes
them to repeat the attack, and all the time they
think they are striking on granite.  0, if' you
would only be honest, and show what you feellet people know you as I do - they could not help
loving you as I do, dear Laura."
Laura shook her head, and sighed deeply. " I
cannot do it, MIary. When my heart is full almost to bursting with deep, intense feeling, I cannot speak, —I cannot explain; they would not
understand me, if I did; they would not like me,
if I could. It is my fate; I was born so; I am
an unfortunate child; my mother would tell you
SO."
"There- there it is again," said Mary, kissing
the tears from Laura's eyes. "Now, why. will
you cherish such fancies? Why, darling, you are
overshadowing the brightest part of your life.
You can, you must, you ought to be happy; you
have everything in life to make you so. Laura,
it is a great thing to have a mother; mine is dead."




THiE CLOI DY MORNING.        225
She paused a moment. "And you have a great
many other friends to love you. It was but yesterday I heard two of the girls talking about you."
"W~hat did they say?" inquired Laura, very
quickly, for she was remarkably anxious always
to know just what was said of her.,
"I will tell you. One said,' There is that Miss
Clay, —she always looks just so, sober as the
grave, as if she had not a friend in the wide
world.'' Not always,' said the other;' sometimes
she brightens up wonderfully.''That may be,'
was the reply,' but it is like the flash of lightning
in a dark night, - it makes everything ten times
blacker for it; and when you speak to her, she always answers in just the same tone, whether it is
about the Bible, or a shuttlecock. There is no
sunshine in her presence; it is like going into the
frigid zone.  I could never love such a girl.'
Dear Laura, I tell you this only to convince you
that you yourself are your worst enemy. They
could not help loving you, if you would act out
your own heart, and be happy among them."
Not long after this, there was a great noise one
morning in the school-room. The girls were all
talking together in loud voices, -'I will have
this, and you that.''No, I want that, and you
may have this.' There was a perfect Babel for a
little time, until the various characters in a tableau




226        THIE CLOUDY 3MORNING.
which was to come off at Christmas, had been decided upon. "Here is Laura Clay," exclaimed
one at length, " standing as mute as a hearth-stone.
What shall she be?"  Some said one thing, and
some said another.
"0  d not give me anything," said Laura. "I
could not act, if you did; I should spoil the whole.
Pray do not give me anything."
" There," said one, " she is vexed because you
did not ask her before, - that's the reason." Laura gave Mary a look, which said,' Did not I tell
you so? You see I am right; they cannot understand me.' Laura might have read Mary's reply,' But you did not say the right thing.'
"No, no," said another, who observed that Laura was moving away to another part of the room,
which she did to hide her tears, " she does not get
vexed, but she is in her heroics and moral sublimities. She loves dearly to make a great heroine
of herself.  I suppose now she will go to her
room, and think she is the greatest martyr since
Nero's time."
"You to be Nero?" said a child, looking up
from a pile of engravings, "Who may I be?"
"Me, Nero?  No, I hope not. I was talking
of the poor, persecuted Miss Clay."
" Jane - Jane, I would not," said Mary Hale.
"You do not understand Laura. There l" said




THE CLOUDY MORNING.            227
she, as the door closed upon the retreating girl,
" You have wounded her more than you can imagine. She is the most sensitive creature I ever
knew."
"Well, why does she behave so strangely, then?
Why could not she join our play, and appear at
least interested in somebody besides herself?
How can she expect us to like her, when she does
so, and does not seem to care a pin for us? Feelings? I am sorry if I hurt them, but why does
not she let us see sometimes, that she has feelings.
I am sure it is not my fault."
LAURA was again sitting alone with Miss Merton. It was only a short time before her leaving
school. She sighed deeply, and seemed to have
sad thoughts.
" You must write often to me, Laura," said Miss
Merton.
"0  yes, I am very sure that I shall; it will be
almost the only pleasant thing left for me to do,
then. How quickly these last happy years have
gone! They have been to me the happiest in all
my life; and now I must leave you, Miss Merton,
and Mary," and her voice trembled, and her lip
quivered. She covered her eyes with her hands.
"But, my dear Laura, you are going back to




228        TIIiE CLOUDY MORNING.
your homrne,- to your father and mother and sister. That home must be made brighter and happier by your return."
"0, Miss Merton," Laura wiould have said, had
she not felt it too much to speak, "I can never
make that home happy. If I thought I could, my
heart iwould leap for joy." There was a pause, and
Laura said, "What is there now worth living for?
Life is to me a bitter drug, —I mean, when I am
away from you, Miss Mlerton; there will be ino
one to -   understand me."  She was about to
add,'no one to love me,' but she stopped, startled
to find that she had almost said the very thing
which she most feared to say. "What have I to
do, - what object in life?  I have no school, no
studies. It is, get up in the morning, eat, drink,
sew, and sleep again."
"My dear Laura, I am sorry to hear you speak
so; there is a great deal for you to do in this
world. You must be EUseful here, -you must
make some one better and happier by what you
do, and by what you are. If you have the wish
to do this, strong in your heart, you will easily find
the way to do it. It is for this purpose you have
been cultivating yourself, - that you may be fitted
for usefulness. You must keep before you the
highest standard of perfection, and aim daily to
make your own character nearer and nearer like it.




THE CLOUDY MIORNING.         229
Those around you must be made better for your
influence.  You have enough, and more than
enough, to do."'Then," said Laura, upon whom this speech
had evidently made little impression, " when away
from you both, what shall I do with my sad and
lonely hours?"
" You must not have any such hours, Laura."
" I cannot help it, Miss Merton, indeed I cannot.
They come over me like a spell in my gayest
moods, —like sudden night at noonday. Sometimes -often, when I think I am happy, all at
once my heart seems to become heavy as lead. I
want to go away alone and weep, I cannot tell
why, either."
Mother! want of early care has done this for
your child.
"Laura," said Miss Merton, after a few minutes'
silence, " solitude is a bad friend for you, and one
which you must shun. Throw yourself as much
as you can into society; be with those who are
around you; do something fbr them. Discipline
your thoughts perseveringly to dwell upon others,
and not on yourself. Do this with real energy and
decision of character. I would not give this advice to a weak-minded girl, but you are capable of
the effort. Determine to live happily, and to some
20




230       T1HiE CLOUDY MIOrNlNAG.
purpose, and not waste your life, because you are
too indolent to improve it."
"But, dear.iss Moerton, I do have such lonely
hours. You cannot know how at times my heart
pines for something to love, and that would love
me, and how then this world seems to me almost a
desert."
" Laura, we can make our own deserts, and
walk in them, if we choose."
"'But, I do not choose, M:[ss Mierton. I cannot
kelp it. Mly path has been marked out here, —
right here, and nowhere else, - this is my nature."
"2VNture, again, Laura.  Do you know upon
whowm you throw the blame, whlien you charge it
upon your nature?"
" But how can I help it? I was born so. To
long fobrever for friends, and never find them; or,
if I do, to love them with all my heart, and then
feel that they do not love me as much, and that
they cannot.  Sometimes, even when I am happy,
and always when I am sad, I feel such a void
here, — I seek for sympathy, - I do not find it,
and my heart aches."
" Laura, you say that you love MIary and myself. You know and feel that we love you. Now
tell me, honestly, since you have known us, has
this filled that void in your heart?  Has it supplied that craving for a deeper sympathy?"




THE CLOUDY MORNING.            231
Laiura confessed that it had not.
"' Neither can it do so, nor can any other earthly
love, my child.  You may go this world over, and
with your serious, reflecting nature, you will never
find the firiend to satisfy the wants of your soul.
You must go to a different, a higher, purer fountain, before you will ever feel pure happiness."
Laura did not raise her eyes; she replied only
by a shake of the head. Miss Merton, perceiving
the expression, forbore to press the point; but
said to her soon after, as she was leaving the room,
-" I've something more to tell you, Laura, but I
will defer it until I write to you. Good-night -
pleasant dreams to you."
LAURA left school with many tears, and returned with a heavy heart to her not very attractive
home. It seemed to her that she could live contentedly, forever, with her teacher. Not long after
her return she received a long, affectionate letter
firomin Miss Merton, the object of which was to urge
her again to seek happiness at that only source
where it could be found. A short extract from
this letter follows:
"cHere am I, my dear Laura, writing in my
little study. The room you know well, for I believe you learned to love it almost as much as I do,




232        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
while you were with me. I have been thinking of
you — of the last evening that you spent here —
of the expression of your countenance —of the
tone of voice in which you said to me,' There is a
void in my heart.' I wish I could make you feel
as I do, that there is but one Friend who can fill
this void; — that which you need to satisfy the
wants of your soul is to love your Saviour with all
your soul. This void will never be filled until you
come and link your heart to His. Then, all your
plans and purposes will be changed. Your vision
will be no longer bounded by the dark and narrow
grave; it will stretch on into a region of unclouded
light, where dwell those blessed ones' who die in
the Lord.' And for this world, you have enough
and more than enough, to do — to obey your Saviour
— to follow where he leads -to'go about doing
good,' as he did, and to prepare yourself, and all
around you, to meet Him in heaven. Laura, this
Friend is calling you, and you are searching for
Him, though you do not know it. That you may
hear His voice, and see His face, and one day be' satisfied' with' His likeness,' is the earnest prayer
of one who remains,
Very affectionately, Yours,
L. MIERTON."
The remainder of Laura's history is, for the most
part, unwritten. But another short extract from
a letter which she wrote to her friend, Mary Hale,
about a year after her return from school, will show
that, though now fast coming to womanhood, yet
her position at home was not essentially different




THIE CLOUDY MORNING.         233
fiom +what it had been in her childhood. She was
still almost a stranger to her parents; their intercourse with her was such as to forbid anything like
intimacy between them. They never made the
attempt to win her confidence. They never made
a friend of her. They did not know how to do
it. They had not studied her character in her
early years, and now it was too late. She writes
to her friend, Mary, as follows: —
" You are happy, Mary, because you are a Christian. I do not doubt it; I, too, love my Bible, —
I love'my Sabbaths, and the hour of secret prayer
as I never used to. Some of the happiest hours I
know are spent in my closet; and sometimes my
heart trembles with joy at the thought that, perhaps, even i am a child of God. I wish I could
come out openly and say to the world,' As for me,
I will serve the Lord.' Then, why do I not? you
ask. Because, Mary, I do not dare to do it. I
have not the courage to break the thing to my parents. Would they oppose it?  0 no! They are
both of them Christians.  I dare say it would
make them happy. But they have never in all
my life taken me away alone, and gently encouraged me to speak to them of my religious feelings
-not once. I cannot tell why it is, but I am
somehow ashamed to let them know how deeply I
do feel on these matters. My father -prays night
and morning at the family altar, that we may become the children of God; but then he never
speaks to me about it, and my heart shrinks from
20*




234        THE CLOUDY MORNING.
going to him, and telling him all I feel. I cannot
get the courage.  I cannot first break the ice.
These feelings are so sacred, I cannot voluntarily
expose them. I am sometimes very unhappy
about it, Mary. I wish that, like you, I were a
professing Christian.  But you see how it is.
Good night.
Your friend,
LAURA."




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
A PLAIN TALK WITH GIRLS WIHO  "LIVE OUT," IN
THE CITY.
I.
TIlE START.
ONE pleasant Monday morning, Deacon Jones,
the farmer, his wife, his daughter Ruth, and some
three or four boys, were seen standing in the yard;
rather, the elderly members of the group were
standing, — the boys were pitching themselves
over the low fence, and trying to see who could
walk the farthest on his head. From  between
their hands they cast many glances up the road,
each one being anxious to spy out first the old
stage-coach. The farmer stood whittling a lilac
bush.
"You will remember what I tell you about dressing warm in cold weather, Ruth," said her mothcr. " You must not think you can be careless because you are living in a city. Mlany a poor girl
has caught her death, that way."




236        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
"I will be careful, mother, I promise you," said
Ruth.
"You must write often, Ruth," said the farmer.
" We shall want to know all how you get on. If
you are steady and industrious, you wont have to
live out always. As soon as these youngsters are
a little older, we can get along and keep you at
home, I hope."
" Coming, coming, coming!" shouted the boys,
all together.
" Hush, boys; do n't be so noisy," said their father, clearing his throat.  "Well, good bye, my
child; keep up good heart.  May God bless you,
and keep you from the snares of that great city."
HIe kissed her fast-falling tears.
6Good bye, mother;" and saying this, she
threw both arms about her mother's neck.
"I can carry Ruth's trunk, Mir. Driver; let
me," said little John.
" No, you can't begin to; let it alone, I tell you,"
said George, the eldest. "I can carry it in one
hand." Then John began to cry.
A" You sha'n't any of you carry it, if you quarrel.
I'll carry it myself," said Mr. Driver. In this uproar, the boys almost forgot to bid Ruth good bye.
('Are you there, Lucy?" said the farmer, looking in at the stage window."
"I am here, large as life," said Lqcy. "Come,




TIHE COUNTRY COUSINS.         237
Ruth; if you are going to Boston, you must leave
your baby-skin at home."
Ruth looked up, and tried to smile, as she took
her seat by her cousin. At the first glance, she
saw how much Lucy was dressed, and a momentary feeling of shame at her own simple attire,
came over her. Hier fither also noticed it; but
his good sense told him that Ruth had the advantage.
Lucy was pretty, had bright black eyes, with
good features. She had this day curled her hair
in long ringlets, and put on bows and laces, a white
veil, and light kid gloves, and also wore short
sleeves, - all this, to ride in a dirty stage-coach,
on a dusty summer day.
Ruth's hair was brushed back plainly under her
simple straw bonnet, and she wore a new calico
dress, with long sleeves and cape to match, and
neat cotton gloves. Her countenance was ruddy
and good-humored.  She need not have felt
ashamed for a minute. The farmer was right in
his opinion that she looked much the better of the
two.
Mr. Driver cracked his whip over the heads of
the boys, bringing it rather nearer Master George's
ears than was strictly agreeable,- and he was rewarded by a thundering word, which, however,
did not make noise enough to reach him.




238        TIE COUNTRY COUSINS.
Our two adventurers had the coach all to themselves, after the first ten miles, and talked freely
about their plans and prospects.
" {My father says, if I do well," said Ruth, " for
a year or two, till the boys get able to earn something, that I shall not need to work out longer."
"I need not now, if I a'nt a mind to," said
Lucy; "but it is so stupid and dull here in the
country, I am glad to go. Besides, if I stay at
home, I can't have anything to dress on. I have
to do as the rest of them do."
" I do n't mind that," said Ruth.
"-Well, I do.' Go it while you're young,' I
say; 4 when you're old, you can't."'
Ruth laughed; she was used to Lucy's ways.
"You wrote to Aunt Baily, and told her we should
come to-day, did n't you? "
"' Yes," said Lucy.  " The driver knows where
she lives. I feel sort of strange about going there,
I never saw her."
" I do n't know as I do exactly," said Ruth. " I
have heard my mother talk about her so much,
that I feel acquainted with her. I suppose we
shall not have to stay with her long."
"No, indeed," said Lucy. "WVe can have as
many places as we want. Down East girls are
in great demand, they say, and they will give almost any price fobr them."




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.          239
The girls had so much to talk about, that all the
beautiful places through which their road lay,
passed unnoticed. The deep, dark woods, the bold
rocks, the picturesque waterfall, the tumbling
brook, the pretty farm-houses, and the honeysuckles, and violets, and birds, - these were country sights, and they had seen them all their lives,
and thought them scarcely worth the minding
now they were on their way to Boston.




II.
THE -ARRIVAL.
DUSTY and tired,- just on the edge of evening,
our travellers entered Washington street. It fully
answered all their expectations. Carts and coaches,
and cabs and omnibuses, rattled by them; watercarriers were laying the dust in the streets; men,
women and children thronged the side-walks. This
was quite a new world.
"I know I never shall like it," said Ruthl; for a
feeling of homesickness came over her, as she
looked from the window on these strange sights.
C 0O, it is first-rate," said Lucy, fairly clapping
her hands; " we shall have grand good fun here."
Soon they turned out of Washington street, —
and winding around through some quiet places,
they stopped at length befobre a neatly painted
wooden house. They entered, by a side-gate, into
a very small yard. A board walk led to the door,
and a lilac tree, in full bloom, shaded the windows.
Lucy lifted the knocker,- " Girls, is it you? " said
Mrs. Baily - peeping through the lilac branches.
"Yes; here we are," said Lucy. Their aunt




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         241
met them cordially. Tea was ready, and the table
all set; so they knew they were expected.
"You must make yourselves at home, girls,"
said aunt Baily.  "Put away your things, and
get ready to sit down."
Our travellers felt a little strange. They found
they had no correct idea of their aunt; indeed,
many years had passed since they last saw her.
She appeared older than they had expected; and
while she was very kind, there was a decided tone
and manner about her, different from what they
had been accustomed to. She urged them to eat,
and filled their plates with good things, and asked
many questions about'the home folks;' questions
which were easily answered,.- and by degrees the
strangeness wore off, and they began to feel acquainted with her.
After tea, it seemed very natural to Ruth to
offer to help her aunt in her work. She took
the towel for this purpose, but her aunt declined,
and advised them both to go to bed.  "They
had had a long day's ride of it," she said. "The
next morning, if they would get up early, she
would go with them to a couple of places which she
had in view.a  One was a place where a girl was
wanted for a chamber-maid, and the other where
one was wanted for the ntursery.  She would see
then whetlher they Would suit the ladies."
21




242        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
"I do n't believe there is much doubt of that,"
said Lucy.  "I hear these city-folks are glad
enough to get country girls, any way."
"Not if they don't understand their business,"
said aunt Bailry.
Lucy thought her aunt was rather cross. Ruth
had some misgivings, lest after all she should not
suit city people. Another attack of homesickness
came over her, and she sat at the open window
quite still, looking out upon the houses.
" Would you like to go to bed?" said aunt Baily,
by and by.
I should," said Ruth; "C I feel very tired."
"Well, I guess I will, then," said Lucy.
Aunt Baily had arranged her own chamber for
the girls, and she herself was to sleep upon the
sofa-bed. They were soon alone.
" She is cross!" said Lucy in a half whisper to
Ruth. " I do n't like her at all."
"'I do n't think so," said Ruth, warmly. " I think
she is right kind to us. Look! this is her room,
and she has turned herself out."
"What a hurry she is in, to get us off her hands!
For my part, I mean to take my own time. I do n't
want to go to a place to-morrow; I want to look
around and see Boston; — what's the use, when
we've come to see the world!"
Ruth attempted to convince her that this was




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.'243
not wise. They should go when their aunt could
best spare the time to take them, - and must go
also at the time engaged, lest they should lose their
places. Lucy was not convinced, and went to bed
in ill-humor.  Ruth extinguished the light, and
raising the white curtain, sat down by the open
window. In the house opposite to where she sat,
women were bustling about with huge frilled-caps,
and coarse men sat puffing away at their pipes.
Scarcely a breath of air was stirring. Brick before,
stones below, and a narrow strip of sky above, -
she could scarcely see the stars. How unlike the
scene fiom her own little window at the farm-house
- in her mind's eye, it was still before her, - the
old well-curb, which threw such huge shadows by
moon-light, - the large green yard, with the old
apple-tree, in the corner, now bending with age and
splintered by storms. She loved that old appletree. WVith tiny fingers she had made nosegays
from its blushing blossoms in spring, and had eaten
its golden fruit every autumn, as far back as she
could remember. So different was the scene from
this pent up city, that Ruth began to weep, she
was so homesick.
" Why do n't you come to bed," said Lucy, petulantly, -"I wouldn't sit there all night looking
at the dark!"
"I'm coming," said Ruth; but here, now, was




244        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
a difficulty. This was tlhe first time in her life she
had ever passed a night away from home. It was
her habit always to kneel at night, to pray. She
had been brought up to do this from very early
childhood. IIow could she manage it now, with
Lucy there talking to her, and ready to laugh at
her?  She felt very anxious to do so, because it
would seem like home, and her feelings were much
softened. She' knelt, hoping to catch a few minutes
unobserved.  When she was partly through her
prayer, Lucy raised her head.
"i Ruth, what are you about, you silly fuss; why
do n't you come?"
" Coming," said Ruth.
Now she hoped to finish her prayers in bed; but
when her head was fairly on her pillow, and Lucy
had ceased talking nonsense to her, she was much
too weary to pray. She dropped asleep, thinking
-" Well, when I go to my new place, I can do as
I wish to."
Thus passed their first night in Boston.




THE NEXT MORNING.
EARLY the next morning, the girls heard aunt
Baily. " Come," said she, " it is.time to get up;
I shall soon have breakfast ready. The neighbors
are all stirring; keep your curtains down, if you
do n't want them to see you dress."
As soon, however, as she properly could, Ruth
took a peep. The neighbor's house was not improved by the sunlight, nor were the neighbors
either. The windows and blinds were dirty; here
and there, a geranium or pink growing in a broken
tea-pot, were the only green things visible, for the
lilac bush was out of sight. Then there was such a
din from the streets - milk-carts, bakers' wagons,
trucks, and hacks, all rattling over the rough pavement together, and seeming as if they must run into
each other as they rushed by with their noisy drivers
and restless horses. It seemed to Ruth as if everything was on fire, people were in such a hurry.
She thought even the sun appeared to get along
faster over the chimney-tops, than it did at home
over her father's barn. She began to look forlo21*




2436       THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
"I do n't think I shall like Boston," said she.
"Pooh! Nonsense! " said Lucy; "you can't see
anything here; wait a bit, till we get out of this
hole, and we shall find it's like a great muster-day
all the time. Besides, if we do n't like it, we can
go back again, and be no worse off than we were
before."
"I should not feel as if that would be right,"
said Ruth, "after they have been at all the expense of sending me."
"Breakfast ready, girls, all hot and smoking,
and the sun is getting hotter," cried aunt Baily, at
the foot of the stairs.
Lucy hurried; Ruth lingered. The truth was,
she wanted an opportunity to offer her morning
prayer.
"I'11 come in a minute; do n't wait," said she
to Lucy. But Lucy would not go without her;
and Ruth reluctantly followed.
Things looked much more cheerful down stairs.
Aunt Baily had her room in nice order; her windows were open, and the lilac-blossoms were fragrant. A few pots of thriving geraniums, well
watered, stood there. Hot cakes and coffee served
in the "best dishes," invited them.  Ruth waited
as if she expected aunt Baily to ask a blessing.
Her mother did so when her father was away, but
such was not the custom here.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.           247
The conversation naturally fell on the business
of the day.
"These places which I have in view for you,"
said aunt Baily, "seem to be in first rate families;
and they give good wages for beginners, - sevenand-six a week_."
"Is that all?" exclaimed Lucy. "You do n't
catch me going out under two dollars! 
" You must find your own place, then," said her
aunt, coolly. "You can't earn that money; you
are young and inexperienced. I would not recommend you to any such situation."
Ruth was satisfied. It was even more than she
had expected to earn.  "tIMy father told me again
and again," said she, " that he cared a great deal
nore for the place than the wages.  He wants
to have me in a good pious faimily, where they will
take some interest in me. He is dreadfully afraid
of these great cities for young folks."
tlucy laughed loudly. "Well, I am glad," said
she, " my father is not so notional; he thinks I can
take care of myself, and it's a pity if I can't. All
I want is money. I do n't much care where I go,
or what I do. I am willing to work for it."
"I can tell you, LucS," said her aunt, "that
money is -nly half of it. There are a great many
things of more consequence to a young woman,
than a few shillings more or less, a week. Brother




248        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
Hiram has the right on't. He and I always used
to think alike. If I was sending a daughter of
mine into the city to live out, I should tell her just
as he did. Get into a good pious family, if you
can, -at any rate, among, the good sort of folks.
Place first, and wages second. A young girl coming for the first time into such a city as this, wants
a home- that's what she wants. She needs to be
looked after and cared for, and to have some one
to tell her where to go, and when to stay, and how
to spend her money. It is not half the poor girls
that can get this. They come down and go to the
Intelligence Office, and wait and wait, - boarding
all the time; — till at last their money's gone,
and they are driven to take up the first offer they
get."
" I suppose they can't help it," said Ruth.
".No, a great many of them can't," said aunt
Baily; "but for a young girl who comes to the
city for the first time, it is a pretty dangerous experiment; it has been the ruin of many a one. If
they have relations in the city, the best way is to
ask them to look out before they come, or to have
an eye on them at least, after they do come; and
if they have n't, their father, or somebody from
home, had better make a sacrifice and c`ome down
with them and see, at least, that they are in safe
places."




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.          249' It is not.ery often they can afford this," said
Ruth.
" Iknow that, said hier aunt "a al(. morie's thle
pity. Then if worst comes to th. e worst,' a girt
must.make all the inquiries:shte can, of people who
know about these things, and go t. the, best officee
and best boarding-house she can hear about; and
have her eyes open, and not be afraid to ask questions; and have a distinct idea in her mind of the
situation she wvants, and the work she can do. She
must not mind.a dollar or two, more (r less, in getting a start. She should not come alone, without
money enough to take care of herself properly
nntil she is provided for. But it is high time
we were off; you get read y girls7, hile I clear
away."
This "' getting ready" was an important affair to
Lucy. She opened her trunk, and took out her
best. When fully rigged, therefore, she had on a
slimsy silk dress, a lace cape, blue kid gloves, and
carried a pink parasol, and a pocket handkerchief
trimmed with wide cotton lace. She intended to
make an impression. She thought' genteel places
would want genteel girls.'
Ruth, also, wore her best; but this was a pretty
gingham, ironed without wrinkle, of a neat color,
with cotton gloves to match, and her plain straw bonet. Aunt Baily saw at a glance how much ad



250        eTHE COUNTRY COUSINS.
vantage Rutlhs simple and neat appearance gave
her. Her first thought was to advise Lucy to dress
in the same way; but she looked into her pretty,
bright face, and concluded to let the girls take their
own course in the matter. She was ready, and
they started without delay.




IV.
SEEKING PLACES.
OUR party called first on Mrs. Fay. She was
the lady who wished for a nursery maid. As the
cousins entered her handsomely furnished parlors,
they were somewhat awestruck. They had never
seen so much splendor. " Why, the Squire's house
in their village, would not begin to compare with
it."  Even Lucy began to think.she never should
be genteel enough for such a place. They seated
themselves by the window, and awaited in some
trepidation Mrs. Fay's appearance.
Mrs. Fay was a very pleasant lady. She knew
aunt Baily, and aunt Baily seemed to feel at home
with her. She inquired which of the two girls
wished to live with her - looking at Ruth all the
time. Ruth colored, and did not know what to
say at first. Her aunt answered for her. Mrs.
Fay wished to have her come on the Monday following, and make a trial; and she spoke so simply
and pleasantly, and right to the point about the
work, - telling just what was to be done, and
what was to be paid, that Ruth felt there was a




252        THE COUNTRhY C(OUSIN-.,
perfect understanding between them; and she to
leave, well ~atisfied.
"I shall like hery I know,' said Rutlh, as soon as
they were alone, " I do n't believe I could have
found a better place; and, I like to take care of
children."
"More foal you," said Lucy; " you never know
wirhen that w6rk is done up."
"; I do n't care," said Ruth, "4if it is, harder, sometiires; it is pleasanter. It pays its way better,
because the children love you, and you love them.";' I guess you will be a pretty good hand at it,"
aid aunlt Baily.
After a short walk in another directionthbey call,.
ed on Mrs. Roberts. Lucy's eye brightened, when
she entered parlors which were even more magnifi&
cent than those they had just seen. Here were velve'
couches, and chandeliers, ard crimson curtains, and
mirrors, and pictures, - and many things of which'
ihey knew neither the name nor the use.
How elegant! " said Ruth;'" it is handsomer
than our pulpit, Lucy. It reminds me of the Bible story about Solomon's temple. I did not know
as anybody lived so in our country."'; NoI; I, either," said Lucy, who began to have
many fears lest she should not suit city people.
Perhaps she was too'countrified.' She would
have looked more stylish if she had known how.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.          253.
MIrs. Roberts asked more questions than Mrs. Fay
hard done. She did not seem too well pleased with
Lucy's appearance. s She asked if Ruth was engaged; and looked disappointed on hearing that
she was. Being, however, in immediate want, she
told Lucy she might come on trial; but wished her
to come immediately after dinner. " She could
return," she said, " and put on a suitable dress, and!
her trunk should be sent for in the evening."
Lucy was much downcast. " I do not believe I:
shall like her," said she; "she is one of' your particular folks. I don't want to go to-day, either.
It is too bad. I wish I had not told her I'd come.".
"I know of no other place fbr you," said aunt
Baily, 6" and I have n't time to look up' another. If'
you do not meet your engagement, you must go to,
the Intelligence Office and try your luck. You;
will have chance enough to see Boston.  Mrs;.
Roberts's girls all speak well of her."
Lucy saw that it would not answer for her not.
to keep her appointment. They crossed the com-r
mon, and walked through the mall under the arch,ing elms. Countless numbers of nurses and frol —
icking children were there, - the common seemed.
alive with them.
" You will probably have to walk here every
pleasant day, Ruth," said aunt Baily.
Ruth looked much pleased; indeed, she felt so;.
22




254        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
and for the first time her city life seemed attractive
to her.
"See what I shall get by.taking care of children," said she to Lucy. Lucy was silent. She
was not well pleased with hei' own prospects; however, she made no more objection to them. After
dinner, she dressed herself more simply and went
to her new place.
Ruth felt lonesome at first;- but she occupied
herself with sewing until her aunt returned from
her work, and was ready to sit down and talk with
her. The evening passed in friendly conversation.
~Ruth began to like her aunt; and to feel a sense
of home and relationship, which quite compensated
for the loss of Lucy.  She also had her room to
herself. She could now read and pray, as was her
custom. She felt self-satisfied after she had per*ormed these duties, and slept peacefully.
The next day was the Sabbath.  Ruth rose at
the usual time; but aunt Baily was not up. She
therefore took her Bible out of her trunk, and sat
down by the window to look over the lesson which,her class had for the day. She had a vague feeling of seriousness, and a general impression that
she must not think of everything, because it was
Sunday. The good deacon, her father, had brought
up his family to be very strict in the observance;of the Sabbath.  Good habits formed under his




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         255
strict religious training, were now to be Ruth's
great safeguard, - for she had no better experience
of true piety.
Miuch later than usual, her aunt called her down
to breakfast. Ruth did not know exactly what to
talk about. Soon, she found that aunt Baily made
no great difference, in the subjects of conversation, between this and any other morning. Ruth
was surprised. She began to think it possible that
she might have misunderstood her father, and that
her aunt was not a professor of religion. Ruth
had never been away from home before; she had
yet to learn, that there are many professing Christians who make no change in their conversation for
the Sabbath.
Ruth went to church all days  t seemed to her
like some great holiday. She asked, with surprise,' if it was always so, on a Sunday?' She
also now heard an organ, for the first time. She
was bewildered and astonished by everything
she saw and heard,-the frescoed ceiling- the
marble pulpit — the carpeted church - the gorgeously dressed assembly;- she felt as if she were
very meanly clad, - she thought people noticed
her. At night, she was weary with excitement.
Aunt Baily never went to a third service, and Ruth
was glad to stay at home. She read, or tried to do
so, until tea-time. After tea, they talked again,




256        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
until sunset. As soon as it was dark, Ruth went
up and brought down her knitting-work.
"Dear me! " said aunt Baily, " do you knit Sunday nights?"
"Why, yes; we always do, - we keep Saturday
night."
-' Why, I do n't know as I have seen any one do
it, these dozen years."
"-It is not the fashion, then, in Boston," said
Ruth.
" No, indeed! " replied her aunt. "They would
not know what to make of you here, to see you
knitting! However, I don't know as it makes
much difference."
Ruth rolled up her work; but this little circumstance increased the strangeness of the day to her,,
- she again felt cheerless and homesick. It was
growing dark; she suffered the tears to roll down
her cheeks, for she knew they were not seen.
Ruth retired, dissatisfied. She had experienced
nothing of the calm and tranquillizing influence of
a Sabbath at home. She was now to find out how
much of her religious enjoyment she owed to the
influences around her, and what share her own
heart really had in it.




V.
RUTH'S INTRODUCTION.
ON Monday morning, Ruth went to her new
home. She was already neatly attired in a working dress, and was soon installed in the nursery.
Here, she made so good a use of her time that by
noon she had quite won the hearts of her little
charge. At dinner, Robert and Alice were loud
in her praises.
" She has cut me horses all the morning, father,"
said Robert.
" She is a beautiful girl," chimed in Alice. Their
father smiled, and made some remark about' new
brooms sweeping clean.'
It was not long, fiowever, before father and mother
were quite as well pleased as the children. Ruth
had been exceedingly well brought up, and she soon
showed her good, industrious habits. MIrs. Fay,
after telling her what she wanted done, left her at
first to take her own way of doing it, - in order
to see how much she knew about her work. Ruth
had been accustomed to rise as soon as she was
awake, and always woke early. It was a great
comfort to Mrs. Fay not to be obliged to call her
22*




258        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
every morning, as she had her predecessor; and it
was an advantage to Ruth, also; since she gained
in this way a short, uninterrupted time to herself.
This she devoted strictly to reading her Bible,
and prayer: for she knew that if she did not secure
this time for her religious duties, she could not
find a quiet moment through the day.  These seasons also she enjoyed, to a certain degree, for
there was something in the freshness of morning
air, and rest of mind and body, which made enjoyment easy. Besides, she was always satisfied with
herself when she had gone through her daily forms
of prayer, - and troubled in her conscience if she
neglected them.  Thus, invariably good-humored,
and very tidy in her dress, she went to.the children.  Sometimes, " they got out of bed the wrong
Aw+ay," as she would tell them, and were fretful,
and troublesome to manage e;-" yes, fretful"Ruth would have said, " if you have a mind to be
fretted by them." But she felt that this was a part
of her business - to take them just as they were,
and make them  good-humored, and have them
dressed for breakfast if she could.'" Children will'be children," she had heard her mother say a'thousand times, as she, - a perfect model of pa-'tience,- bore with her boisterous boys. 0, these'good mothers! God bless them! Are they not'everything to us?




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.          259
Mrs. Fay often went into her servants' rooms.
Ruth's room was always in order; her clothes
were hung up; her brushes in their places; everything was neat and comfortable, just as it was in
the nursery, - and her mistress began to like her
so much, that a visitor gave,:her a caution, one day,
to be careful lest she should spoil her by too much
attention and familiarity.  Perhaps there was not
much danger of this; fbr Ruth was really very
modest in her deportment. She never made any
improper advances towards intimacy with Mrs.
Fay, - and yet when she came to sit down to talk
with her she was very free and social, for she early began to look upon her as the best friend and adviser
she had in Boston. True, she was a Yankee girl
-the daughter of a Yankee farmer, and it is not
easy to get the idea of service into a Yankee mind.
Yet her father was a man of good sense, and he
had given her some good advice on this point.
" Now, my child," said he, " do n't you go with
any notions in your head about not being made a
servant of, because you have never, lived out;
you need n't let folks abuse you, - they sha'n't do
it; but you must do everything that properly belongs to your office. This is what you are paid
for, and if you feel above it the only way is to
quit it, and take one you are not too good for. For
my part, I had rather you would be a good servant




260        THEE COUNTRY COUSINS.
in a good family, where you will be looked after,
than to have you go to a trade. I think it is more
healthy. o And as to a factory, you never shall go
into one with my consent." Ruth remembered this,
and remembered how her father chucked her under
the chin, when he had said it.
Some of my readers,by this time, may be thinking to themselves, —" Why, this Ruth looks very
well in a book, but one does not often meet with
her in real life. Pray, had she no faults?"  In
reply to this I have to say, that I knew one such
Ruth, at least; and that I believe there are many
more. Perhaps she had faults - we shall see.
One Saturday night, Ruth showed Mrs. Fay her
week's work completely finished, at which Mrs.
Fay expressed surprise. " Why Ruth, how in the
world is it, that you manage to accomplish so much,
when you are not a quick worker?"
Ruth laughed. "I do not know, I am sure,"'
she said in reply, "unless it is because I use up
all my odds and ends of time. I used to think I
never could do anything unless I sat right down to
it; but I have learned since I had babies to take
care of, that one gets along by catching up when
one can. I always calculate to have my work
handy, - so I can sew, if I have n't more than five
minutes." Ruth liked to be praised when she had
done a thing well, and Mrs.Fay liked to praise her.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.          261
"This knowledge will be worth something to
you, if you ever have a family of your own," said
Mrs. Fay.
Ruth blushed, and looked rather foolish, and
"guessed that would never come to pass."
Much as she accomplished by this policy, her
time was not wholly occupied with sewing and
taking care of children. She had leisure for reading, and was fond of it. She read every storybook and novel that fell in her way; and they
were not a few. Kate, the cook, had'a brother
who used frequently to bring in there worthless.
cheap stories; Lucy, also, found them in great
numbers, at Mrs. Roberts's. Mrs. Fay saw, with
pain, one succeed another in Ruth's work-basket;
and thought, so far as they made any impression
at all, it was an injurious one. Ruth lost her relish
entirely for more sober and profitable reading.
Sometimes she would be so interested over a lovestory that she could not leave it in the morning,
except for a very formal, short, hurried prayer.
She became moody, and often lost her cheerful expression. Her imagination and feelings were excited by sickly sentiment; and her conscience
troubled her. She had never read novels before,
in all her life. Ruth was now in some danger. It
was well for her, that she was with kind Mrs. Fay,
who felt interested in her improvement. After a




262        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
little time she talked with Ruth, and told her that
such reading would do her far more harm than
good, besides taking up her time which might be
much better employed on other things. She talked earnestly, and Ruth listened to her and made
her a promise that she would read no more such
trash. Mrs. Fay, after this, took much pains to
provide for her interesting and instructive books.
Some of these were of a directly religious character. Ruth's conscience and heart became again
tender.  The dust no longer settled on that Bible
which her father had given her. She became strict,
again, in the observance of all her religious duties;
but still, alas! with much secret self-satisfaction.




VI.
MISS DARLING.
KATE, the cook in Mrs. Fay's family was an Irish
woman, and a Roman Catholic; of course, she
never attended family prayers. Ruth could not
attend, unless the baby was asleep; and she soon
fell into the habit of staying away, and making no
effort to attend. On the Sabbath, also, she wandered about from one church to another; sometimes
from curiosity, and sometimes by accident, dropping
into all sorts of places of worship; and in this way
the day was quite lost to her. She had a feeling
at heart which she would never have expressed in
words,' that girls who lived out and worked hard,
could not be very religious; that if she ever had
her time at her own command and could read her
Bible and pray regularly, and attend prayer-meetings often, then she would become a child of God
and serve Him very faithfully.' Mrs. Fay offered
to procure her a seat in the church which she herself attended; but Ruth for some time declined,
saying, "she would rather look around a little, before she settled down anywhere."




26 4       THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
Not long after she came into this family, she became acquainted with a mantuamaker, 3Miss Darling,- whose acquaintance was of great importance
to her. 3Miss Darling was a most excellent woman,
— quiet, unpretending, modest in her demeanor,
but intelligent, and a very Christian. It was wonderful how much good she accomplished; though
she did it as silently as the dew falls. She never
left her little room fbr her day's work, without a
sincere prayer that God would give her the heart
and the opportunity to do something for Him; and
though she said comparatively little, and was busy
all through the day with silks and satins, yet at
evening, there i'emained among those who had
been with her, a silent but deep impression of the
value and dignity of a pious life.
Ruth and she sat and sewed together several
days; and almost before she was aware of it, Ruth
had told her " all the things that ever she did," and
what an excellent home she had left; and, also, how
she was now spending her Sabbaths  and she acknowledged that her father would not be pleased
with her Sunday roamings. But she said that her
aunt Baily was a Methodist; and she did not care
to go there, for she had never been used to their
ways, and that she felt timid about going with 5Mrs.
Fay, because she knew no one there.
Mliss Darling told her that, if she would only




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         265
settle down in one place, and join a Sabbathschool, she would be happier.  "I think," said
Miss Darling, "that if we lose our Sundays,
nothing goes right through the whole week. It is
all topsy-turvy; and besides, this gadding about
in our religion is not profitable. We need to belong to some one church, and to feel that it is ours,
and that the preacher is our minister; and that we
have our meetings, and sewing-circles, and societies.
If you will only promise me to do so, I will call
for you next Sabbath and go with you, and introduce you to some of the girls whom I know."
This was just what Ruth needed, to be taken
by the hand in this way. She thanked Miss Darling; and told her she would go; though she was
much afraid she could not keep up- with the city
girls in studying, and she felt almost ashamed to go
because of her ignorance.
Good as her word, Miss Darling called for Ruth
on the following Sabbath. She was ready to go;
at least she was dressed, but her mind was somewhat out of tune. The baby had been troublesome, and the necessary work of the day had fallen
behind-hand. This disturbed her; she would have
preferred to put off joining a Sabbath-school class
until another time; but did not like to propose it,
as Miss Darling had taken the trouble to call for
her. This good friend, by quiet and pleasant con23




266        TIlE COUNTRY COUSINS.
versalion, led her soul into stiller waters, so that
by the time she reached the church she was tran.
quil and happy.
She now joined Mir. Clark's class, which consisted of several young girls near her own age;
and in a very short time she became acquainted
with them, and attached to her teacher.  I —e had
acquired a great deal of influence over his class.
Ruth never had a teacher whom  she liked so
much.  She would quote his opinions, and repeat
his remarks on all important occasions, as if there
could be no appeal from  them- so much power
had he over her. Often, when she could be spared
for an hour, she would slip in to have a talk with
liss Darling about the Sabbath School. Ndt a
day passed in which she did not find a few minutes
to devote to her lesson. MIrs. Fay provided her
from her own library with all the help she needed,
and often a light might be seen in her atticwindow till late in the night.  She would study a
while thein, if it had happened so that she had not
been able to do it through the day, - for she was
very ambitious to go into her class well prepared.
If she met with difficulties which Mrs. Fay could
not solve, Mliss Darlling seldon failed to explain
them for her. Now this studying, aside from its
moral bearing, was worth a great deal to Ruth
for its intellectual discipline.  She must read,




TIE COUNTRY COUSINS.          267
and think, and compare, and reason, and remember,
and often her teacher required her to write her
thoughts. All this, it is true, was secondary to the
main object of Mr. Clark's teaching, but still it was
valuable to Ruth; it was all the schooling that she
now had.
aMr. Clark talked to his class a great deal about
"'asking questions." He told them that it added
so much to the interest of the recitations, he wished
they would do it freely. Ruth soon found that one
must know something, even to ask a question. She
therefore made it a part of her preparation, to notice the thoughts and feelings excited by the passage she was studying, and frame them into such
questions as she would feel willing to ask before
the class. This was a good plan; she knew what
she was about, and could be self-possessed when
she came to speak.
IMnuch other good; also, came from her joining
a Sabbath School.  She formed acquaintances
among an excellent class of girls. This gave her
the society which she needed, and that of just the
right kind. They often had pleasant social meetings ini the evening; sometimes to study a difficult
lesson; sometimes giving an evening to refit old
clothing for destitute children.  As Ruth now
never asked to go out except on some such ocicasion, or to see Mliss Darling, and was really mod



/268       TIHE COUNTRY COUSINS.
erate in these requests, Mrs. Fay made an effort
to gratify her if possible. Sometimes, however, it
so happened that she could not be spared. She
bore the disappointment very pleasantly, I am
glad to say, - feeling that she must accommodate
herself to the comfort of the family of which she
was now a happy member.'Cousin Lucy' could not be persuaded to join
this Sabbath School; and from a variety of causes,
which we may by and by notice, had not succeeded
very well. Ruth had never spent a happier or
more profitable winter. She wrote home regularly,
and her letters were a great source of comfort to
her parents and amusement to the boys; her
wages, also, were accumulating, to be ready for her
father's use in the spring.
Perhaps I leave the impression that Ruth was
very happy. I ought to qualify it; there was one
burden on her conscience. She felt that she was
not really a child of God; and yet she thought
she was in earnest in wishing that she could be
one; and she would comfort herself by hoping
that at some future time she should be.




VII.
MONEY AND DRESS.
WE have nearly lost sight of cousin Lucy; indeed, it is not so pleasant to keep trace of her.
Perhaps a call, which she made on Ruth in the
spring, may let us a little into the secret of her
progress.
Ruth was sitting at the nursery window, busily
doing up the week's mending. Her Question-book
was on the window-sill open, and occasionally she
looked intd it, for a single minute. The children
were playing around her, on the floor, very contentedly. They liked to be with Ruth, for she
never scolded them.  The door opened, and a
richly-dressed person entered. Ruth looked twice,
before she recognized Lucy, and when she did, she
exclaimled: -
" What in the world have you got on?"
"My own clothes," said Lucy; "what makes
you so astonished?"
"Why, how could you afford to buy such a
shawl as that?"
" Easy enough," said Lucy. "I'll tell you all
about it, if you will ask me to sit down."
23*




270        TiHE COUNTRY COUSINS.
When she was seated to her satisfaction, and
had made some inquiries after Ruth's welfare, she
took off her shawl and hat and began to talk.
"What do you think of this? " said she, turning
the brightest side of the shawl out, and throwing it
over Ruth's shoulders; 1" is n't it elegant?"
" Yes, indeed! " said Ruth; " but where is your
blanket-shawl? That was nicer than mine."
"La! that is nothing but an old dud; nobody
wears such things now! "
" Do n't they? " said Ruth; " why Mrs. Fay told
me, mine would answer nicely."
" They a'nt genteel - that, I klnow. No genteel
people wear them. This is all the-go; for Fanny
and Alary Roberts have them, and I heard them
say where they were bought, and that the price
was ten dollars; and I went and beat the man
down to eight- wa'n't that a bargain? And my
bonnet, too, isn't it splendid? Only put it on! -
I declare, Ruth, it makes a different girl of you! I
should not know you! You must have one! I'11
tell you how cheap I got it; I asked Mary Roberts where hers came from, and I knew it was
eight dollars, - and I went to the milliner's and
got one almost exactly like it, and made her let
me have it for five. I'll get you one, if you want
me to."
Ruth had been standing before the glass, ad



TIlE COUNTRY COUSINS.        271
miring her improved appearance. She had never
worn anything so costly; the articles were, indeed,
exceedingly becoming. She wished she had some
like them, -" and why not? was she not earning
as much money as Lucy? Then, why should she
wear' old duds,' when Lucy dressed so handsomely?"  Very soon, however, this feeling left her;
- she turned away from the mirror, and laying
the finery carefully down on the bed, went back to
her darning-needle with a pleasant smile on her
face.
"Well, what do you say?" said Lucy, a little
disappointed.
" They are very handsome, but not suitable for
me," said Ruth; " in my situation, if I dress neatly and prettily now, it is all I can do; I can't afford to be genteel. I want my money more than
I do fine clothes."
"Who has been filling your head with such prim
notions, pray, Ruth?"
"' I do not know as they are prim, Lucy. Mrs.
Fay often talks with me about spending money;
and she advised me, when I first came here, to put
by just such a proportion of my wages as I thought
I ought to spend on dress; and then spend that, and
no more. If I had to buy a heavy article one
quarter, and exceeded my allowance,- spend just
so much less next quarter, and make it up. This




272        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
has been a grand plan for me; for I never had
money before, and did not know how to spend it,
nor what I needed. I set down everything now,
as fast as I buy; and when I see any pretty thing
I want, I run and look in my little book, to see if
I can afford to buy it; and if I can't, I have made
up my mind not to think more of it. I have already laid by more money for father than he expected I would."
"6 Dear me! Ruth, I think you are a great fool!
For my part, I mean to take the  comfort of my
money as I go along. I a'nt gor;nh to slave myself
to death for nothing, I know; and I'1L not wear anything that looks mean; my things shall be genteel.
We must be up to the ways of the world, Ruth, if
we mean to have the good of living in it."
Ruth laughed. " You think a go4d deal more
of that than I do, Lucy. Everybody who knows
anything about me, knows that I am a poor girl,
and work out; and if I try to cut a dash, all they
can say, is -' See, she puts all her wages on her
back!' If they do n't know me, I do n't care what
they think. I do n't want to spend my money on
something handsome for them to look at, as they
walk along.'Nothing looks well that is not suitable,' Mrs. Fay told me once; and the more I think
of it, the more I believe it. Now it seems to me,
that I should really look better in my nice blanket



THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         273
shawl than in one like yours, which would not
correspond with anything else Ican' wear."
" O Ruth, I do love you dearly," said little Alice,
who was tired of sewing, and had a sudden love.fit.
"WLhat will you do when she goes off," said
Lucy.
" Mamma said last morning, she never should
go off; she is going to live here all the time;
she is my Ruth."
" She will go one of these days, before you
know it," said Lucy.
The child began to get into an angry dispute
about her proprietorship in Ruth; this excited the
baby till he began to strike up his tune.
" So much for taking care of young ones," said
Lucy.
"It is work Ilike," mildly replied her cousin, as
she pacified the children. When peace was restored, the girls resumed their conversation.
" There was something I wanted to say to you,
Lucy- what was it? oh! now I remember,about buying things like the young ladies; do they
like to have you do it?"
"I  do n't know - I never asked them. I can
dress as I have a mind to, I hope; my money is
my own, - what business is it of theirs?"
"Well, I was going to tell you, - when I first




274        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
came here, Mrs. Fay wore a morning dress, which
I thought was very handsome; and I wanted to
have one just like it; and one day I asked Miss
Darling if she would cut it for me, if I bought it?
She told me very kindly, that perhaps I had better
ask Mrs. Fay, before I purchased, for it was not
customary here for the girls to dress like the ladies
with whom they live, without asking them beforehand."
"You wa'n't such a goose as to mind her?"
" Yes I was; and I was glad of it, too. I asked
her one morning, if she would care if I bought a
dress like that? And she told me that we should
both of us be likely to get tired of it, to see it about
so much; and if I would like to have her, she
would buy me something a little different, but just
as pretty; and she bought that one you like so
much.'"
"4 Mrs. Roberts never would take that trouble
for me, if I went without clothes; and I do n't
want her to. She wouldn't get the fashionable
ones. I have to work like a dog, and I mean to
take some comfort out of it."
" Do n't you like your place?"
" No; they do n't pay me wages enough. I am
going to leave, and do n't mean to go out a cent
under two dollars!"




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         275
" You know what aunt Baily told us about running round for higher wages."
"No, -I've forgotten."
"She said, it reminded her of the huckleberryparties in the country; those who ran round the
most after thick spots, came home with baskets
half-filled, while those who kept in one place that
was good enough, filled both basket and dipper."
" I guess I must be going," said Lucy - arranging the elegant shawl; " when are you coming to
see me?"
"I'11 come to-morrow-noon, if you'll do as I
want you to! "
"No, I should n't like to be tied down to one
church,- and I walk Sunday noons; it is about
all the time I do get to dress up and go out."
Ruth tried to persuade her; and told her what
right pleasant times they had at their class-meetings and sewing circles, - but she could not influence her at all, - her head was full of her new
finery.
" Perhaps you will think better of it, and want
me to buy you something decent, Ruth; if you do,
let me know."
" When my ship comes in," said Ruth, smiling,
- and they parted.




VIII.
A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES.
MATTERS had gone on for many months in Mrs.
Fay's family with little change, and thus far Ruth
had had smooth travelling; but towards spring she
met with up-hill work. The baby took cold, and
was very ill for a time. He was contented with
no one excepting his mother and Ruth, and they
shared the labor of nursing him. Before he was
well, and while still: very fretful, Mrs. Fay was
taken sick, and fobr a few weeks was alarmingly
ill. Watchers and a nurse were provided; and
Ruth was kept with the children, who by this time
were all of them ailing. It- was when all excitement from danger was past, that the hardest time
came for Ruth. She was worn down by broken
nights and anxious days; the children hung round
her continually, now their mother was out of the
way; and if anything needed setting to- rights in
the house, she was called upon. Additional work
had made Kate, the cook, very cross; so that Ruth
felt glad to keep out of her way. One day Kate
came into the nursery to give her a scolding, be



THE COUNTRY COUSINS.        277
cause she had left her saucepan and glasses in
the kitchen without washing them.
"You know I could not, Kate, for the baby
cried and I had to run! "
"That's what you always say," said Kate;
" and I've made up my mind to get another place.
I wont hire where I have to do all the second
girl's work,"
" I think you had better wait till Mrs. Fay gets
well," said Ruth.
Kate made no reply, but went out, slamming the
door after her. Baby was asleep, and Ruth sat
by his cradle, with her head upon her hand, - and
the tears began to flow. It seemed to her, that
she could not stand it any longer;'take it all
round, she had more than she could bear.' She
thought of her home, and her father and mother,
with real heart-yearnings. A few hours' ride, and
she might be there! She thought she would go
home; she was tired of living out. She had laid
up money, and could go now with a good conscience. She began to imagine just where they
would be when she entered the house, and how
surprised they would look, — and how the boys
would spring, and what they would say to her,
And then she fell to counting how many days it
would probably be before Mrs. Fay would be well
enough to spare her. The nursery door softly
24




278        TlE COU'NTRY COUSINS.
opened, and Mliss Darling's pleasant face peeped
in:
" You here, Ruth, " said she, in a whisper, "and
baby asleep?"
"Yes," said Ruth, wiping her eyes quickly, —
6do come in - 0, I am so glad to see you  "
Miss Darling stepped gently in, and closed the
door. She had a large bundle under her arm.'" What do you think this is? " said she, laughing.
" It's my work, and now I am going to take care
of the children all the evening, and I want you to
get ready to go to your sewing-society. They all
want you; and Mr. Fay is going to help me about
the baby, if he worries."
Ruth's feelings were all afloat, - and at this unexpected kindness she burst into tears again.
" I do believe I am a fool," said she the next
minute - half laughing and half crying. " But I
had got clear discouraged, and I was just thinking
I would n't live out any more, - I would go home
as soon as Mrs. Fay was well enough to spare
me."
" Hoity toity!" said Miss Darling. "You must
take life as it comes, —hard and easy, up and down,
light and dark, - go where you will."
" I know that," said Ruth; " but somehow, you
can stand it better to take care of your own sick
folks."




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.           279:
" O well! sickness does n't last forever; and besides, when we go to live in a family, it is best to
think they are' our folks,' is n't it, and take life
with them as it comes? You have not had any
extra trouble before, since you have been here,
have you?"' No, I have n't had any to speak of, excepting
Kate.  She has been very cross since Mrs. Fay
began to get better. Just before you came in, she
was in here giving me a real blowing up because
a sauce-pan was n't washed. I sometimes think I
cannot get along with her, and I wont try," said
Ruth, warming up a little; " she says she is going
off, and I do n't care if she does!"
Miss Darling had by this time laid aside her
things, and sat down to her work.  She laughed a
little at Ruth's earnest voice.
" Come! " said she, " go and dress before dark;
you are tired out; a little change will make the
whole world look brighter to you. Kate's temper
is the last thing to be unhappy about. Let her
blow; just take in sail, and lie on your oars. Have
nothing to say to her when she's cross.  She
hurts herself a hundred fold -more than she does
you. I feel sorry for these poor girls who.let their
tempers get the upper-hand so; it is a great misfortune to them."
Ruth had never thought of such a thing as being




280        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
sorry for Kate, but she had been provoked many
a time, and she was not now in a mood to be very
charitable.
" It is pretty hard," said she, in a martyr-like
voice,'" to bear it quietly always. Girls who live
out have to put up with a good deal."
A "And so do those who do n't live out," said Miss
Darling.  "We all must have our trials in this
world; the girls in the kitchen must have just the
the ones they will feel; and the ladies in the
parlor, just such as they feel. You may think
theirs would be no trial to you, and perhaps they
would n't; and that is the reason you do n't have
them; and they may think just so of your troubles,
but that does not make them  any the less
troubles to you. Now, my little Ruth, let me tell
you; if you had n't Kate's temper to put up with,
you certainly would have something else; and all
that we can do with our trials, is just to watch our
own hearts and see that we get all the good from
them which God meant we should; do n't you
think so? "
"' Yes, I suppose I do," said Ruth, looking a little brighter.
" Well, then, on the strength of that, run and
get dressed; we are using the daylight all up with.
our talk."
Just as Ruth had finished braiding her hair, her




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         281
eye fell upon her Bible. She felt as if she would
like to read a few verses, and pray before she went
out; she hardly knew why! She softly drew the
bolt to the door and did so. The truth was, she
had recently had many serious thoughts on life
and death, as she sat by the sick. beds; and,
somehow or other, Miss Darling always made her
feel as if " she wished she was a child of God."
She went to the sewing-circle and had a de'
lightful time. Mir. Clark came in,'the latter part
of the evening; and this added much to the enjoyment of his class.  He closed the meeting with
an appropriate prayer, to every word of which
Ruth listened, - and unobserved by any one, the
softened state of her heart made the tears come.
Some of her companions wallted home with her
and as she entered the nursery her bright countenance showed how much she had enjoyed.'" You look fifty-per-cent better," said Miss Darling; "and we have had a fine time of it; baby
has been up with his father here, most all the
evening, wide awake, and in a great frolic. I
think we have cured him for you!"
24:




IX.
A CHANGE.
THE baby and the baby's mother rapidly recovered. Kate made a few inquiries about a new
place; and, probably, finding none to suit her, said
no more about leaving. Brighter days had dawned, which all the household seemed to feel excepting Ruth. She was unusually silent, and frequently
sad. Mrs. Fay often inquired, " if she were quite
well?"  She would answer somewhat hastily"Yes."  Now it was observed, that she came in
much oftener to prayer - and " Philip's Guides"
were found in her work-basket. Sometimes, Kate
teased her about her red eyes, and would have it
that she had been crying!
If the truth must be told, Kate was right. Ruth
wept often in secret, for she was deeply anxious
about the salvation of her soul. She realized that
all this saying her prayers, and reading her Bible
night and morning, and wishing she was, and determining she some time would be, a Christian,
would not make her one.
Either by her teacher or friend, she had been
led to think much of God, and of His charac



TIHE COUNTRY COUSINS.         283
ter; —when all at once, suddenly, as it were in
an instant, such a view of His infinite holiness
opened upon her - and of what He required
of her —and how sinful she was, that she was
overwhelmed with terror! These few words, "My
heart is at enmity with God," which she felt now
in her inmost soul, plunged her into despair. Her
past life was so full of sin, and the future seemed
so full of woe, she often wished that she had never
been born. If God had only made her to be a little canary bird, like the one that mocked her with
his blithe notes, in aunt Baily's cage, she thought
she should have been happy.
In this wretched state of mind, she went one
evening to see Miss Darling.
" Why Ruth! " said she, as soon as she looked at
her, "what is the matter with you?"
Ruth made no reply, - but sinking down into a
chair, burst into tears. Miiss Darling kindly soothed her, took off her things, and led hdr to speak
calmly. She soon knew the whole truth: "I am
so great a sinner, I cannot come to God, and love
Him - I dare not! It seems to me, I cannot live
so, - and yet, how can I die? "
Miss Darling, with a tremulous voice and a heart
full of feeling, spoke to her of the Saviour, - but
it was all dark to Ruth -" My heart is full of
enmity, and I cannot come to Him."




284:       THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
Miss Darling put aside her evening's work, and
opened her Bible. With much discrimination she
selected a few passages, which she read. Ruth
listened, — those were very precious words; but
still, all was dark- she, somehow, could not feel
them!
"We are alone, Miss Darling," said Ruth at
length,-" and I wish you would pray with me."
Miss Darling did so. She was a praying Christian; and she expressed, in fervent language,
Ruth's wants.
Ruth rose somewhat comforted. She saw now,
what she had not seen before, just what she needed
to pray for.
Before they separated, Miss Darling advised her
to go the next evening to a private inquiry meeting, at her pastor's house. Ruth had for some time
wished to do this, but had felt afraid. Miss Darling pressed it, and she promised that she would
do so if shed could be spared.
To make this easy for her, Miss Darling slipped
in, on her way to her work, at breakfast time, to
give Mrs. Fay an intimation of Ruth's object in
asking to go out again so soon. So that when evening
came,- and she asked with evident embarrassment
if she could be spared a little while, after the children were asleep,- Mrs. Fay told her with an expressive look - " Certainly, I am very glad to
have you go."




TiE COUNTRY COUSINS.          285
It seemed to poor Ruth as if everybody were kind
to her now, and took an unusual degree of interest
in her; and she felt so unworthy of it she could
scarcely bear it.
Baby was early asleep; and Alice and Robert
had leave to sit up awhile. Ruth retired to her
little room before going out. She knelt alone to
pray- alone with God.
" O Gods" prayed she, - "I cannot save myself;
-can I find a Saviour?  He who died for guilty
sinners, can it be that He died for me? Dear
Christ'! wilt Thou take me just as I am, so sinful
and wicked, and make me fit to love Thee? Wilt
thou take me? " said she, with a choking voice and
a flood of tears. Light began to break in upon
her. She went hastily out, and walked with a quick
step to the pastor's house. It was a bright moonlight evening; she forgot she was alone; and, also,
her dread of this meeting.
She was the first one there. The pastor met
her very kindly, though she was a stranger to him.
He sat down by her, and led her into conversation.
She felt no fear of him: she was herself surprised
to see how freely she talked with him. She told
him how she had felt -" And how is it now? " he
asked. Then, in simple language she gave utterance to feelings which had seemed to be all in commotion, since she left her room. He heard her




286        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
with deep interest. " You have then given yourself to Christ, have you? Do you look to Him as
your only Saviour?  Do you believe that He is
able and willing to save you, and are you willing to
let Him do it in His own way? Is that the feeling you have about it?
"0 if he will only take me!" said she; "it
seems to me, that I love Him now, with all my
soul!"
Soon, others entered, and the pastor could not
converse longer with her, then. "Keep near to
God," said he in a low and solemn tone, as he left
her.
She went out, and shut the door hastily; she
could not say' good evening.' "Had Christ, then,
accepted her?'Keep near to God!'- Was she
then a Christian? and if so, 0, could she live
away from Him, who had forgiven her sins?"
Ruth felt inexpressibly calm and happy. She
looked up on the beautiful moon half-wistfully, as
if she thought somewhere round in that region of
light might be seen this dear Saviour whom she
had now found.




FRUITS.
AND this was a new birth. Ruth was greatly
changed, - as she expressed it, " Such a load was
gone!"  The burden of her sins was laid upon
"one who is mighty to save;" and like poor
Pilgrim, she now went on her way rejoicing. For
some days, her face seemed almost radiant with an
expression of deep, calm joy. The tones of her
voice were softened and musical; - she was living
those blissful hours which succeed the change from
death to life, - which in the heart of the new-born
soul leave their memory forever.
Ruth had now just as much work as ever to do,
and rather more than formerly, for the spring
opened; but she found she had time to love God, and
to think of Him, and to serve Him. She found
that true piety consists in the habits of thought
and feeling which we cherish, more than in anything we are doing. She looked back upon her
past life with surprise; she did not see how she
could have been happy when she was loving herself more than God. Then, she was quite satisfied if she laid by money for her father, and
pleased Mrs. Fay. All this was right; but her




288        THE COUNT' Y COUSinS.
heart beat quickly when thinking of these tfiinrg
now; because she felt as if she now had so much
more to live for. Her common round of duties
became dignified and important, in her view; true,.
it was a very little thing to do them faithfully and
well; but when she did so, because she thought it
would please Christ to see her' diligent in business,
fervent'in spirit,' — it was to her no longer a
trifle.
From  the pure fountain, flow sweet waters.
Ruth had always been so good, Mrs. Fay did not
think piety would make much change in her. But
in this she was mistaken. In all her conduct, holy
motive silently made itself felt.
Ruth found now, that as in other things, so in the
matter of attending family prayers, where there
is a will there is generally a way; and at night,
also, by a little good calculation, she could lay by
her sewing in season to study her Bible awhile.
She found by experience that, though often tired,
yet on the whole she could study a little, even if
but a verse or two, with more profit to herself than
in the morning; for then her thoughts were dis,
turbed and hurried by her work.
Let Kate, the cook, have had ever so hard a
day of it, she always found time to repeat long
prayers before she went to bed; and this first led
Ruth to think that she also might redeem a few




TIHE COUNTRY COUSINS.         289
precious moments for her religious duties, either
from. her sleep or her sewing.
It distressed Ruth very much to hear Kate repeating long prayers of which she understood
nothing. At first it seemed to her, that she must
persuade Kate to come for the pardoning of her
sins to that Saviour whom she had fobund, "who
alone is able to forgive."  Full of zeal, and wazmly
anxious to persuade Kate, she one day attempted:.
to convince her that she was wrong; but she found'
that she did not understand the subject at all. She'
could not begin to reason with her; Kate got angry,.
and quite overwhelmed her with proofs that a good.
Roman Catholic was sure of heaven.
" You believe what your priest tells you, and I.
believe what my priest tells me," said she.
Ruth left the kitchen much disheartened.
"You had better not try to argue with her,"'
said Mrs. Fay. "Avoid all discussion; but let:
her see that yours is a religion of the heart,. and.
not of form. Live the Christian, and pray for her..
This is all you can do for her, and God may bless
these means to her conversion."
This change in Ruth was seen in her intercourse with the children. She told them as many
stories, and played with them as much as ever;
but now, she was so often thinking of God, that
almost unconsciously she very frequently gave a
25




290        THE COUNTRY COUSIN'S.
religious turn to what was going on; and this she
did in a simple, natural and happy manner, which
surprised Mrs. Fay.  If she had known Ruth's
mother, however, and how she had managed with
her family, she would have ceased to wonder.
Ruth wrote home, in the fullness of her joy, to
tell of her hope in Christ. She received in reply
a joint letter fiom father and mother; good, and
full of comfort and good advice. On her mother's
~page, now and then tears had dropped; and Ruth
~shed more over it. She carried her letter in her
bosom, and read it so often that at length it was
quite worn out.
They wished her to come home in August and
make a visit. She mentioned this to 3Mrs. Fay,
and found that it would be sadly inconvenient for
her to spare her then, as she needed her more than
through any other summer month. Ruth at once
decided not to go, and wrote saying, "that all
things considered, she thought it would be best for
her to defer her visit till another year." Mrs. Fay
was much pleased with this considerateness, and
at once carried into effect a plan which she had for
some time had in mind, by which she could raise
Ruth's wages.




Xi.
A TEA VISIT.
IN the spring the two cousins were invited to
take tea with aunt Baily.  Ruth went early,
and took Alice with her. She was received by
her kind aunt in the same little room where she
first went on coming to Boston.  It was now
as then, neat and cheerful; and the thriving geraniums in the window almost supplied the place
of the lilac-tree. Ruth took her seat by them, and
soon unfolded her sewing. Aunt Baily gave Alice
bright bits of paper, and taught her how to make
fly-catchers.
Before long, the conversation seemed to fall into
a serious vein. Ruth spoke to her aunt freely of
the change which had taken place in her feelings,
and that she was hoping soon to make a public profession of her faith in Christ. Her aunt sat and
wiped her eyes. " She was thinking," she said,
"how glad her father and mother would be; and
how her father, good old man, would pray when
he heard the news. Brother HI-iram never could
keep anything to himself,- but if he was happy,




292        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
lhe must go right away and tell God all about it,
and thank Him fobr it."
Thus talking, an hour slipped quickly away, and
both began to wonder why Lucy did not come.
At length she made her appearance, slowly walking up the yard with another girl, who was gaudily
dressed and had a bold look about her. They
seemed to be talking very busily, for they stood
some time on the steps before parting.
"'V Who is that girl, Lucy?" was aunt Baily's
first question.
"Nancy Everett, a friend of mine," was the
reply, in a tone which seemed to say, " It is none
of' your business."
Though Lucy's friends were glad to see her, yet
there was something in her manner and appearance which threw a damper over them. She wore,
to be sure, her best finery, but it was tumbled and
worn, and gave her a neglected air which increased
her depressed expression. She did not enter very
heartily into conversation, had brought no work,
and at first made some ineffectual efforts to amuse
herself with Alice; the child, however, took no
great liking to her.
" How are you getting on, Lucy? " said Ruth at
length, kindly.
"Well enough," was the short reply.
"Now I a'nt a-going to have a bit of this," said




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         -293
her aunt; " something or other don't go straight, so
out with it, and let us know the whole story.
There is nobody in Boston cares as much for you
as we do."
" Do n't know about that," said Lucy, with a peculiar toss of her head.
Aunt Baily eyed her keenly; " I have it," said
she to herself.
"'Do you like where you are now, better than
you did at Mrs. Roberts's?" asked Ruth.
" I am going to leave," said Lucy.
" Going to leave!" said her aunt; " what's that
fbr, pray, when you are getting ten-and-six a
week?"
" Can't help that, - I go to-morrow."
"And now," said aunt Baily, " I must know all
about it; it wont do to be running about in this
manner, and changing your places every month;
you will lose your character by and by, and wont
be able to get a good situation anywhere."
M"Mrs. Mason says I don't suit," said Lucy,;
bursting into a flood of tears, which she had been
vainly trying to brave out; "' and I am sure I cannot tell any body what the reason is. I have done
my best to try to please her. She finds no fault,
- she only tells me I must go. I would leave tonight, if you would take me to board until I can
get a place."
25*




2 9 4      TIIE COUNTRY COUSINS.
Mrs. Baily looked very sober.  This would
make the third time, within a few months, that she
had given Lucy a home until she could find a place.' I am a going to look into this, Lucy," said she,
"and I must go now; I sha'n't have any more
time this week; if one of you will put on the teakettle, I will run up before tea."
Lucy did not say whether she wished she
would, or would not; so aunt Baily took-her own
way. When she returned, the girls had the tea
all ready, and they sat down at once to the table.
Lucy colored a little when she entered, but made
no inquiries.
Ruth thought her aunt seemed waiting for some
one to ask a question; so she ventured at length
to say, " Did you see Mrs. Mason?"
"Yes," replied she; "' I had a long talk with her
about it; and now, Lucy, I am going to tell you
just what she said, good and bad. I think it will
be best all round. She said you were a strong,
capable girl; could do everything she required of
you, and do it well, if you only had a mind to;
but the trouble was, you had n't a mind to. Your
head was full of other things; you took no interest
in your work, and were careless and forgetful;
and that it gave her so mluch trouble to look after
you, she must change hands."
She meant to tell her own side of it, I guess,"
said Lucy, in rather an irritated tone.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         295
Aunt Baily took no notice of her, but went
straight on with her story.
"She says your passion for dress is a great injury to you. That you commonly hurry through
your morning work, so as to spend an hour or so
before dinner fixing you up; and then you have so
much to do in making and altering your dresses,
and rigging out something or other, that every
minute you can catch, down you sit to your sewing; that you sit up late at night, and it gives
them a great deal of trouble to get you up in the
morning."
" She lies, there," said Lucy, in an under tone.
Perhaps aunt Baily did n't hear, - she took no
notice of the remark, but proceeded -" She says
that she never can send you out on an errand in
the morning, because you will stop to dress all up'in your best, and keep her waiting so long."
"Well, who's a going into the street looking
like a scarecrow?  Not I, I can tell her, if she,does have to wait."
"And she says," continued aunt Baily, "that
you are troublesome to the young ladies; that you
are always talking to them about their dress, and
asking the price of everything, and where it was
bought; and when you can buy anything like
theirs, you do; and she thinks it would be better
for you to live in a place where there are no young




296        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
ladies, and where you will not have so much
temptation to spend your money foolishly."
"{ My money is my own, and I guess I can do as
I've a mind to with it," said Lucy.
"Then she spoke about the manner in which
you spend your Sabbaths. She said it had tried
her exceedingly, for she could not persuade you to
do differently, and to go to church. She says you
go out then, and at other times, with a young man,
and a girl whom he calls his sister; and that you
spend your time strolling about the streets with
them; that you have twice, lately, been to the
theatre with him, and she had not found it out until day before yesterday. She thinks you have
fallen into bad company and bad habits; and 1 am
afraid she is right about it! "
"It is none of her business what company I
keep," said Lucy;
"Well, it is some of mine, if it is n't hers," said
her aunt. " I do n't want to see my brother's gray
hairs brought down with sorrow to the grave.
You are on the road to ruin and if you do n't mend
your courses you'll be there, and no mistake.
Mind what I tell you now; there's no two ways
about it."
Ruth and her aunt were both alarmed by this
account of Lucy. They pleaded with her earnestly, to promise them she would never again go
to the theatre; and this she at length did.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         297
No entreaties, however, would prevail upon her
to promise to attend church on the Sabbath. " She
worked all the week," she said, "and she would
have that day to enjoy herself in."
As soon as they began to speak about her breaking off her acquaintance with that young man, of
whom she acknowledged she knew nothing except
what he himself had told her, she rose to go.
It was now dark, and near Alice's bed-time.
Ruth, therefore, said she would walk along with
her.
"I mean to have you come hlre, Lucy," staid
aunt Baily. " Come right back here, and stay until you get a place. This is the only proper home
for you. I never will desert my brother's child,
if she do n't do right."
Ruth tried again to persuade Lucy to join their
Sabbath School, and enter that circle where were
so many excellent girls, and where she had found
so much profit and enjoyment. But Lucy would
not listen to it, and thus the cousins parted.




XII.
HOW MUCH OUGHT I TO DO?
RUTH did not find that everything in the world
was to go smoothly with her because she was a
Christian. The more she thought about herself,
and looked into her own heart and scrutinized her
motives, the more sin it seemed to her she found
there. And now, if strict obedience to God's holy
law Would alone ensure salvation, — how, with
such a heart, could she be saved!
"0 I could not," she would sometimes say, " if I
had not the Saviour to come to, - I should perish."
Her faith in Christ, and love for him never wavered; but she realized more and more, day by day,
that the Christian's course here must be a conflict.
It was not always easy to do just what she knew
was right, - and to feel what was right.  Sometimes she would quite lose her temper with Kate;
then she would go away and mourn; she felt that
she had brought a reproach upon the name of
Christ.  Sometimes fretful thoughts would rise in
her mind, when things went crookedly around her,
and she would often seem to have lost the light of
God's countenance, and be walking in darkness.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.            299
Then she would seek Him with tears, and make
fresh promises of a new obedience; yet in these
very struggles there was a deep, settled satisfaction, in the conviction that she had, as she said,
" got hold of the right thing to live for," and that
she was steadily pursuing that object for which she
had been born. There was a self-sustaining power
in this conviction which, amid all her trials, gave
to her a certain elevation of character.
At one time, Ruth was sorely troubled to know
just what was her duty in reference to the various
objects of Christian benevolence and effort. One
of her class-mates, named Caroline, was very forward and active in all these matters. She gave
her hand to every good work, - thinking she
would, as she was often saying, "spend and be
spent for the Lord." Caroline attended all the
church-meetings; she was a Tract-distributer, a
Collector for one or two Societies; she was on
the Committee for visiting poor families in a certain district, for finding out the children, and their
various necessities, and having them brought into
the Sabbath School. She seemed to be'on the
go' the whole time; she had good health, and was
for the most part at liberty to do as-she pleased.
She felt a great deal of interest in Ruth, and
was constantly urging her to take hold of some of
these benevolent enterprises. Ruth did not know




300        TH'E COUNTRY COUSINS.
exactly what to tell her; she did not quite see her
rway clear to do so, and yet did not like to refuse,
lest it mignht seem  to Caroline as if she were not
sufficiently interested in these good things.
One evening at their sewing circle, Caroline urged
her very much to take her Tract district; for she
had been requested to enter a larger one. " You
do n't know," said she, "how much satisfaction
there is in distributing these good books."' I know there must be," said Ruth musingly.
"We must do all the good we can, while we are
in the world," said Caroline.
"I know that," said Ruth. " Well, I'll think
about it, and let you know before the next meeting."
Before YRuth had considered this matter, Caroline called on her.  "   have come," said she,
laughing,-" I want to know if you will do my
collecting for the Jews Society for the next month.
Mary Paul is sick, and I must take her part of it.
HIere is a list of all the names to be called on."
c' O dear! How long will it take," said Ruth.
" Why not more than two afternoons."
"But I have n't got the two afternoons to spare;
I really cannot."
Caroline did not seem much pleased.  "She
was sure," she said, "she did n't know what to do."
" Well, what about the Tracts? " she inquired -
"I have not yet had time to decide," said Ruth.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         301
When left alone, Ruth thought, and thought, —but the path of duty did not appear. It was a
subject which she had frequently prayed about;
and to tell the truth, she was expecting that some
clear conviction would be sent in answer to prayer.
Finding that she could conveniently be spared
in the evening, she ran in to have a conversation
with Miss Darling about her perplexities.
" I have sought to know what is my duty," said
she, in a disappointed tone; "but I am just as
much in the dark as ever."
"' God had given us our wits to find out our duty
with," said Miss Darling; " and if we do n't use
them, we have no right to expect that he will take
any other way of teaching us. Now let us look at
this matter just as it is. See what it is you are
asked to do, and wish to do. Here, to begin with,
is church all day, and Sabbath School, and lecture
in the evening."
"Yes;" said Ruth, "only I can't be spared to
go in the morning."
"Friday evening," continued Miss Darling,"Church meeting; Thursday evening, Sabbath
school prayer-meeting; and every other Wednesday, your sewing circle.  Once a month, comes
the Missionary concert. Now add to these Tractdistributing and Jew-collecting, and how much
time would you have left to earn your living in?"
26




302 0      TITHE COUNTRY COUSINS.
"Not much, to be sure;" said Ruth, laughing, in
spite of her troubles, at the odd medley Miss Darlinrg made of it all.
"Then, even if you could consistently do all
this, you would find just as much more around you
to be done, - so that you would have to come to a
definite understanding of your duty at some point
on your way."
"That is a fact -- I see it now," said Ruth.
"Now I feel," said Miss Darling, changing her
tone a little, " that God has placed us all in just
those situations in life, which are best for us. I
work with my needle, and must work. You are
hired by a family; you give your time and labor
for your money, and this is your lawful calling.
Now certainly, it would not be right to take all your
time, or half of it for other purposes, and yet receive your wages; thatis all plain enough, you know."' Yes, I know that," said Ruth.
"Suppose now that Mrs. Fay should think, -' Well, it is all for good objects; I'll try and get
along;' and by and by. she finds that she had
hired only the help she needed, and that she cannot do without it; and then decides that what she
does for benevolent purposes, she must do in some
other way than giving up the time of her girl, and
tells you that you cannot be spared, - she would
be doing perfectly right, would she not?"




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.          303
"Certainly," said Ruth.
"Then - is it your duty to undertake any good
work which you must do with time which does not
belong to you? "
"No, I don't see how it can be; I must be
honest any how," said Ruth.
"' So far then, it is all clear," said Miss Darling;
" and now the next question is, what portion of
your time does properly belong to you, and what
shall you do with that?"
"Why I have my evenings generally, after the
children are asleep; sometimes I have a stitch or
two to take, that has broken in the course of the
day; and occasionally there is company or something that 4Yes up my time; but I can depend upon oni or two good hours every evening, on the
average. When it does so happen, for several
days, that I am kept occupied longer than usual,
Mrs. Fay seems to know it, and generally takes
the nursery herself and gives me an afternoon to
run out in; and then I am out every day with the
children."
" Precisely as you are situated," said Miss Darling, " I do not see how you can take the work of
collecting or distributing upon you without taking
time for it which does not belong to you. That
certainly would not be right. It seems to me you
may set your heart at rest on that matter, if you




304        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
are really conscious that you are ready and willing
to do everything in your power for the good others.
Here now are two ways which are urged upon
you; you pray that you may have a right spirit
in the matter; and then sit down calmly and judiciously to see if you can meet their claims, and
find you cannot, and at the same time properly
discharge all your other duties. Now I think it is
right to dismiss them from  your mind, and feel
-easy and happy about them. If God has given
us one set of duties, he certainly will not be pleased if we neglect them, and go to hunting up others
for ourselves."
"' Well, but," said Ruth, "1 then cannot I do anything for good objects?"' 1"I'll tell you what I do," said 3Miss Darlng, -
"'I have very little time which I can call my own,
but I have some; —now, every new claim that
comes up, I pray over and think about, and turn it
round this way and that, and look at it all about,
and arrange and rearrange it till I understand what
I ought to do. If I find I can meet it, I give it its
day and hour, and keep to it, unless something
comes up in which I think I can be more useful
still; if so, I make another deliberate change.
This I find is the best way for me. I keep my
mind clear and quiet; I am not disturbed by every
new object; I know what'I ought to do, and wheth



THE COUNTRY COUSINS.          305
er I am doing it or not; I must do a little at a
time and keep at it; I can't give up, now and then,
a whole week, and then do nothing for a month."
"It seems to me," said Ruth, "now you talk
about it, and set it all out so clear, that I might
spend a part of my time in sewing for charity."
"WVell, you do, do n't you?"
"Why yes, I go to sewing-circle."
"And is not that as much as you ought to do?"
"When I bring work home to finish, I think it is."
"You have to do all your own plain sewing."
I" know it," said Ruth - stopping a little, " and
that I ought to do, I suppose, as much as I can;
but sometimes it seems to me I might leave out a
line of stitching, or a little extra frilling, and be
doing something for charity."
Miss Darling looked much pleased; she found
that Ruth's heart was in the matter. " But," continued Ruth, "I do not always have anything to
do."
"' Suppose you estimate your time at so much
an hour, say six, eight, or ten cents," said Miss
Darling, "and sew for yourself and put that by
in money; if you really feel that this is one of the
ways in which you can conscientiously work."
" I do n't know but that would be a good plan
for me," said Ruth, with a brightening countenance;
"I'll think about it. Then, when I do have an
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306        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
afternoon, it seems to me I might visit now and
then some poor families, if I knew where to go."
"You had better think over this," said Miss
Darling, "and plan it all out; how long it will
take to go and come, and how much time you would
like to spend there; and just what" ou want to do
when you get there; —and if it is one of the
ways you decide on, you can have it' in view, and
make inquiries of the girls, - and keep a list of
those you hear about who need visiting. I am
telling you things," said Miss Darling, " which
have helped me along. Now you may find out
better ways than these for yourself. If you have
given yourself wholly to Christ, and are in earnest
to work where he would have you work, yon have
the right spirit, and wont be long in the dark after
you set yourself to thinking about it."
"It has sometimes troubled me," said Ruth,
"because Caroline was doing so much, and I so
little."
"I find it wont do to measure our duties by other
folks' lines," said Miss Darling; " Caroline does n't
have to live out."
"I know that," said Ruth, "and as soon as we
get the boys along a little, I sha'n't have to."
" Well, perhaps you never will be placed in a
situation where you have more opportunities of doing good than you have in living out."




TIIE COUNTRY COUSINS.          307
"'What do you mean? " said Ruth.
"I've seen a great deal of hired girls in my
day," said Miss Darling. "When I am sewinog
alone, or down stairs pressing, I somehow make
friends among them, and they talk to me freely, -
and the mistress talks to me, and I see just how
things work."
" Well, how do they work?" said Ruth.
"' I   tell you how it is. I have made up my
mind, from all I have seen and heard, that a hired
girl is a very important member of society; that
she really holds a very responsible office; and that
if she fills it well, there are few situations where
she can exert mlore influence."
"' Why, how you talk!" said PRuth.
" Perhaps you do not think so now," said Miss
Darling; 4" but you will, if you live long, enough,
and view the matter rightly. I sometimes think, a
hired girl has a great deal to keep her in the
Christian life. In the first place she has a regular
routine of duty and responsibility; she knows generally where they begin, and where they end; and
a regular busy life is a great help to her; she finds
in her calling what many a young lady just from
school is really suffering for."
"I think thlat is true," said Ruth; "I know
Lucy used to say the Miss Roberts never seemed
to know what to do with themselves."




308        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.'"0 it is a great thing to have some regular
work, in this world, which you must do," said Miss
Darling; "it keeps the mind active, and saves it
from falling into listless ways, which are a great
hindrance to prayer and serious thought. Then
being faithful in the service of their employers,
seems to lead their minds easily into the idea of
being faithful in the service -of God, and gives
them a practical notiofn about it, which those who
have no employers or employments, do not seem
fully to get at always."
"I never thought of that," said Ruth; "but
there is one thing,- girls who live out have a
great many little things to fret and vex them."
"Not any more than they need, to keep them
good-tempered," said Miss Darling; "and if they
meet them rightly, in a gentle, forgiving, charitable
spjrit, and live on, day by day, like Christians who
pray mucl, - they somehow seem  to affect a
whole household for good; I can hardly describe
how. It is the little leaven. I can tell you, Ruth,
these hired girls are a very important part of our
families over this great city."
" I do n't know but they are," said Ruth.
" You may depend upon it," said Miss Darling.
"0, how many times have I seen a whole house,
from garret to cellar, disturbed by one solitary
fretful, unprincipled servant. They can manage to




THE COUN'TRY COUSINS.          309
produce as much general discomfort, if they have
the mind, as anybody in the ordinary walks of
life, - and on the other hand, as much comfort."
"It is n't every girl, if she is ever so good, who
gets into a religious family, as I have," said Ruth.
"I know that," said Miss Darling; "you have
been much favored. But if a Christian falls into
an irreligious family, there is so much the more
reason why she should be watchful, and seek to
exhibit the spirit of Christ, by walking humbly
and softly before God. How does she know but that
she was sent there for that very purpose? I can
recall now three or four instances of persons wiho
were first led to serious reflection, by seeing that
their domestic possessed some source of enjoyment
and high motive, and peace of heart which they
had not."
The clock struck nine. Ruth started -it was
much later than she had supposed; later than she
liked to be out alone, and she hurried home.




XIII.
HOW MUCH SHALL I GIVE?
ONE pleasant morning Ruth's little charge, ready
for their walk, were waiting on the steps, while
baby was packed into his waggon. They were in
great glee, for they were going to aunt Baily's to
see the singing-birds.
Before baby was accommodated to his entire
satisfaction, Mrs. Fay came out, and seeing her
little folks so bright and pleasant, she felt inclined
to change the direction of her walk, and join them.
" 0 mamma," said Alice, " do go to aunt Baily's
to see the singing-bird- yellow, Ruth says."'
" No, Canaries -- Alice; are not they Canaries,
Ruth? -you had better go, mamma."
Mamma could not refuse these invitations. "I
think 1 must go too," said she.  Ruth looked
pleased, and all being in good spirits, they had a
very pleasant walk of it.
Aunt Baily was at home, and received the
party very cordially, - and opened a fresh bottle
of ginger beer for them; and Canary did his best
to entertain them. Ruth felt proud and happy, as
if she were showing off her own family to her aunt.




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         31 t
]While they were waiting there, Mirs~ Fay observed, with much interest, a pale-faced young
woman, sewing at an attic window in the opposite
house. Steadily and swiftly went her needle in
and out —in and out; and she never raised her
eyes except to reach for the thread. At length
MIrs. Fay inquired about her, and aunt Baily had
a long story to tell, the substance of which was
this:
"Those two attic rooms were occupied by an
old man, and this his daughter. He was very infirm —had been bed-ridden for six months; she
supported herself and him by taking in slop-shop
work. For the past few months their doctor had'come down upon them pretty hard for his pay;'
and there the poor girl had toiled for half, and often
two-thirds, of the night. Provisions, too, had been
dear, and she had had a hard time of it to live, for
these slop-shops do n't pay nothing for their work."
Aunt Baily did not tell how many nice -and
wholesome bits they had received from her table;
nor how she sometimes staid at home on a Sunday,
to let the poor girl run out, and get a bit of fresh
air.
Mrs. Fay was touched by this story, and she
put a bill in aunt Baily's hands, which she begged
her to use for their benefit. Ruth, with the tears
in her eyes, turned quickly round.and, with a look




312        THE COUNTRY COUS]Yz',l
at her aunt which meant -" do n't speak," placed
by it half a dollar.
"Take that back," said the blunt, straightforward aunt, "you have n't money enough to be giving away so'
C "Yes I have, I am rich"' said Ruth hastily, at
the same time making herself busy with the baby.
"- I know bettesi -than all that,"' said her aunt; "I
know how many ways you have for your money
to go. I don't believe Mrs. Fay knows how much
you give away; and what's more, I don't believe
you do, either."'  do not knoew that we have ever had any conversation about it, have we, Ruth?" asked Mrs.
Fay.
"I'  guess not," replied Ruth; "and sometimes I
am puzzled as to just what my duty is."
"I wish you would give her some right notions,"
said aunt Baily; "6 she is so quick-feeling she gives
before she knows it, a'most, and that a'nt the right
way."
1" No, that is not the best way," said Mrs. Fay;
A" what we give should be from principle, and not
from impulse. We must have in our own minds
some settled convictions of what we ought to do,
and do it; whether we. feel like it at the time or
not. It wont do to trust our Christian charities to
the chances of excited feeling."




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         313
" That's just what I think," said aunt Baily;
hour feelings carry us out to sea sometimes, when
we've neither chart nor compass on board; and
we are in danger of getting swamped. I wish
Ruth would settle her mind on just the right thing.
I think it would be a comfort to her."
" Some people," said Ruth, " give us the rule
that we must give to the poor one tenth of what
we have."
" I know it," said Mrs. Fay; " but it is easy to
see that that will not answer for all; and that you
cannot make one rule for all. For instance, here
is a person with an income of seventy thousand
dollars a year; and here is this poor girl over the
way, earning scarcely one hundred. What would
the rich man's tenth be to him, in comparison with
hers to her? "
" Just nothing at all," said aunt Baily;" and it
a'nt that poor girl's duty to give anything, according to my notion."
" No, certainly not," said Mrs. Fay; " for she
can but scantily provide the bare necessities of
life for herself and her aged father."
" I want to give a great many times," said Ruth,
"when I do not feel quite sure that I ought; for I
know that my father needs all I can spare; and
yet, earning what I do, it seems to me I might
manage to save a little for charity."
27




314        THlE COUNTTRY CO~USINS.
" According to my way of thinking,"  said aunt
Baily, " charity begins at home; if you do n't takle
care of those of your own household, you are
worse than an infidel."
"This is a doctrine which has been much abused," said Mrs. Fay; " and we must practise on it,
it seems to me, prayerfully and watchfully; though
it is all true. On this subject, we need particularly
to have an enlightened conscience."
"4  wish I knew just what I ought to give,"
said Ruth.
"Well, Ruth," said Mrs. Fay; " you know precisely what your income is a year, — and you
know what your dress costs you, do n't you?"
"Yes'm," said Ruth, "I have kept an exact account of' everything, ever since I have been with
you. I always set it down at night; it has been
a great help to me."
"Then you know what you want to send your
father - does this take every dollar, after you
have deducted what you need for dress?"
" No, ma'ainl" said Ruth; " he wishes me to
send him only what he thinks, at any rate, I ought
to lay by for a wet day. He says, while I am
young and have my health, I ought to live so that
I can put by something."
"That is just as it should be, I think," said
IMrs. Fay. " Now, from your regular income you




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.           315
can deduct what is required for dress and for your
father; two expenditures which it is right you
should meet; so much of your money then, is employed, and does not properly belong to you to distribute in charities."
"I think that is clear," said Ruth.
"A girl ought to lay by a little every year, if
it's nothing but a five-dollar bill, I think," said aunt
Baily. "' She is born, but she is n't buried,' and
how does she know what will happen to her I She
had better make sure of her money while it's in
her hands. That's a part of brother Hiram's notion, I know; one of these days Ruth will get it
back again out of the farm, with interest, I'm a
thinking."
"6 Very likely," said Mrs. Fay.  "I see she has
had a good father. Now, Ruth, deducting these
two, what have you left of your wages, for leeway,
as we say?"
" About ten dollars a year," said Ruth, after a
few minutes' thought.
"This, then, is really your only available money;
it is all which you have a right to reckon on.
From this fund you must make up for all your
mistakes and miscalculation.  If you run over
your allowance for dress, it is from here you must
meet it; if you wish to go home or to a dentist's,
you must take it from here; and from here, also,




316        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
must come your charities. Now, have you any
regular plan about giving, or do you know how
much of your money goes in this way?"
"Not exactly," said Ruth; "but at our Communion I generally put in a little, perhaps twelve
and a half cents; and about the same at Sabbathschool concert; and this winter they made an effort
to enlarge the library, and I gave fifty cents. Then
I give to about six of the objects which are presented annually, the same."
" Anything more? " said Mrs. Fay, who sat with
pencil in hand.
"My tax at the sewing-circle is fifty cents; and
this winter we came to a pinch for a poor family,
and I gave twenty-five more - and - and I do n't
exactly remember - "
"I guess you have told enough," said aunt
Baily.
" Well," said Mrs. Fay, " reckoning some things
which I know you have forgotten, you have probably given away in these small sums over five dollars this past year."
" I did not know it was so much as that," said
Ruth, — " but I think I can do that."
"It leaves you pretty short for extras," said
aunt Baily.
" Well," said Ruth, "I can't expect to do all I
want to with my money, and not come short somewhere.




:THE COUNTRY COUSINS.        317
",It strikes me," said lMrs. Fay, " that you
would find it an assistance to put by just phat you
conscientiously feel you can give away. I do not
mean, now, what you conveniently can."
"iNo need of telling her of that," said aunt
Baily.
"I know it," said Mrs. Fay; "but I want to
have her understand just my view of it. Then,
divide this among the objects which seem to you
most worthy; and give to them, whether you happen to be particularly interested in them at the
time or not; give it, or send it as a matter of prificiple. Your mind will be clear then, and your
conscience at rest as to your duty. Then I would
not exceed my limit."
"But suppose something comes up suddenly
which I could not expect, and I want very much
to give a little?"
"You had better make provision for this very
contingency. In portioning out yourcharitymoney,
leave a part for an unlooked-for call."
"That would be a good plan," said Ruth; "it
seems to me I have a good many."
" And always will," said aunt Baily; "but I am
glad you love to give. Hiram was always just
so; he'd take the victuals out of' his mouth if he
thought anybody wanted them."
27*




318        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
" What if I should' want more than I had?"
said RitAh.
"You have no resource then, but to cut down
your clothing. Now, here this morning, you have
given away half a dollar, and exceeded perhaps
by twenty-five cents your allowance in this department. If so, you must contrive to make it
up, or take it from some other benevolent object."
"' That would be robbing Peter to pay Paul,'"
said aunt Baily.
"Just so," said Mrs. Fay, — " unless the dress
comes short; perhaps she could contrive to make
it up in that way, - say, get one yard less of ribbon for your summer hat, and give up the bow,
and wear it plain."
" You do not think bows are wicked, do you?"
said aunt Baily. "It seems to me, it wouldn't
hurt Ruth to feel that it is right for her to dress
just as pretty as she can."
" I do not think it would," says Mrs. Fay; "and
after a girl has laid by just what she conscientiously thinks she ought to spend on her dress, it is
worth time and trouble to select just as pretty
things for her money as she can get. It is an innocent exercise of taste. What I mean is this.
That, with limited means, a girl cannot do everything she wants to do, of course; and if she prefers the pleasure of giving to some unexpected




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.           319
call a sum exceeding her charity allowance, she
must sacrifice to it the pleasure of wearing some
innocent ornament, like a bow on a bonnet, - both
of which she might do if she were richer. It is
only in the matter of mere ornamental parts of
dress, that I should think it proper for her to retrench. It is not good economy, in the long run, to
buy cheap goods."
" That is just so," said aunt Baily.  "It costs
as much to make up a slazy frock as a good one,
and it do n't wear half as long. A girl who is living out, wears clothes faster than she does at
home, and she ought to buy what is good, and
strong, and suitable; she'd better have less of
them, and have them the right sort."
"' That is very true," said Mrs. Fay.
"And besides this, get them as pretty as she
can, - do you hear that, Ruth? " said aunt Baily.
" I would n't preach that doctrine to Lucy, but it
wont hurt you a bit. Poor Lucy! Everything
she gets goes on to her back; and she doesn't
now, after all, look as well as Ruth does."
" Nothing looks more shabby than cheap finery,"
said Mrs. Fay, rising to go; "we have made you
a long call this morning, Mrs. Baily."
"0  mamma," said Alice, " do let me stay all day,
-see this fly-catcher I made one time when I




320        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
come -I want to stay and make some more flycatchers."
"Not now," said her mother; "you shall come
again."
"Here, Ruth," said aunt Baily, handing her
back her half-dollar; "' You have gone over your
charity money, this year, I know, - take it back."
Ruth cast her eye up to the attic-window. The
pale-faced woman seemed not to have moved; it
was still sew - sew - sew, - in and out - in and
out.
" 0 I cannot," said Ruth - thinking about the
bow on the bonnet. " I will make it up somehow,
and I will plan better another time, so I need n't
get into trouble. I see now just what I can do."
Aunt Baily ceased to urge her, - and the little
party bidding her good-morning, took their leave.
On her way home, Ruth was thinking whether
in some of her sewing times, she could not give
the pale-faced woman a little lift on her slop-shop
work.




XIV.
ANOTHER CHANGE.
FIVE or six months passed away at one time,
and neither Ruth nor aunt Baily heard or saw
anything of Lucy. She was so frequently changing places, that they could not keep trace of her,
unless she reported herself. One Sabbath morning she suddenly made her appearance before
Ruth, dressed in a thin white muslin, which was
gaudily trimmed with lace.
"Why, you look like a bride!" was Ruth's first
exclamation.
" And so I am! " said Lucy, "or am to be tonight; and I want you to go with me, at six
o'clock, to the Universalist church, to be my
bridesmaid!"
"Whom are you going to marry, - that Mr.
Hale?"
"Not he, indeed! - We quarrelled long ago.
I am going to marry John Thompson; he is a
right handsome fellow. - I want to have you see
him! "
Ruth begged Lucy to stop awhile, and tell her
all about it. She sat down reluctantly, declared she




322        THE COUNTRY COUSINS.
had not five minutes to stay, - she had everything
to do. There was not really much to tell. " She
had known John Thompson about six weeks; the
only account which she could give of him was, that
he was a' travelled gentleman.' He had no profession nor trade nor employment of any kind; but
he said he had a rich old uncle, who was going to
leave him a fortune when he died. He dressed
well, seemed to have plenty of money, and wore
black whiskers 4 "
" But what will you live on?" asked Ruthquite in distress.
" I do n't know! " said Lucy, hastily.'" That is
his look-out and not mine. He manages to pick
up a living somewhere; I rather think his uncle
helps him. We are going to travel for a little
while."
Ruth burst into tears. She saw at a glance all
the hazard which her cousin was incurring; and
she did not know what to say to dissuade her, now
matters had gone so fir.
"Dear me!" said Lucy, "I can't stop to see
folks crying. Ruth, there' s nothing to cry about;
your turn will come next. You wont have to live
out always, - so keep up good-heart about it. We
will call for you at six, and -wear your white
veil now, mind you."
Ruth had tried to persuade her to go home, and




THE COUNTRY COUSINS.         323
ask the consent of her parents, —but it was all in
vain. Thinking they would not forgive her if she
deserted her cousin now, she reluctantly promised
to be ready.
Ruth was not at all pleased with Mr. Thompson's appearance, and it was with a voice choking
with emotion that she bade Lucy good-bye upon
the church steps, and resigned her to his care.
Poor Lucy! She had put her last sixpence upon
her bridal-veil i - and yet, with all her faults, she
deserved a better fate.  Aunt Baily would not
come to see her married. She said, "she had done
the best she could for her; and Lucy never would
take her advice, and!now she must go her own
ways."




XV.
THE RETURN HOME.
ABOUT the time in the second year when Ruth
had planned to go home, another child was added
to Mr. Fay's family, and the young infant wras
put into her arms, — and on the whole, she did
not feel like leaving her charge. Three years
therefore passed by before Ruth made the longanticipated visit home.  Her trunk was well
loaded with presents, for all the little folks must
needs put in something for "Ruth's brothers."
Ruth was now quite ready to go; she was well
clothed, and had already sent her father one hundred dollars; and thirty more she had to carry
with her.
The ride was pleasant, but saddened somewhat
by recollections of Lucy. WVhen she entered her
native village, tree and rock and hill greeted her
like early friends; —she was excited, but yet
happy, - for she was now very conscious that there
had been a change in her. When she used to
dwell among them she was living a selfish life, -
now, she felt that she had higher motives, and that




tHE cOUNTRY cotUSINS.       325
God xvas her friend, -- and silently she expressed
to him her gratitude and love.
By and by the road turned, — and there was
the roof of the old farm-house just peeping
through the trees. Ruth leaned out of the window  - her heart beat quickly, - she strained her
eyes to peer thrugh the th e trees,  but her sight
was dim!- another turn, and the fairm-house
door and the old stone-step came to view! -!-and
there stood the samte party watching the lumbering old coach, which had stood there three years
befbre - not one was missing!
Ruth saw first her fatlher and mother, -they
had not changed. But the "little brothers" she
would scarcely have known; there they stood, a
row of great sun-burnt boys, half-men, feeling
strange and acting awkwardly; yet, when she
fairlv came down among them, they welcomed her
with a shout not a whit less noisy than the one
with which they had helped her off!
That was a great day at the farm-house - when
Ruth came back. A looker-on would have smiled
to see how the old people tried to, set the young
ones -an exa;mple of moderation, and how poorly
they succeeded. 
Ruth's mothers good old lady, must soon call the
tall boy to put on the tea-kettle, - and call the
other, whose white crown was only a trifle lower
28




326        THE COUNTTRY cOCl'SIS.
down, to put on fresh logs; and she must stir up
a fire-cake which she remembered Ruth lovedc
that they might have an.early tea to rest the
traveller. -And after tea, the father must stop in
his walk up and down the room, - as soon as he
saw things were cleared up a little and say: "Well,
mother, shall we have prayers nowd, because the
boys are all here, and it's the first night Ruth has
come? " —And mother accedes most heartily, and
they all seat themselves in the old kitchen —an
unbroken family circle; -- then, after reading from
the well-worn Bible, the father kneels in prayer,
and acknowledges God's great mercy to them in
keeping their dear child from the snares of the
wicked city, and bringing her to a saving knowledge
of the truth as it is in Jesus; and restoring her to
them in due season. Aunt Baily was right about
it. " Brother Hiram could never keep anything
to himself; if he was happy, he must go right
away and tell God all about it, and thank Him
for it."
Ruth had a delightful visit home,-and then
the question of returning was agitated. Her father
said " that it was not necessary; the money which
she had advanced had relieved him from embarrassment.".Ruth was inclined to think, that' until
the boys were able to be bringing in ready money,
she had better keep at work, - she was not really




THE COUNTIRY COUSINS.         327
needed at home.' Her mother favored this idea,saying, " Ruth might now put by in the Savings
Bank, and thus have a little for a wet day."  Ruth
therefore returned. Mrs. Fay and the children had
missed her very much. She found friends almost
as glad to see her at this end of the journey as the
other.
Lucy's return to her native village a year or two
later than this, was in sad contrast. As might have
been expected, her husband turned out to be a
worthless fellow, and he soon deserted her. She
struggled on awhile alone, until broken down in
body and mind, with two sickly children, she sought
a refuge in her father's house.




THE NIGHT AFTEiR CHITSTMIAS.
"DRAW the shadies Rose."  A fair young girl,
stepped lightly within the damask curtains,- and,
with soft, jewelled hands, drew the shades.
" Shall I ring for lights, mother?"
"Not yet," replied her mother;';fire-light will
be pleasant awhile."
The Liverpool coal, as if hearing- its praises, began immediately to play pranks. It shot up pyramids of flame; -whirled them round in circling
eddies, - darted them forth at the jolly fire-set, -
and even went so far as to shoo-t its glances through
the half-opened closet-door and crack its jokes at
the shining silver. IpXeed, it seemed to, have set
out to make itsef' as agreeable as possible,- which
was its business, as the furnace did the labor for
-it,  making those large drawing-rcwms  like summer, this cold Deceerber evening.
Rose tried to finish the point of a carnation leaf
by the rudely light, —but soon gave- it up, and sunk
into the velvet couch to build air-castles i
Mirs. M-  also dcopped her knitting of rich
worsteds, and gave hersl.f up to the camfo.rt of her
luxurious chair.




THE NIGHT A1FTER CGHRISTIAS.    329
A violent gust of wind shook the blinds, and
made the windows rattle.
"We shall have a cold night of it," said MIrs.
"Yes," sa9id Rose, - what difference could cold
make with her?-"Is it not almost tea-time,
mother?"
"Your father has not. come yet. - Well, Peter,
what is wanted?"
"There is a womaln  down stairs, mra'am, who
wishes to see you."
"What is her business? - Do you know?"
" No, ma'am,- she did not say."
"You may ask her up; but stop, I dare say it
is a beggar  I  will go down."
She stepped quickly over her velvet carpet, and
bidding Peter light up, she went to the kitchen.
Near the door a woman  was standing. She was
poorly dressed in a faded calico, and a thin shawl
-for so cold a night, it was very thin.' Have you any business with me? " asked Mrs.
Al., in a very business-like manner.
The woman hesitated; attempted to clear her
voice; then replied, - " I was told you were rich
here, and was advised to come and see if you could
help me a little; I am in trouble."
f' WV'ell, I have had nothing but beggars here
for the past week, it seems to me," said Irs.   — N




330    TIIE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.
not at all pleased; "I have given away, all I
have to give. Why do n't you worki? You look
pretty hearty, it's enough better than begging.
How many children have you?"
" One, and she is sick! "
"Well, y.ou are well enough, I dare say. I cannot give any more; I believe it only encourages
idleness."
As the woman turned to go, the light fell on her
sorrowful and care-worn face; but she either could
not, or would not, speak.
"What is the matter with your daughter?"
said Mrs. I —, in a gentler tone. She was
touched a little by that speaking face.
4" Consumption," was the reply, in a sharp tone
which made the lady start. 1" I declare," said she,
as she heard the outer door open, 1 "how mad she
is. I do not believe a word she says. Now, Ann,
understand, I am not to be called down to see any
more beggars. Tell them I've nothing to give,
and send them off; it's the only lway."
iMrs.   --     returned to her parlor.  Under
the brilliant chandelier sat her only child. Rose
was again busy with'her carnation leaf'; and one
rounded arm, bare to the elbow, supported the embroidery-framne.  Her golden hair lay in ringlets
on cheeks which, among its other pranks, the
Liverpool coal had painted, - and she was, indeed,
a very sweet object to look upon.




THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMiA.S.    33t1
"Rose, you are beautiful 1 " thought her mother.
" I really wish I knew whether there were a word
of truth, or not, in that woman's story i"   She
sunk back into her easy-chair and tried to knit, but
she was not successful.  "An only child dying of
consumption! Well, the worst of' it is, one never
knows what to believe. I dare say I have done
more harm than good in my life-time, by giving
away to poor folks. There! I am glad Mr. MI —
has come, —now we will have tea."  The stillsmall-voice was effectually silenced by two cups of
Orange Pecco.
The poor woman, who had been turned away
from this lady's door on a cold December night,
went away with a heart filled with bitter fieelings.
A sharp blast blew aside her shawl, penetrating
her through and throulgh.  The change from a hot
kitchen into such an atmosphere for a moment
made her feel sick and faint. She sunk down upon
the covered granite steps of' a house near by;- she
wished she could die, - she almnost forgot to care
for her child, or thought of her with despair —" We
shall both die, the sooner the better!" This faintness, however, passed off, and she rose to go; but
as she rose the cheerful light from the windows,
near where she had been sitting, fell upon her and
almost seemed to warm her. She looked in at the
windows though with angry looks, and words, —
"Yes, comfbrtable enough, you are - you rich and




332    THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.
hard-hearted! MIay I die in the streets, before I
ever beg at your doors again!"
Still, she lingered; as if the fire could really
warm her. A lady sat there by the grate, and at
her feet, surrounded by costly and expensive toys,
sat a little girl.;.. While the poor woman was looking, the lady smiled on the child, and pointed with
her finger to the elegant time-piece. A  shade
passed like a cloud over the sunny face of the little
one, and it was gone. Then she dropped her
pretty playthings, and shaking back her long ringlets, she came directly and knelt at her mother's
knee. Folding her little hands and closing her
eyes, she began to pray. As her lips moved, the
poor woman thought she could hear her.
"Dear Father, who art in heaven," was a part
of the prayer, "if there are any people to-night
out in the cold, without anything to eat or drink or
keep them warm, wilt Thou take care of them.
Make somebody kind to them; make somebody
give them a fire, and things to eat, that they may
be warm and happy, for Christ's sake. Amen."
Did she really hear that prayer? - or why was
it then that her angry feelings all vanished in a moment, and that with streaming eyes she stood riveted to the spot? She forgot her angry resolution;
she even placed her hand on the bell-handle - she
would go in and beg here; —but the little child
gathered up her toys, kissed her mother, sprang




THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.    333
into the nurse's arms, and was carried to bed; and
the lady sat there alone. The poor woman's heart
failed her; she gave up her half-formed plan, and
left the house.
Now she walked rapidly through the half-darkened streets. Lamps were already lighted. People
hurried past her. Standing hackmen rubbed their
hands and beat their breasts, —it was very cold.
On she went; it was a long way, from Beacon
street quite to the South End-a weary way after
a hard day's work.
It was very dark when she entered her cold and
dismal room.
" Is that you, mother?" said a feeble voice.
"Yes, it's me."
"O, I am so glad you've come; I've had a
hard time of it, coughing; and I feel very weak;
it is lonesome, too, when you are gone."
"Well, do n't try to talk; how long has the fire
been out?"
",'most ever since you went away. I've had a
hot spell and did n't mind it, but I begin to be
chilly now."
Her mother felt her way to the shelf, and striking a match, lighted a candle. She then tookl up
a bit of rug, which was before the stove, and threw
it on the bed, - tucking it in around the shoulders
of the sick girl. She did this without speaking,




334    THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTM AS.
kindled a fire in the stove and sat down by it, with
her head on her hands.
" Did you get my arrow-root?" was asked in a
feeble voice.
" No, I did n't; I never thought a word on't."
" That's too bad," was the fretful reply. "1 I've
felt all gone, ever since I coughed so;"- and the
poor girl wept.'" You would n't say a word if ybu knew what I
had to go through with; you would n't complain
of me."
" I a'n't complaining," said the child, - touched
by the unusual sadness of her mother's tone.
6' Did n't you get anything? "
" Get anything?  No, not I. -  But it was
not that I minded so much; it was the way
she spoke to me. It cut me sonehobw right in
two!"
i" I would n't care about it, mother; it's no matter; I shall be off your hands pretty soon, and
then you'11 get along easier. If you will warm
over the water-gruel, I'11 drink that."
"No, you sha'n't; I'11 go and get you arrow-root,
Susan, - if you can make out on a little porridge
till I come back."
Susan said that would do, and took the porridge,
-but without knowing that she was taking all her
mother's supper, - or that the small peice of




THE NIGHT AFTER CIRISTMAS.    335
money now going for her arrow-root, was the very
last of the week's earnings.
It was some distance to the grocer's, and this
time the widow walked with weary step and slow.
She was completely worn out; she could only drag
herself there and back. When she returned and
opened her door, there was a great change in her
room: a fire now burned cheerfully in the stove;
candles were on a table which had been placed by
Susan's bed, and which seemed to be covered with
parcels; and she, bolstered up, her eyes brilliant
with expression, half-laughing, half-crying, held up
before her astonished mother a bunch of white
grapes.
" See! see! shie brought them; and she has got
more washing for you, too."
"' Who? " said her mother, sinking into a chair.
"I do not know: a kind lady somebody sent
here; she did not tell me her name."
~" W7Yo sent her?"
" She did not tell me, mother; it is no matter.
MIake haste and get you a cup of tea -real tea,
only think, - do, mother, and give me some of it."
" I know who sent her."
"Who was it?"
Her mother did not reply. She was not yet
quite clear enough in her knowledge; she was putting this and that together, in her mind. In her




336     THE NIGHT AFTERI CH1RISTMIAS.
heart she could not help feeling that that little child
had prayed for her, and that God had sent her aid
in answer to that prayer; but she did not like to
say so. She was not used to expressing religious
feeling, though, having been religiously brought up,
she had it.
" God bless her, whoever she is," was her reply.
Yes, God bless her, who would go herself to
look up the suffering. How these grapes cooled
the parched lips of that dying girl! and that cup of
tea, - how much it comforted and strengthened
the worn out mother.
For some days after this) Susan gradually failed.
The neighbors who helped her mother at night
were the first to notice the change. HeIr mother
felt that she must die, but still regarded it as a
distant thing.
One Monday night it was her turn to watch.
From two o'clcck in the morning until late in the
day, she had been over her wash-tub; for her work
had very much increased since that mysterious
visit. She sat before the stove, thinking she might
catch short naps in her cnair, when Susan did not
need anything. An old comforter had been hung
before the bed, through the day, in order to keep
off the steam as much as possible. She did not
take it down, for the room was a little chilly.




THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAI S.   337
"Here's your drink and your grapes, Susan,"
said she; "if I should have a nap and not wake
when you want your drops, you must call me."
"Well," said her child faintly, opening  her
very large dark eyes and fixing them upon her
mother; "6 go to sleep and I'11 call."
"IHow much she looks as her father did afore
he died!" thought her mother; "she reminds me
of him every minute."
The night wore away. The tired washerwoman sank from her chair in a deep sleep, and
lay on the bare floor. When she awoke she felt
quite stiff; the fire was out and the room was very
cold. She pinned back the curtain to let in the
grey light of morning, and then iwent hastily to the
bed. Susan lay on her side, her face buried in the
pillows —one hand was stretched out as if reaching
for grapes. Her mother spoke to her —spoke
again - touched her arm - shook her gently
she gave no sign i
The lady and child, of whom we have already
had a glimpse through a window, were sitting in
their cheerful dining-room on the evening of the
day on which Susan died. The door-bell rang; it
was Susan's mother who rang it.
"Can I see the lady of the house?"
"Well, I believe she is very much engaged
now," said John.
29




338    THE INIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.
" I want to see her, very much," said the woman,
stepping into the entry.
Just then the door opened, and the sweet face
of the little girl peeped out.
" Yes mamma is here, come in."
"Wipe your feet, then," said John.
" How do you do," said the lady kindly, as she
entered. " It is a very cold night, - you look cold,
-.come to the fire; Kitty, dear, bring a chair.
Sit down, will you?"
"Thank you, I will," said the woman, "for I
am'most beat out."
" Have you walked far?"
6From the South End, ma'am."
" It is cold, is it not? "
"Very cold, ma'am, but it was colder one night,
the night arter Christmas, if you remember it.
That's the time I want to tell you about. You see
I had one daughter, about sixteen. My husband
has been dead these many years, and my daughter
took his consumption, I suppose: she was very
sick. I managed to keep soul and body together
by taking in washing; but about Christmas, in
that cold snap, my coal gin out, and my rent-bill
came in, and my washing fell off; and I was hard
put to't. I coruld n't stand it very well, to see
my poor sick girl a' lying there without anything
to comfort her aching body. I was clear down,




THE1 N'IGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.   339
and says a neighbor to me, says she,'why do n't
you go to some of the great fblk in Beacon street,
who roll in gold and live in great houses, and you
could ask for a little something which they throw
away, and it would make you both comfortable.'
Now, as I told you, ma'am, I never begged in all
my life; but it came tough to see my poor one a'
lying there with nothing to comfort her, and I
made up my mind-to it.  So I came up here. It
was a bitter night. I walked by these big houses,
and I looked up first. to one and then to another,
but I had n't the heart to go in. Pretty soon, close
to here, I saw a pretty young girl, I should think she
was just about as old as my Susan, I saw her come
to the window and draw the shades. Think's I,
if I must beg, I'd rather beg of that young girl's
mother; she will be the most likely to feel for me;
so I went into the kitchen and sent for her. The
servants were cross, but it was n't that I minded,
but it was the lady herself; for when she came
down she told me I was a beggalr, and I might go
to work; and as I shut the kitchen door I heard
her say, how mad I was. I do n't know but I was
mad, I was clean cut up, some how; I suppose it
was this and coming out of a hot room into such
cold, made me faint like; so I sat down on your
steps a minute, to get over it. I looked into that
window, ma'am, over the screen. You had just




40    TTHE NIGIHT AFTE R. CHRIISTMAS.
such a bright fire as that, and sat where you do
now, and your little girl on the floor by you, with
a plenty of playthings. How comfortable you
looked! Then says I to myself:'You rich and
hard-hearted, may I die in the streets, before I ever
beg at your doors again!' Just then you pointed
up to that clock, and what did the child do but
come and kneel down and fold her little hands and
pray. God bless her. I do believe she prayed
for me; seemed to me I heard her. M3y anger
went away, and I stood stock-still on the steps, a'
crying like a baby; for my mother used to make
me pray once to her.
"But, to make my long story short, I was a'
coming in, but she went to bed and I felt afraid to
when you were alone; so I went away home.
And' what do you think, fna'am? why that very
night God sent somebody to help us, and I could n't
~help the feeling that it was because that child
prayed for us; for I never have found out who it
came from, and I do n't know to this day, so I cannot go to her, but we wele helped in a good many
ways, and got along nicely till now. Now my
poor girl is dead. I found her dead this morning.
What I determined I never would do to keep her
alive, I have made up my mind to do, -come
once more a-begging, that I may give her a decent burying."




THUE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.    341
Kitty and her mother were both in tears, and
Kitty took a sparkling purse from her pocket and
whispered eagerly to her mother.
"Yes," said she, G" you may."
"Ah! my little dear," said the poor woman as
the child approached her," you were playing with
that very purse that night. I saw it shining on
the floor."
"Yes," said Kitty, "so I was; papa gave it to
me Christmas day; and this money, too, and you
shall have the money, I do n't want it: here, take
it, I do n't want it."
It was a five-dollar piece. The widow hesitated;
she felt that it was too much.
" Take it," said the lady, " and expend it on
yourself'; I will see to the ffuneral expenses.
Where would you like to have your child buried?"
" Her father lies in the burying-yard in our native town," said the woman, after some hesitation;
"it is about thirty miles up country."
" On the rail-road? " inquired the lady.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You would like, then, to take your child there?"
"It would be a great comfort," said the widow,
"but I suppose it would cost too much, and perhaps it is n't much matter where these bodies lie;
yet it would be a great comfort; if I could get there
myself, I would stay. I might earn a little among




342    THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMIA$S.
them that know me. It wont be very long, I am
a-thinking, that I shall want anything, and it would
be a comfbrt to feel that I could be buried by them
both."
"I will come to-morrow morning early, and see
you myself," said the lady, " and have these art
rangements made. You must have some supper
before you  go.  Kitty, dear, touch the bell.
John, will you tell Bridget to give this woman
some supper, and send a carriage here, John, to
have her taken home. She looks quite too much
worn out to walk. Yes, Kitty, you may go and
show her the way, and pour out her tea, if you
wish to."
The poor woman could not speak; she tried to,
but only her lip quivered, her heart was too full
for words; so placing her hand in Kitty's, she
went silently out. Dear little Kitty! how much
good she had been the means of doing. 0, teach
your little ones to pray and to pray for the poor.
God loves their simple prayers, we are assured,
and will answer them, though we may never knoc
when or where.