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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cda328f --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60581 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60581) diff --git a/old/60581-8.txt b/old/60581-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cce2b7a..0000000 --- a/old/60581-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5208 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's More Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: More Bed-Time Stories - -Author: Louise Chandler Moulton - -Illustrator: Addie Ledyard - -Release Date: October 27, 2019 [EBook #60581] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BED-TIME STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Sonya Schermann, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -MORE BED-TIME STORIES. - -BY - -LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, - -AUTHOR OF "BED-TIME STORIES," AND "SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS." - - -_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD._ - - -[Illustration: Logo] - - -BOSTON: -ROBERTS BROTHERS. -1875. - - -[Illustration: MISSY.--PAGE 50.] - - - - -Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by - -LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, - -In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. - - -_Cambridge: -Press of John Wilson & Son._ - - - - -_TO MY DAUGHTER FLORENCE._ - -[AFTER A TWELVEMONTH.] - - - _"More Bed-Time Stories," Sweetest Heart,_ - _And all to you belong:_ - _All that I have and am, my dear,_ - _I give you with my song._ - - _All that I have and am, my dear,_ - _Is not too much to pay_ - _As tribute to the fair, young queen_ - _Who rules my heart to-day;_ - - _As tribute to the dear, blue eyes,_ - _And to the golden hair,_ - _And sweet, new grace of maidenhood_ - _That wraps you everywhere,--_ - - _The shy surprise of maidenhood,_ - _That still turns back to hear_ - _The tales I tell at shut of day:--_ - _So these are yours, my dear._ - - _L. C. M._ - - _October, 1874._ - - - - -CONTENTS. - - PAGE -AGAINST WIND AND TIDE 5 - -BLUE SKY AND WHITE CLOUDS 20 - -THE COUSIN FROM BOSTON 34 - -MISSY 50 - -THE HEAD BOY OF EAGLEHEIGHT SCHOOL 68 - -AGATHA'S LONELY DAYS 82 - -THIN ICE 100 - -MY LOST SISTER: A CONFESSION 114 - -WHAT CAME TO OLIVE HAYGARTH 128 - -UNCLE JACK 143 - -NOBODY'S CHILD 159 - -MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN 175 - -RUTHY'S COUNTRY 191 - -JOB GOLDING'S CHRISTMAS 210 - -MY COMFORTER 224 - - - - -MORE BED-TIME STORIES. - - - - -AGAINST WIND AND TIDE. - - -Jack Ramsdale was a bad boy. He had been a bad boy so long that -secretly he was rather tired of it; but he really did not know how to -help himself. It was his reputation, and it is a curious thing how -naturally we all live up to our reputations; that is to say, we do the -things which are expected of us. There is a deal of homely sense in -the old proverb, "Give a dog a bad name and hang him." Give a boy a -bad name, and he is reasonably sure to deserve one. Not but that Jack -Ramsdale had fairly earned his bad name. His mother had died before he -was old enough to remember her, so he had never known what a home was. -Once, when his father was unusually good-natured, he had asked him -some questions about his mother. - -"She was one of God's saints, if ever there was one," the man answered, -half reluctantly. "Everybody wondered that she took up with me, but -maybe it was because she saw I needed her more than anybody else did. -She might have made a different man of me if she'd lived; at least, -I've always thought so. I never drank so much when she was alive -but what I kept a comfortable home over her head. But when she was -gone, it didn't appear to me there was any thing left to live for. I -lacked comfort sorely, and I don't say but what I've sought for it in -by-paths,--by and forbidden paths, as she used to say." - -"I wish I could ha' seen her," said Jack. - -"She was a dreadful motherly creetur, and was always hangin' over you. -Cold nights I've known her get up half-a-dozen times, often, to see if -the clothes was all up over your shoulders; and sometimes I've seen her -stand there looking down at you in the biting cold till I thought she'd -freeze; but I didn't dare to say any thing, for her lips were movin', -and I knew she was prayin' for you. She was a prayin' woman, your -mother was. I used to think her prayers would save both of us." - -"I can't make out how she looked," Jack persisted. He was so anxious -to hear something about this dead mother who had loved him so. Ever -since she died, he had been knocked round from pillar to post, as they -say, with his father. Sam Ramsdale was good help, as all the farmers -knew, when he was sober; but he was not reliable, and then he had the -disadvantage of always being incumbered with the boy, whom he took with -him everywhere,--an unkempt, undisciplined little fellow whom no one -liked. Now, as his father talked, it seemed to him so strange a thing -to think that some one used to stand beside his bed in cold winter -nights and pray for him, that he could hardly believe it; and he said -again, out of his desolate longing,-- - -"I wish I could ha' seen how she looked." - -"I don't suppose folks would ha' said she was much to look at." His -father spoke, in a musing sort of way. "She was a little pale slip of -a woman, with soft yellow hair droopin' about her white face, and eyes -as blue as them blue flowers you picked up along the road. But there, -I can't talk about her, and I ain't a goin' to, what's more; and don't -you ever ask me again!" - -From that time Jack never dared to ask any more questions about -his mother, but all through his troublesome, turbulent boyhood he -remembered the meagre outlines of the story which had been told him. No -matter how bad he had been through the day, the nights were few when he -failed to think how once a pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair -around her white face, and eyes blue as the blue gentians, had bent -above his slumbers and said prayers for him. - -When he was ten years old his father died in the poor-house. Drink had -enfeebled his constitution; a sudden cold did the rest. There were a -few weeks of terrible suffering, and then the end came. Jack was with -him to the last. There was nowhere else for him to be, and the father -liked to have him in his sight. One day, just before the end, when they -were all alone, the man called the boy to his bedside. - -"I can't tell you to follow my example, Jack; that's the shame of it. -I've got to hold myself up as a warnin', and not as an example. Just -you steer as clear o' my ways as you can; but remember that your mother -was a prayin' woman. I s'pose nobody'd believe it, Jack; but since I've -been lyin' here I've kinder felt nearer to her than I ever did before -since she died. Seems as if I could a'most hear her prayin' for me; and -I think, by times, that the God she lived so close to won't say no. -It's the 'leventh hour, Jack, the 'leventh hour, I know that as well as -anybody; but she used to sing a hymn about while the lamp holds out to -burn. When I get there I shall get rid of this awful thirst for drink. -It's been an _awful_ thirst; no hunger that I know of can match it; but -I shall get rid of that when this old body goes to pieces. And what -does a Saviour mean, if it ain't that He'll save us from our sins if we -ask Him?" - -As he said these last words he seemed sinking into a sort of stupor, -but he started out of it to say once more,-- - -"Never follow my example, Jack, boy. Remember your mother was a prayin' -woman." - -Those were the last connected words any one ever heard him speak. After -that the night came on,--the double night of darkness and of death. -Once or twice the woman who acted as nurse, bending over him, heard him -mutter, "The 'leventh hour, Jack!" and afterwards she wondered whether -it was a presentiment, for it was just at eleven o'clock that he died. - -Jack had been sent to bed a little before, and when he got up in the -morning, he knew that he was all alone in the world. - -After the funeral Deacon Small took him home. He wouldn't be of much -use for two or three years to come, the deacon said. Maybe he could -drive up the cows, and ride the horse to plough, and scare the crows -away from the corn, but he couldn't earn his salt for a number o' years -to come. However, somebody must take him, and he guessed _he_ would. It -would be a good spell before the "creetur" would come of age, and the -last part of the time he might be smart enough to pay off old scores. - -But surely Jack Ramsdale must have eaten more salt than ever boy of -ten ate before if he did not work enough for it, for it was Jack here, -and Jack there, all day long. Jack did everybody's errands; Jack drew -Mrs. Small's baby-grandchild in its little covered wagon; Jack scoured -the knives; Jack brought the wood; Jack picked berries; Jack weeded -flower-beds. From being an idle little chap, in everybody's way, as he -had been in his father's time, he was pressed right into hard service, -for more hours in the day than any man worked about the place. Now work -is good for boys, but all work and no play--worse yet, all work and no -love--is not good for any one. Jack grew bitter; and where he dared to -be cruel, he was cruel; where he dared to be insolent, he was insolent. -Not toward Deacon Small, however, were these qualities displayed. The -deacon was a hard master, and the boy feared, and hated, and obeyed -him. But as the years went on, five of them, he grew to be generally -considered a bad boy. At fifteen he was strong of his age, a man, -almost, in size. - -His schooling had been confined to the short winter terms, and he had -always been the terror of every successive schoolmaster. - -When he was fifteen, a new teacher came,--a handsome, graceful -young man, just out of college. He was slight rather than stout, -well-dressed, well-mannered, fit, you would have said, for a lady's -drawing-room, rather than the country schoolhouse in winter, with its -big boys, tough customers, many of them, and Jack Ramsdale the toughest -customer of all. After Mr. Garrison had passed his examination, one of -the committee, impressed by what he thought a certain-fine-gentleman -air in the young man, warned him of the rough times in store for him, -and especially of the rough strength and insubordination of Jack -Ramsdale. Ralph Garrison smiled a calm smile, but uttered no boasts. - -He had been a week in the school before he had any especial trouble. -Jack was taking his measure. The truth was, the boy had a certain -amount of taste, and Garrison's gentlemanliness impressed him more than -he would have cared to own. It is possible that he might have gone -on, quietly and obediently, but that now his bad name began to weigh -him down. The boys who had looked up to him as a leader in evil grew -impatient of his quiet submission to rules. "Got your match, Jack?" -said one. "Goin' to own beat without giving it a try?" said another. -And Jack began to think that the evil laurels he had won, as the bravo -and bully of the school, would fall withered from his brow if he didn't -make some effort to fasten them. - -So one morning, midway between recess and the close of school, he took -out an apple and began paring it with a jack-knife and eating it. For -a moment Mr. Garrison looked at him; then he remarked, with ominous -quietness, in a tone lower and more gentle than usual,-- - -"Jack, this is not the place or time for eating." - -"My place and time to eat are when I am hungry," Jack answered, with -cool insolence, cutting off a mouthful, and carrying it deliberately to -his mouth. - -"You will put up that apple instantly, if you please." - -Still the teacher spoke very gently, and turned a little pale. The -persuasive words and the slight paleness misled Jack. He thought his -victory was to be so easily won, there would not even be any glory in -it. He smiled and ate, quite at his ease. - -"You will come here whether you please or not," was the next sentence -from the teacher's desk. Jack cut off another mouthful and sat still. - -Then, he never knew how it was, but suddenly, in the twinkling of -an eye, he felt himself pulled from his seat out into the middle of -the floor while knife and apple flew from his hand. He kicked, he -struggled, he tried to strike; but an iron grasp held his wrists. The -strong muscles of the stroke-oar at Harvard did good service. The -handsome face was pale, but the lips were set like steel, and the cool -eyes never wavered as they fixed and held those of the young bully. -Then suddenly he whipped from his pocket a ball of strong fish-line and -bound the struggling wrists tightly, and, pushing a chair toward his -captive, said, coolly,-- - -"I want nothing more of you till after school. You can sit or stand, as -you please. Now I will hear the first class in arithmetic." - -There was a strange hush in the school, and every scholar knew who was -master. - -When all the rest had gone, the teacher turned to Jack Ramsdale. - -"I took you a little by surprise," he said. "Perhaps you are not yet -satisfied that I am stronger than you." - -"Yes, I'm satisfied," Jack answered. "I ain't so mean but what I'm -willing to own beat when it's done fair and square." - -Mr. Garrison, meanwhile, was untying his wrists. As he unwound the last -coil, he said,-- - -"The forces of law and order are what rule the world. I think if you -fight against them, you'll always be likely to find yourself on the -losing side." - -A great bitter wave of defiance swelled up in Jack's heart; not against -Mr. Garrison as an individual, but against such as he,--handsome, -graceful, cultured; against his own hard lot; against a prosperous -world; against, it almost seemed, God, Himself. - -"What do _you_ know about it?" he said sullenly. "You never had to -fight. It was all on your side. God did it. He made you handsome and -strong, and had you go to school and college, and grow up a gentleman. -And he made me"--how the face darkened here--"what you see. He took my -mother, who did love me and pray for me, away from me when I wasn't -more than three years old. He gave me to a father who drank hard and -taught me nothing good. And then he took even him from me, and handed -me over to Deacon Small; and I tell you, teacher, you don't know what -a tough time is till you've summered and wintered with Deacon Small. -I've got a bad name, and who wonders? and I feel like living up to -it. I hadn't any thing against you, specially; but if I'd given in -peaceably to all your rules, the boys would have said I had grown -chicken-hearted, and a little name for pluck is all the name I have -got." - -Mr. Garrison looked at him a few moments, steadily. Then he said,-- - -"It does seem as if fate had been hard on you. But do you know what I -think God has been doing for you, in giving you all these hard knocks; -for things don't _happen_; God never lets go the reins." - -The boy looked the question he did not speak, and Mr. Garrison went on. - -"I think He has been making you strong, just as rowing against wind and -tide made my wrists strong, until now you could fight all your enemies -if you would. - -"The thing we are put here for," he continued, "is to do our best; and -if we are doing that, in God's sight, there is nothing that can prevail -against us; not fate, or foes, or poverty, or any other creature. There -is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a -soul that is bound to go up and not down. You may go home, now." - -It was one of Mr. Garrison's merits that he knew when to stop. Jack -Ramsdale went home with that last sentence ringing in his ears,-- - -"There is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand -against a soul that is bound to go up and not down." - -The words went with him all the rest of the day. They lay down with -him at night, and he looked out of his window and fixed his eyes on a -bright, far-off star, and thought of them. - -What if he should turn all the strength that was in him to going up -and not down? If he did right, who could make him afraid? If he served -willingly, he need fear no master. It was very late, and the star, -obedient to the law which rules the worlds, had marched far on, out -of his sight, before he went to sleep. He had made a resolve. In the -strength of that resolve he awoke to the new day. - -"I will not go down," he said to himself; "I will go up and on!" - -He was not all at once transformed from sinner to saint. Such sudden -changes do not belong to this slow world. But the purpose and aim of -his life was changed. Never again did he lose sight of the shining -heights he meant to climb. If the mother in the heavenly home could -look down on the world below, she knew that not in vain had she been -"a praying woman." To Mr. Garrison the boy's devotion was something -wonderful,--humble, loyal, faithful, and never ceasing. From being the -teacher's terror, Jack had become the teacher's friend. - - - - -BLUE SKY AND WHITE CLOUDS. - - -"Say yes, and you'll be such a dear papa." - -Papa bent down and kissed his girl, before he asked, half -reproachfully,-- - -"And how if I say 'no'? Shan't I be dear, then?" - -Kathie blushed, and then laughed. - -"Why, of course you'll be dear, any way; but may be it's partly because -you are so good, and hate so to say no to your own little daughter, -that I love you so much." - -"To my little daughter as tall as her mother? Do you know, small -person, that I've often thought it might be better for that same little -daughter if I said no to her oftener? I couldn't love you more, but I'm -afraid I might love you more wisely. A hundred and twenty-five dollars -for a new party dress! Bring your own mature judgment to bear on it, -and tell me if it appears quite sage, even to you." - -Kathie thought so hard for a moment that she fairly scowled with -earnestness; then she answered,-- - -"Yes, on the whole, I think it will be eminently judicious. You see, -I shall be going out a good deal now, and I can do so many different -things with a handsome silk, and if I got a tarleton, or any of those -cheap, thin goods, it would be used up at once." - -Papa smiled. - -"Well, if you are quite sure you're right, I'll bring the check home -this noon, and you and mamma can begin your search for this wonderful -yellow gown." - -"Yellow!" Kathie clapped her hands to her ears. "What did I ever do to -make you think I would wear a horrid yellow gown?" - -"Oh, was it red you said you wanted?" - -"Worse and worse. You talk like a Hottentot. My gown is to be blue, -soft, and lustrous, like a summer sky, and I am to look in it,--well, -you shall see on Christmas Eve." - -Then, with half a dozen good-by kisses, the father of this only -child--happy, easy-going, and too indulgent--took himself off down -town, and Kathie danced away to the sewing-room to find her mother and -inform her of her success. - -Kathie Mason, at sixteen, was a girl bright, and sweet, and bonny -enough to tempt any parent to a little over-indulgence. She had soft, -sunny, yellow hair; and lovely, dark brown eyes; with a look in them -that kept saying, "Oh, be good to me!"; a delicate, flower-like face; -and a mouth red as Fair Rosamond's, which has long been dust now, but -which poets and painters raved about centuries ago. She had a graceful -little figure, and a clear, fresh young voice; and she had a heart, -too, which was in the right place, though she herself was almost a -stranger to it. She loved beauty dearly, whether in books, or nature, -or human faces, or blue silk gowns, and it was just as natural to her -to be a picture, whatever way she looked or moved, as it was to be -Kathie. - -As she danced along she was humming a verse of a gay little French -_chanson_, where some lover said his love was like a rose; and you -thought it might have been written about herself, only Kathie had -no thorns. As she drew near the sewing-room she stopped, for her -mother and the dress-maker were talking busily. Miss Atkinson was a -pathetic little woman, with eyes which looked as if the color had been -washed out of them by many tears, a thin, frail body, and a voice not -complaining, but simply plaintive. Somehow Kathie hated to break in -upon the slow pathos of those tones with her blue silk ecstasy, so she -stood leaning against the door for a few moments and waited. - -"You see," the little woman was saying, "it was a great pull-back, -my being sick two months in the summer, and then my brother being so -much worse. But it will all come right, somehow. If I can manage to -get Alice clothed up so she can go to school, I shall be thankful; for -she's a bright child, and it's too bad to have her wasting her time. -But then, food and fire must come first, and if people are sick they -are sick, and two hands can't do any more than they can." - -There was nothing to oppose to this mild fatalism; so Kathie's mother -only said, very sympathizingly, that it was hard, and that it seemed -as if, with her sister and her sister's child to support, Miss -Atkinson had all she could do before, without undertaking any new -responsibilities for the ailing brother and his family. - -"Oh! but there's no one else to do it if I don't, you see," quoth the -little dress-maker, almost cheerfully--as cheerfully, that is, as her -voice could be made to speak; but Kathie noticed that a moment after -she pressed her hand on her side and drew a sharp, hard breath. - -"Does your side pain you, Miss Atkinson?" she asked, kindly. - -"Not much more than usual. It's rather bad, most days. I went to work -too soon after I was sick, the doctor said. But he didn't tell me how -the rest were going to live if I laid by any longer; and, dear me, I'm -thankful enough to be able to work at all." - -Kathie thought she should be ashamed to have this poor little woman, -who had two people besides herself to provide for, entirely, and no -knowing how many more, in part, work on her blue silk superfluity. -Clearly _that_ must be made by some other dress-maker; and she could -not even speak to her mother about it now; so she just asked for some -work, and sat down with it, thinking more seriously than, perhaps, she -had ever thought in her gay, butterfly life before. - -"How old is your little niece, Alice?" she asked, after a while. - -"Ten, and she is as far along in her studies now as a good many girls -of twelve. I did mean to have sent her straight through, normal school -and all, and let her prepare to be a teacher; but it doesn't look much -like it, now William's taken so poorly. I expect I shall have to pretty -much clothe his three children besides Alice." - -"Can't your sister, little Alice's mother, help you at all?" - -"Well, yes, she does help. She does all she's able to, and more; for, -you see, she's feeble, too. She keeps house for us, and cooks, and -washes and makes our things after I fit them, and keeps us mended; -but there's nothing she can do to bring in any thing. But there, I -beg your pardon ten times over, apiece. It's against my principles to -go out sewing, and harrow up folks' minds with my troubles; only, you -see, I'm a little nervous and unsettled to-day on account of Alice's -crying pretty hard this morning because she hadn't any thing to wear to -school." - -Papa Mason took Kathie aside when he came home to dinner, and with a -little fun, and teasing, and pretence of mystery, produced the check. -There it was, one hundred and twenty-five dollars, all right, and three -weeks between now and Christmas Eve to get her blue silk gown made. - -While she ate her roast beef she began to think again. One question -kept asking itself over in her mind,--Why should some people have blue -silk gowns, and others have no gowns at all? I rather think we have -all asked ourselves this same thing, in one form of words or another. -Since the great Father made and loves us all, why should one be Queen -Victoria and another little Alice staying at home from school for want -of a few yards of woollen and a pair of boots? Political economists -have ciphered it all out, beautifully; but Kathie did not know that, -and so the vexing question puzzled her. What if it was done just to -give us a chance to help each other? she asked herself, at last, and -the text of a sermon she heard once came into her mind,--"Bear ye one -another's burdens." If all fared just alike there would be no chance -for helpfulness, or charity, or self-denial; so may be clothes would be -put on people's backs at the expense of better things in their hearts. -It must be that God knew best. Oh! if one couldn't think that, the -world might as well fall to pieces at once. - -"Will you have pudding, dear? I have asked you three times," said Mrs. -Mason's voice, with a little extra energy in it; and Kathie looked up -out of her dream with a certain vagueness in her eyes, and answered,-- - -"A hundred and twenty-five," whereat they all laughed. - -"I can't give you a hundred and twenty-five puddings; but, if you'll -please make a beginning with this one, no doubt the rest will come -before the year is over." - -Whereupon Kathie roused herself from her speculations, ate her pudding, -and sent her plate for more, with a good, healthy, girlish appetite. - -That afternoon she sewed quite diligently, and talked little; but her -eyes were bright, and her face all the time eager with some thought. - -After tea was over, and Miss Atkinson had gone, and papa had stepped -out to see a business friend, Kathie sat down, as was one of her -habits, on a low stool beside her mother, and laid her head in her lap. -Mrs. Mason knew that all the afternoon's thinking would come out before -the child got up again; so she just smoothed the fluffy, yellow hair -with her hand and waited. - -"Don't you think, mamma, that Miss Atkinson must be a good deal better -Christian than the rest of us, she's such a patient burden-bearer? She -never seemed to think for one moment that it was hard she should have -to work so, or that she couldn't have what she wanted herself. All -that troubled her was because she couldn't do what she had planned for -Alice." - -Then, when Mrs. Mason had made some slight answer, there was silence -again for a time; and then Kathie cried impulsively,-- - -"Mamma, what a perfect good-for-nothing I am. I never carried a burden -for any one in my life. I have just been a dead weight on some one -else's hands." - -"Not a _dead_ weight, by any means," and Mrs. Mason laughed, "and -really, papa and I have found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to -carry you." - -The loving girl kissed the hand that had been stroking her hair, but -she was quite too much in earnest to laugh. - -"Well, mamma, you know it doesn't say,--'Bear ye one another's burdens, -all of you but Kathie, and she needn't.' I think this rule without any -exceptions means me, just as much as it does any one; and I shan't feel -quite right in my own mind till I begin to follow it. I want to bear -part of Alice." - -Kathie was talking very fast by this time, and her cheeks were very -pink, and her brown eyes very bright. - -"You see I've thought it all out, this afternoon. If Miss Atkinson will -feed her and house her, I do think I might undertake to clothe her -until she is through school and ready to teach; and don't you think -I'd feel better when I came to die to have done some little thing for -somebody? You see it would come very easy. My dresses, and cloaks, -and hats would all make over for her. There wouldn't be much to buy -outright, except boots, and stockings, and under clothes, generally." - -"And wouldn't you find all that rather a heavy drain on your -pocket-money? I don't ask to discourage you, childie; only I want you -to consider it all thoroughly, for if you should once undertake this -thing and lead Miss Atkinson and Alice to depend on it, there could be -no drawing back then." - -"Yes, I have thought about it all. Didn't you see me working it out -in my head this afternoon, like a sum in arithmetic? I think half the -money papa gives me for lunches, and presents, and the other things -pocket-money goes for, would be just as good for me as the whole; and -I am sure with half of it I could keep Alice along nicely after I -once got her started; and its just about this start I want to speak -to you now. Papa gave me a hundred and twenty-five dollars to-day to -buy me a blue silk gown for Aunt Jane's Christmas-Eve party. Now fifty -dollars will get me a lovely white muslin, and a blue sash, and all the -fresh little fixings I should need; and that would leave seventy-five -dollars, with which I could buy flannels, and boots, and water-proof, -and a good, warm, strong outfit altogether, for Alice to commence with. -Now do you think papa would be willing? I don't want to ask him, for he -doesn't understand silks and muslins, or what Alice needs; but would -you answer for him? Just think, mamma, what burdens poor Miss Atkinson -has to bear." - -Mrs. Mason started to say,--"It is all for her own relations,"--but -stopped, for the command didn't read, "Relations, bear _ye_ one -another's burdens." Had she any right to interfere between Kathie -and this first work of charity the child had ever been inspired to -undertake? Would not this object of interest outside herself, apart -from blue silk gowns, and flounces, and furbelows, do something for -her girl that was likely to be left undone otherwise? What a very cold -loving-one-another we were most of us doing in this world, after all? -So she bent over and kissed the eager, lovely, upturned face that -waited for her words, and said fondly,-- - -"Yes, I will answer for papa, my darling. I approve your plan heartily, -but I will not offer help. This shall be all your own good work." - -The next morning Miss Atkinson was told of the new plan. Her faded eyes -opened twice as widely as usual. She was not sure she heard aright. - -"Do you mean to say Miss Kathie, that you undertake, with your mamma's -full consent, to clothe Alice until she is through school?" - -"That is precisely what I bind myself to do," Kathie answered, gravely -copying the solemnity of the little dress-maker. - -"Then all I have to say is, bless you, and bless the Lord. You never -can tell what good you're doing." - -And then the poor little woman began to cry, just for pure joy; and she -sobbed till Mamma Mason felt her eyes growing misty, and Kathie ran -away out of the room. - -Be sure that Miss Atkinson made up Kathie's muslin lovingly. It would -not be her fault if it were not prettier than any silk. And truly, when -Christmas Eve came and Kathie was dressed for Aunt Jane's party, there -could hardly have been a more radiant vision than this white-robed -shape with the sunny, soft hair, the gleaming brown eyes, and the -wild-rose cheeks, where the color came and went. Her father looked her -over with all his heart in his eyes, and a tenderness which quivered in -his voice, though he tried to speak jestingly. - -"So there wasn't blue sky enough for any thing but your sash, and you -had to take white clouds for the rest." - -"_Just_ that. Don't you like the clouds?" - -He bent and kissed her. - -"Yes, I like the clouds; and I think the sunshine struck through them -for somebody." - - - - -THE COUSIN FROM BOSTON. - - -We had been friends ever since I could remember, Nelly and I. We were -just about the same age. Our parents were neighbors, in the quiet -country town where we both lived. I was an only child; and Nelly was an -only daughter, with two strong brothers who idolized her. - -We were always together. We went to the same school, and sat on the -same bench, and used the same desk. We learned the same lessons. I had -almost said we thought the same thoughts. We certainly loved the same -pleasures. We used to go together, in early spring, to hunt the dainty -may-flowers from under the sheltering dead leaves, and to find the shy -little blue-eyed violets. We went hand in hand into the still summer -woods, and gathered the delicate maiden-hair, and the soft mosses, and -all the summer wealth of bud and blossom. Gay little birds sang to us. -The deep blue sky bent over us, and the happy little brooks murmured -and frolicked at our feet. - -In autumn we went nutting and apple gathering. In the winter we slid, -and coasted, and snowballed. For every season, there was some special -pleasure,--and always Nelly and I were together,--always sufficient to -each other, for company. We never dreamed that any thing could come -between us, or that we could ever learn to live without each other. - -We were thirteen when Nelly's cousin from Boston--Lill Simmonds, her -name was--came to see her. It was vacation then, and I had not seen -Nelly for two days, because it had been raining hard. So I did not know -of the expected guest, until one morning Nelly's brother Tom came over, -and told me that his Aunt Simmonds, from Boston, was expected that -noon, and with her his Cousin Lill. - -"She'll be a nice playmate for you and Nelly," he said. "She's only a -year older than you two, and she used to have plenty of fun in her. -Nelly wants you to come over this afternoon, sure." - -That was the beginning of my feeling hard toward Nelly. I was -unreasonable, I know, but I thought she might have come to tell me -the news, herself. I felt a sort of bitter, shut-out feeling all the -forenoon, and after dinner I was half minded not to go over,--to let -her have her Boston cousin all to herself. - -My mother heard some of my speeches, but she was wise enough not to -interfere. When she saw, at last, that curiosity and inclination had -gotten the better of pique and jealousy, she basted a fresh ruffle in -the neck of my afternoon dress, and tied a pretty blue ribbon in my -hair, and I looked as neat and suitable for the occasion as possible. - -At least I thought so, until I got to Nelly's. She did not watch for -my coming, and run to the gate to meet me, as usual. Of course it was -perfectly natural that she should be entertaining her cousin, but I -missed the accustomed greeting; and when she heard my voice at the -door, and came out of the parlor to speak to me, I know that if my -face reflected my heart, it must have worn a most sullen and unamiable -expression. - -"I'm so glad you've come, Sophie," she said cheerfully. "Lill is in the -parlor. I want you to like her. But you can't help it, I know, she's so -lovely; such a beauty." - -"Perhaps I shan't see with your eyes," I answered, with what I imagined -to be most cutting coldness and dignity. - -"Oh yes! I guess you will," she laughed. "We have thought alike about -most things, all our lives." - -I followed her into the parlor, and I saw Lill. If you are a country -girl who read, and have ever been suddenly confronted with a city -young lady in the height of fashion, to whom you were expected to -make yourself agreeable, you can, perhaps, understand what I felt; -particularly if by nature you are not only sensitive, but somewhat -vain, as I am sorry to confess I was. I had been used to think myself -as well-dressed, and as well-looking as any of my young neighbors; I -was neither as well-dressed nor as well-looking as Lill Simmonds. - -Nelly was right. She was a beauty. She was a little taller than Nelly -or I,--a slender, graceful creature, with a high-bred air. It was -years before they had begun to crimp little girls' hair, but I think -Lill's must have been crimped. It was a perfect golden cloud about her -face and shoulders, and all full of little shining waves and ripples. -Then what eyes she had--star bright and deep blue and with lashes so -long that when they drooped they cast a shadow on the pale pink of -her cheeks. Her features were all delicate and pure; her hands white, -with one or two glittering rings upon them; and her clothes! My own -gowns had not seemed to me ill-made before; but now I thought Nelly and -I both looked as if we had come out of the ark. It was the first of -September, and her dress had just been made for fall,--a rich, glossy, -blue poplin, with soft lace at throat and wrists, and a pin and some -tiny ear jewels of exquisitely cut pink coral. - -"Yes," I thought to myself bitterly, "no wonder Nelly was dazzled. -_She_ may like to be the contrast, to help Miss Fine-Airs show off; but -I object to that character, and I shall keep pretty clear of this house -while Miss Lill is in it." - -I spoke to her politely enough, I suppose; and she answered me, it -might have been either shyly or haughtily: I chose in my then mood to -think the latter. Decidedly the afternoon was not a success. - -Nelly did her best to make it pleasant; but she and I couldn't go -poking about into all sorts of odd places, as we did when we were -alone, and we did not know what the Boston cousin would like to do; so -we put on our company manners and _talked_, and for an illustration of -utter dulness and dreariness commend me to a "talk" between three girls -in their early teens, who have nothing of the social ease which comes -of experience and culture, and where two of them have nothing in common -with the other, as regards daily pursuits and habits of life. Lill -talked a little about Burnham's--it was before Loring's day--but we had -read no novelists but Scott and Dickens, and we couldn't discuss with -her whether it wasn't too bad that Gerald married Isabel and did not -marry Margaret. - -We might have brightened a little over the supper, but then Mrs. -Simmonds, who had been sitting upstairs with Nelly's mother, was -present,--a stately dame, in rustling silk and gleaming jewels, who -overawed me completely. I was glad to go home; but the little root of -bitterness I had carried in my heart had grown, until, for the time, it -choked out every thing sweet and good. - -While the Boston cousin stayed, I saw little of Nelly. I am telling the -truth, and I must confess it was my fault. I know now that Nelly was -unchanged; but, of course, she was very much occupied. Whenever I saw -her she was so full of Lill's praises that I foolishly thought I was -nothing to her any more, and Lill was every thing. If I had chosen to -verify her words, instead of chafe at them, I, too, might have enjoyed -Lill's grace and beauty, and learned from her a great many things worth -knowing. But I took my own course, and if the cup I drank was bitter, -it was of my own brewing. - -At last, one afternoon, Nelly came over by herself to see me. I was -most ungracious in my welcome. - -"I don't see how you could tear yourself away from your city company," -I said, with that small, hateful sarcasm, which is so often a girl's -weapon. "They say self-denial is blest: I hope yours will be." - -Perhaps Nelly guessed that my hatefulness had its root in pain; or it -may have been that her own heart was too full of something else for her -to notice my mood. - -"Lill is going to-morrow," she said, gently. - -"Indeed!" I answered; "I don't know how the town will support the loss -of so much beauty and grace. I suppose I shall see more of you then; -but I must not be selfish enough to rejoice in the general misfortune." - -Nelly's gentle eyes filled with tears at last. - -"Sophie," she said, "how can you be so unkind, you whom I have loved -all my life? I am going, too, with Lill, and that is what I came to -tell you. Ever since she has been here, Aunt Simmonds has been trying -to persuade mother to let me go back for a year's schooling with Lill, -but it was not decided until last night. Mother thought, at first, that -I must wait to have my winter things made; but Aunt Simmonds said she -could get them better in Boston, and the same woman would make them for -me who makes Lill's." - -"Indeed! How well dressed you will be!" I said bitterly. "How you will -respect yourself!" - -"Sophie, I don't _know_ you," Nelly burst out, indignantly. "The -hardest of all was to leave you, for we've been together all our lives; -but you are making it easy. Good-by." - -She put her arms round me, even then, and kissed me, and I responded -coldly. Oh how could I, when I loved her so? I watched her out of -sight, and then I sank down upon the grass, and laid my head upon a -little bench where we had often sat together, and sobbed and cried till -I could scarcely see. I was half tempted to go over to Nelly's, and ask -her to forgive me; but my wicked pride and jealousy wouldn't let me. -Lill would be there, I thought, and she wouldn't want me while she had -Lill. So I stayed away. - -The next morning they all went off. When I heard the car-whistle at the -little railroad station a mile and a half away, I began to cry again. -Then, if it had not been too late, I would have gone and implored my -friend to forgive me, and not shut me out of her heart. But the day for -repentance was over. - -The slow months went on. I missed Nelly at school, at home, everywhere. -I longed for her with an incurable longing. It was to me almost as if -she were dead. People wrote many less letters in those days than they -do now, and neither Nelly nor I had learned to express any thing of -our real selves on paper. We exchanged three or four letters, but they -amounted to little more than the statement that we were well, and the -list of our studies. One look into Nelly's eyes would have been worth a -thousand such. - -There were other pleasant girls in town, but I took none of them into -Nelly's vacant place: how could I? Who of them would remember all my -past life, as she did,--she who had shared with me so many perfect -days of June, so many long, bright summers and melancholy autumns, -and winters white with snow? I was, as I have shown you, jealous and -hateful and cruel, but never for a moment fickle. - -At last Nelly came again. It was a day in the late June, and she found -me just where she had left me, under the old horse-chestnut tree in -the great old-fashioned garden. I knew it must be almost time for her -coming, but I had not asked any one about it. Somehow I couldn't. I -very seldom even spoke her name in those days. So she stole upon me -unawares, and the first I knew her arms were round me,--her warm, -tender lips against my own,--and her sweet, unchanged voice cried,-- - -"O Sophie, this is good, this is coming home, indeed!" - -I cried like a very child. Nell didn't quite understand that; but then -she had not had, like me, a hard place in her heart, which needed happy -tears to melt it away. I think, in spite of the tears, I was more glad -of the meeting even than she. After a little while she said,-- - -"Come, I want you to go home with me now, and see Lill." - -Will you believe that even then the old, bitter jealousy began to gnaw -again at my heart? She had been with Lill almost a year; could she not -be content to give me a single hour without her? Perhaps she saw my -thought in my face; for she added, in such a sad, pitiful tone, "Poor -Lill!" - -"Poor Lill," indeed! with her beautiful golden hair, and her eyes like -stars, and her lovely gowns, and her city airs, "poor Lill!" - -"I should never think of calling Miss Simmonds poor," I said, with the -old hardness back in my voice. - -"You will when you see her, now," Nelly answered gently. "She had a -hard fall on the icy pavement, last winter, and she hurt her hip, and -it's been growing worse and worse. She can hardly walk at all, now, and -she has suffered awfully. But she has been, oh so patient!" - -And how I had dared to envy that girl! I was shocked and silenced. I -walked along by Nelly's side very quietly. When we got there she took -me up into her room, and there I saw Lill Simmonds. I should hardly -have known her. The golden glory of hair floated about her still. The -eyes were star-bright yet, but the cheeks which the long lashes shaded -were pink no longer, and they were so thin and hollow that it was -pitiful to see them. - -She wore a wrapper of some soft blue stuff, and on her lap lay her -frail, transparent hands. She started up to meet us with a smile which -for a moment gave back some of the old brightness to her face, but -which faded almost instantly. I sat down beside the lounging-chair -where she was lying, but I could not talk to her. The sight of her -wasted loveliness was all too sad. After a little while she said to -Nelly,-- - -"Won't you, you are always so good to me, go and fetch me a glass of -the cool water from the spring at the foot of the garden?" - -Nelly went instantly, and then Lill turned to me and put her hand on my -arm. - -"I asked her to go, Sophie," she said, "because I wanted to speak to -you. I wanted to say something to you which it would hurt her to hear. -I used to be very jealous of you, Sophie. I wanted Nelly to love me -best, but she never did. She had loved you so long that I could see -you were always first in her heart. And now I am glad. I shall never be -well again, and when I am gone I would not like Nelly to be so unhappy -as she would be if she had loved me first and best. She will miss me, -and she will be very sorry for me; but she will have you, and you can -comfort her. I am ashamed now of that old jealousy. I think it made me -not nice to you last summer." - -Lill jealous of me! I was dumb with sheer amazement. And I, how much -bitterness and injustice I had to confess! But before I could put it -into words Nelly had come back, and a look from Lill kept me silent. - -That night, when I went away, I put my arms round my darling and kissed -her with my whole heart, as I had not done for a year. She never knew -how much went into that kiss, of sorrow and shame and self-reproach. - -What months those were which followed! I was constantly with Nelly -and her cousin. Mrs. Simmonds was there, but Lill spent most of her -day-time hours with us girls; to spare her mother, probably, who was -with her every night, and also because she loved us both. Sometimes, on -fine days, she would walk a little under the trees; and I have knelt -unseen, in a passion of loving humility, and kissed the grass over -which she had dragged after her her helpless foot. Growing near to -death, she grew in grace. As Nelly said, one day,-- - -"Her wings are growing. She will fly away with them soon." - -And so she did. Through the summer she lingered, suffering much at -times, but always patient and gentle and uncomplaining. And when the -dead leaves of autumn went fluttering down the wind, she died with the -dead summer, and upborne on the wings of some messenger of God her soul -went home. - -Even her mother hardly dared mourn for her,--her life had been so pure -and so peaceful,--her death was so tranquil and so happy. I had ceased, -long before, to be jealous of her. No one could love her too much. She -was my saint; and her memory has hallowed many a thought during the -long, world-weary years since. I need but to close my eyes to see a -pale, patient face, with its glory of golden hair and its eyes bright -as stars; and often, on some soft wind, I seem to hear her voice, -speaking again the last words I ever heard her speak,-- - -"Love each other always, my darlings, and remember I loved you both." - -We have obeyed her faithfully, Nelly and I. Through the long years -since, no coldness or estrangement has ever come between us. My first -and last jealousy was buried in Lill's grave; and Nelly and I have -proved, to our own satisfaction at least, that a friendship between -two girls may be strong as it is sweet, faithful as it is fond,--the -inalienable riches of a whole life. - - - - -MISSY. - - -Miss Hurlburt had wandered farther into the woods than was her habit, -beguiled by the wonderful loveliness overhead, underfoot, all about -her. It was an afternoon in early October, but warm as June. The leaves -were of a thousand brilliant hues; for one or two nights of keen frost, -a week before, had seemed to set them on fire. There were boughs as -scarlet as the burning bush before which Moses wondered and worshipped. -There were others of deep orange; and others, still, of variegated -leaves, where the green lingered and was mixed with scarlet and brown -and yellow, till some of them looked like patterns in a kaleidoscope. - -Underfoot was the delicate, fresh woodland moss. Sometimes pine needles -made the path soft; and sometimes, leaves, which had died earlier than -their mates, rustled under Miss Hurlburt's tread. Above, high over the -flaming tree boughs, was the deep, lustrous, blue sky, with all its -heavenly secrets. The air was full of that wonderful, radiant haze of -autumn which makes the distance vague with beauty. And the temperature, -as I said, was of June; so warm that Miss Hurlburt had taken off her -hat, and let the scarlet mantle fall from her shoulders. - -She herself, had a painter been there to study the scene, would have -been no unworthy wood nymph. Her figure was full, but not too full for -grace. Health and strength were in every line of it. Her fine, abundant -hair, like that of which Lowell wrote, "outwardly brown, but inwardly -golden," was brushed back from her low, broad forehead, and coiled in -a great heavy knot, from which a stray curl or two had escaped, at the -back of her proud little head. - -She had great brown eyes, full of thought and feeling; cheeks, in -which the rich, warm color glowed; bright, full, half-parted lips. -She carried herself with grace, regal though unstudied. She never -consciously remembered that she was Eleanor Hurlburt,--whose father -owned the two great factories in the valley, and all the lands far -and near, even these royal woods through which she walked,--but, -unconsciously to herself, the fact gave firmness and elasticity to her -step, and self-possession to her air. - -She very seldom wandered alone so far away from home. The factory -hands were a necessary part of the great wealth which surrounded Miss -Hurlburt's life with ease and luxury; but some of them might not be -altogether pleasant to meet in lonely places,--so she usually was -driven out in the elegant Victoria, with the spanking bays which were -her father's pride, by the decorous family coachman; or drove herself -in her jaunty little pony phaeton, with her own man, all bands and -buttons, seated in the rumble behind. - -But to-day it happened that she was walking. I said "it happened," -because we speak in that way before we think; though nothing is farther -from my belief than that any thing ever _happens_ in this world which -God has made, and in which He never loses sight of the smallest or -poorest thing. At any rate, Miss Hurlburt was walking, and she wandered -on, until at last she heard a tender little voice singing a tender -little song. It was so fine and clear, it might almost have been the -carol of a bird, only birds have not yet learned the English language, -and _this_ voice sang: - - - "Your brother has a falcon, - Your sister has a flower; - But what is left for manikin, - Born within an hour? - - "I'll nurse you on my knee, my knee, - My own little son; - I'll rock you, rock you in my arms, - My least little one." - - -Such a quaint little song, such a quaint little voice! Miss Hurlburt -wondered for a moment who it could possibly be. Then she remembered -hearing that, while she was away in the summer, an elderly English -woman and a little girl had been allowed to take possession of the -cabin in the woods which her father owned. - -It was a little house with two rooms, which had been built, long ago, -as a lodge for hunters; but which had for several years stood vacant, -being too far from the factories to be a convenient residence for any -of the hands. - -Miss Hurlburt went on a few steps farther, and saw the singer. It was a -pretty picture. A little creature, who looked about five or six years -old, sat in the door-way tending a battered doll. She was almost as -brown as a gypsy, this small waif, but there was a singular grace about -her. Her black hair hung in thick, short curls. She had great, bright, -black eyes; lips as red as strawberries; and teeth as white as pearls. - -Miss Hurlburt moved on softly, so as not to disturb her; and the waif -took up her doll, and talked to it wisely and soberly, after the manner -of some mothers. - -"Now, Pinky, me love, I have singed you a song. Now you must be good -for a whole week of hours, or I shan't sing to you, never no more. I -mean any more, Pinky. Be very careful how you speak, always; no good -children ever go wrong in their talking." - -By this time Miss Hurlburt had almost reached her side. - -"Does your child give you much trouble?" she said, in a tone friendly -and inviting confidence. - -The mite shook her head, with all its black curls. - -"Pinky, me love? No; she only gives me trouble when she is bad. She is -good most always, unless it rains." - -"Is she bad then?" with an air of anxious interest. - -"Certain she is: who wouldn't be? She has to stay in the house then; -and she doesn't like it. Would you? How can persons be good when they -don't have what they want?" - -By this time a nice, motherly-looking old English woman had heard the -talk, and came forward to the door. - -"Missy," she said, "always thinks Pinky is bad when she is bad herself; -and Missy is most always cross when it rains." - -"What is your name?" Miss Hurlburt asked, bending to smooth the black -curls. - -"Berenice Ashford," the child answered, in a slow, painstaking manner, -as if the words had been taught her with care; "but they don't call me -that,--they call me 'Missy.'" - -"Is she your grandchild?" was the next question, addressed to the -elderly woman, who had set a chair near the door and asked the young -lady to sit down. - -"No, that she isn't, and I would like much to find out whose child she -is. To be sure, I should miss her more than a little, if I had to part -with her: but, all the same, I should like to find her kindred. She -belongs to gentle-folks, and I can't do for her what ought to be done." - -A few more questions drew out the whole story. The woman, Mrs. Smith, -had a son in America, who was doing well at his trade of dyeing; and he -had sent for her to come out to him. He had sent money enough for her -expenses, and she had taken passage in the second cabin of a steamer. - -Among her fellow-passengers were Missy and her mother,--the latter a -beautiful young lady, Mrs. Smith said, but very pale and sad. She had -complained sometimes of a keen and terrible pain in her heart; but she -had made little conversation with any one. When they were five days -out, she had been found in the morning dead in her berth, with Missy -sound asleep beside her. - -There was no possible clew to her history. In her trunk, full of her -own clothes and Missy's, was no scrap of handwriting, no address. The -one or two books which were there, bore on their fly-leaves only the -inscription "E. Forsyth." She had taken passage as Mrs. Forsyth, but -the captain knew nothing more about her. - -Mrs. Smith had somehow taken possession of Missy. She had played with -the child and amused her a good deal, before her mother died; and now -the little creature clung to her as her only friend. - -There was something over a hundred dollars in the mother's trunk, -but as yet Mrs. Smith said she had not used it. When she reached New -York, instead of being met by her son, an old neighbor came for her -to the steamer, brought her the news of his death, and gave her the -money--nearly a thousand dollars in all--which he had been saving to -make the new home they were to have together comfortable. - -It was an awful blow, and she clung to Missy, then, for it seemed as -if the child was all she had left in the world. The captain said that -he would advertise for the little one's friends; but, meantime, he was -evidently very glad to be relieved of the responsibility of her. - -"How happened you to come here?" Miss Hurlburt asked. - -"I had always lived in the country, miss, and I didn't want to stay any -longer than I could help in New York; and my son had been meaning to -bring me here. It seemed a little comfort, to come where I should have -come with him. He had engaged with Mr. Hurlburt--the one who owns the -big factories--to come here and see to the dyeing; and Mr. Hurlburt was -so good as to give me this little house rent-free, for a while. By and -by I want to get something to do. If I could be housekeeper somewhere -where I could keep Missy, or head-nurse, or something of that sort, it -would suit me,--but there's no hurry." - -"Mr. Hurlburt is my father," the young lady said, when she had heard -the story through. "We must see what can be done. Missy, should you -like to live with me?" - -The child considered. Then she addressed her doll, inquiringly. - -"Pinky, me love, should _you_ like to live with the lady? I guess she's -good. Would you go, if your mother went?" Then she pretended to listen. -"'No, I thank you,' Pinky says; 'she couldn't go without Grandma -Smith.'" - -"Of course Pinky couldn't," Miss Hurlburt said, laughing. "Well, then, -I'll come again to see you, and bring Pinky's new gown." - -That evening, at dinner, Miss Hurlburt was radiant. She knew her father -liked to see her well dressed, and she made a handsome toilet. She -coaxed him into his very best humor by all the arts only daughters -of widowed fathers are wont to use; and then, when he was seated -comfortably before the open fire, which tempered the chill of the -October evening, she unfolded her plan and her wishes. - -The beginning and the end were that she wanted Missy,--she must -have Missy,--and the middle was that she couldn't be so cruel as -to take from Mrs. Smith her one comfort, so she wanted Mrs. Smith. -She represented herself as fearfully overworked, in keeping the -establishment in order. Now how nice it would be if Mrs. Smith could -take all the troublesome details of that off her hands; could see that -the house was clean, and the washing well done, and the buttons on. She -had needed just such a person a long time, but she hadn't known where -to find her; and now here she was, really made to order, as it seemed. - -Of course she had her way. The world called Jonathan Hurlburt a stern -man, but it was not often he could say "no" to his motherless daughter. -The very next day Miss Hurlburt went with her proposition to the little -cabin in the wood; and, before a week was over, Missy and Grandma Smith -were duly installed as members of the Hurlburt household. - -As for the business part of the experiment, Mrs. Smith proved worth -her weight in gold, as they say. Before three months were over, Mr. -Hurlburt discovered that she saved him five times her wages in money, -and added immeasurably to the household comfort,--indeed, he concluded -that she was, as Eleanor had said, really made to order. - -As for Missy, with her quaint ways, her odd, old-fashioned speeches, -and the little songs she sang, she was speedily the delight of the -household. She lost no whit of her affection for Grandma Smith, but it -was Miss Hurlburt who was her idol. - -"Pinky, me love," she used often to say to her faithful doll friend, -"did you ever see any miss so nice as our Miss Hurlburt? You had better -not say you did, Pinky, me love; because then it would be me very -sorrowful duty to whip you for telling lies." - -Miss Hurlburt's delight in her little waif was unbounded. She dressed -her up, like a child in a story-book. When she drove in her Victoria, -Missy always sat beside her, gorgeous in velvet suit and soft ermine -furs; and at home Missy was never far away. - -Before spring, another strange event took place. I will not say -happened, for no chapter of accidents would ever have read so -strangely. A young English manufacturer came over to America. Mr. -Hurlburt had had, by letter, various dealings with the firm which -he represented; and, on hearing of his arrival in New York, wrote, -begging a visit of some length from him. The young man, whose object in -his American journey was partly business and partly pleasure, saw an -opportunity to combine both in this visit, and accepted the invitation. - -He amused himself more or less with Missy, as did every one who came -to the house; but he had been a member of the household for several -days before it occurred to him that she was not Miss Hurlburt's young -sister. Under this impression he remarked one night,-- - -"How curiously slight is the resemblance between yourself and your -little sister, Miss Hurlburt!" - -"Oh! Missy is not my sister," was the smiling answer. "She is -treasure-trove, Mr. Goring." - -And a little later, when Missy had danced away in search of Pinky, she -told him the whole story. He listened with intense interest. - -"And do you know her name?" he asked, at last. - -"She says it is Berenice Ashford. You would laugh to hear the slow, -painstaking way in which she pronounces it." - -Mr. Goring had turned pale as she spoke. - -"Excuse me, Miss Hurlburt, but I truly believe your Missy is my niece. -My half-brother married against the wishes of his family, and I was the -only one of them who ever made the acquaintance of his poor, pretty -young wife. Even when he died, last year, the rest would not have any -thing to do with her. She had a brother in America, and she wanted to -come here, so I took passage for her in the "Asia." She insisted on -coming in the second cabin, because it was quieter, she said; but I -think it was to save expense, as well. Tom had left her nothing; and, -after the rest of the family had rejected her, I could see that it hurt -her pride cruelly to let me help her. She should be all right, she -said, when she reached her brother. She was to write me when she got -there, but I have never heard a word. I confess that the hope to hear -of her was one motive for my coming to this country." - -"But she was Mrs. Forsyth," Miss Hurlburt said, in a curiously -bewildered state of mind. - -"Certainly: Forsyth was my brother's name. Berenice Ashford is the -child's Christian name. It was the name of Tom's mother and mine." - -"But I wonder you did not know Missy at once." - -"Of course to find her here was the very last thing I could have -expected. Then I had not seen her for two or three years. I had -communicated with my sister-in-law chiefly by letter; and it was my man -of business, and not myself, who put her on board the steamer." - -"But her brother? Why has he never looked for his sister nor her child?" - -Goring smiled. - -"You are bent on making me prove my title to Missy, as one does to -stolen goods. I think Mrs. Forsyth must have gone on without writing -to him in what steamer she was coming, and he probably did not know -my address. Nor do I think he had ever shown any especial interest -in his sister. It was only her indomitable pride which made her so -determined to go to him, when the family of her husband rejected her. -Now, I think, I have proved property, and I'm ready to pay the cost of -advertising." - -Just then Missy's voice was heard in the hall, addressing a solemn -exhortation to "Pinky, me love," on the duty of never being greedy at -table. Miss Hurlburt called her in. - -"Missy," she said, "what was your papa's name?" - -"I never knew; did you ever know, Pinky, me love? Mamma called him Tom." - -"And did you ever hear mamma speak of Uncle Richard?" Mr. Goring broke -in, eagerly. - -"You do remember, Pinky, me love. It is wicked to look as if you -didn't. She said we couldn't go to America and find Uncle John, if -Uncle Richard had not given us the money. _I_ remember that, but I had -'most forgotten; so if you forgot, too, I shall not whip you, Pinky, -me love." - -"I am your Uncle Richard," the Englishman said with entire calmness of -manner and gesture, but with tears in his voice and his eyes. Perhaps -he expected the child to come at once to his arms; but she stood there, -the same composed, self-poised little mite as ever. - -"_Your_ great-uncle, Pinky, me love," she announced,--manifesting an -unexpectedly clear knowledge of degrees of kinship. "I think maybe we -shall like him." - -"And you will go with me back to England?" he asked, eagerly; for the -little creature's likeness to his dead brother stirred his heart. - -"Does _she_ say I must?" Missy asked, shyly, looking at Miss Hurlburt. - -"I will never say you must, Missy." - -"Then, please, Uncle Richard, I am afraid going in a ship wouldn't -agree with Pinky; and we'd rather stay here, unless our Miss Hurlburt -will go too." - -"Soh, soh!" and Mr. Goring smiled a quizzical smile, "I see I have a -heart to storm." - -Whose heart he did not say. But he lingered some time in America, -coming back at frequent intervals to visit Missy, as he said. The -result was that when he returned to England little Missy had become -ready to go with him, even at the risk of exposing "Pinky me love," to -the perils of the sea; and Miss Hurlburt, thinking she needed something -other than masculine oversight, concluded to go with her and take care -of her, having first changed her own name to Mrs. Goring. And they all -said what a fortunate thing it was that Mrs. Smith was there to keep -house. - - - - -THE HEAD BOY OF EAGLEHEIGHT SCHOOL. - - -The boys in Eagleheight school made up their minds before the first -fortnight of Max Grenoble's stay among them was over that he had -no spirit. The truth was, they didn't exactly understand him. They -began when he first came to exercise upon him their usual arts of -torture,--the initiation ceremonies for all new boys,--and found him -practically a non-resistant. They could not, indeed, be quite sure that -they even succeeded in vexing him: he was so imperturbable. At last Hal -Somers, goaded to a degree of exasperation by the quiet calmness of the -new boy, struck him, with the outcry,-- - -"There, boys, see how this suits the Quaker." - -It was a sound, ringing blow; but Max only laughed a laugh which had a -good deal of scorn in it, and said,-- - -"That's very little to take." Then regarding Hal curiously, "I looked -for a tougher blow than that. To see you, Somers, one would think you -had a good deal of strength in your arms; but a bad cause is always -weak." - -Hal would have liked then to "pitch into him" with whatever of strength -he had; but I think he was afraid. So he only turned on his heel, -muttered something about a fellow not worth fighting with, and walked -away. From that time those who did not vote Max Grenoble a coward -pronounced him a mystery. He did not look at all as if he were wanting -in spirit. He was a great strong Saxon of a fellow, with the head of -a young Greek, covered with thick, short golden curls. I wish I could -photograph him for you: he was such an embodiment of fresh, vigorous -life, with his clear, fearless blue eyes, his short, smiling upper lip, -his well-cut features. He was just the fellow to be popular, if only he -had not been misunderstood in the first place, and especially if he had -not happened to incur Hal Somers's enmity. - -Hal had been there two years, and was a positive force in the school. -He had a large capacity in several other directions besides mischief. -He had been the best scholar at Eagleheight before Max came to dispute -his laurels with him; a favorite, therefore, with the teachers, who -always passed over his escapades, which were not few, as lightly as -they could. In fact he was a sort of ringleader of the faster boys, -and he found time, in spite of his never failing in class, to plan -out and head the execution of most of the jollifications which were -the terror of the quiet villagers around Eagleheight. He seldom had -any of his offences positively brought home and proven, it is true, -and the faculty of the institution liked him too well to condemn him -on suspicion, or even to try very hard to strengthen suspicion into -certainty. - -They, the aforesaid faculty, were not at all too ready to give Max -Grenoble his due when he first came. He was not, like Hal, of their -own training. He had come to them from a rival school, and they were -secretly ill pleased to find in him a dangerous competitor with their -best scholar. But before six months were over they were obliged to -recognize his claims, and had even come to heartily like him. And, -indeed, he was a fellow, as Edmund Sparkler would have said, with no -nonsense about him, and likely to make his own way anywhere. - -Whenever he had the opportunity to show his skill he was found to excel -in all athletic sports; but this was not often, for the boys rather -shunned him, and if there were enough for an undertaking without him he -was usually left out of it. He had one friend, however,--a poor little -weakling of a fellow, named Molyneux Bell, who had been friendless -before Max came. Hal Somers and his roystering set had always shoved -poor little "Miss Molly," as they called young Bell, to the wall; -and it opened paradise to him when great, strong, bright, cheery Max -Grenoble took him under his protecting wing. He gave as much as he -received too; for Max had a strongly affectionate nature, and would -have found himself desolate enough without some one to be fond of. Only -"Miss Molly" knew the secret of his friend's non-resistance. One day -Max had carried him in his arms across a stream they came to in one of -their walks, and set him gently down on the other side. Molyneux looked -up gratefully. - -"What great strong arms you have, Max! Why, you carry me as gently as -a cradle. I believe you could whip Hal Somers himself, just as easy as -nothing. Honest, now, don't you think you could? O, I _wish_ you would! -The boys wouldn't dare then to call us 'Miss Molly and her sister.'" - -Max laughed heartily. - -"I shouldn't be much afraid to try it," he said. "The truth is, I have -been awfully tempted to pitch in, sometimes. But last year I made up -my mind that the Bible meant what it said when it forbade us to return -evil for evil and railing for railing. It comes tough on human nature, -though, boy human nature at any rate; but there'd be no merit if there -was no struggle, and we're put here to fight with the old man in us, as -my father calls it." - -"But if you'd tell 'em _why_ you never knock a fellow down when he -sauces you." - -Max's face crimsoned like a girl's. - -"Don't you understand that a fellow _couldn't_ tell such things? at -least, I couldn't. I should feel like the Pharisee in the Bible." - -At the end of the school year there was to be a competitive -examination. The credits for conduct and for recitations were to be -taken into account, and the boy who stood highest on the books, and -passed the best examination also, was to be the head boy of the school -for the next year. From the first the field was abandoned to two -competitors,--Hal Somers and Max Grenoble. All Hal's emulation was -aroused. He _would_ succeed. He even forsook his old ways, and for -weeks together engaged in nothing that was contraband. He had really -fine abilities. He learned some things more readily than Max himself, -and he felt that all his prestige depended on his securing this -leadership. Max took the matter more coolly, but still he worked with -all diligence. And so, till within ten days of the examination, they -were neck and neck. - -Just then there came a dark night,--a warm, tempting June night,--when -the moon was old, and only the stars shone, like very far-away lamps -indeed, through the dusk. A friend of Hal Somers was night monitor, and -doubtless the temptation afforded by such apparent security was too -much for mischief-loving Hal. It chanced that Max Grenoble had received -permission from one of the tutors to go to the neighboring village of -an errand, and this fact was known only to his own room-mate, Molyneux -Bell. About half-past nine he was returning, and for greater speed -crossed a lot belonging to the president of the institution, which -saved him an extra quarter of a mile of road. Half way across the lot -he met Hal Somers with three other boys behind him, face to face. Hal -carried a small lantern, and a great pair of shears such as are used -to shear sheep. The light from the lantern struck upon the shears with -a glitter which led Max to notice them. In the hands of one of Hal's -followers he saw the long, silvery tail of a white horse, and another -carried a bunch of hair of a similar hue, evidently the mane of the -same animal. - -"Hal Somers!" - -He spoke in his first moment of surprise, without consideration; but -there came no answer. The lantern was blown out in a moment, and the -boys made the best of their way toward Eagleheight. As Max walked on -more slowly he heard a pitiful neigh, and following the sound, he -found President King's pet horse, utterly denuded of mane and tail. It -was a joke carried a little too far even for Hal Somers's effrontery, -he thought to himself. If there was any thing outside of his school -that President King loved and prided himself on more than another, it -was Snowflake. He gave her something of the fond care a family man -bestows upon his children. Every afternoon she was the companion of his -solitude, to whom he talked, with a sort of grave humor of his own, as -he took his constitutional upon her back. He would not be likely to -have much toleration for the young rascals who had shorn her of all her -glory. Max went on, reported himself to Professor Vane, from whom he -had obtained his leave of absence, and went to bed without hinting what -he had seen, even to his room-mate. - -The next morning when the school went to chapel, there was a sense of -thunder in the air. President King had seen his favorite, as those who -were guilty did not need to be told, after one look at his lowering -face. He conducted the devotions with more than his usual solemnity, -and then detained the school a little longer. - -He uttered a few withering sentences, setting forth what had been done, -and commenting satirically upon the invention, the gentlemanliness, -the good sense of young men whose brains could originate nothing -more brilliant or entertaining than the disfigurement of an unlucky -quadruped, and an annoyance and insult to a teacher who had at least -this claim upon their respect, that their parents had put them under -his charge. Then he gave them the opportunity to confess their folly, -assuring them that confession was good for the soul, and adding that he -should take it as a favor if any one who knew any thing of the affair, -whether personally concerned in it or not, would give him all the -information in his power. It was not the practice at Eagleheight to ask -any individual boy whether or not he had been guilty. It was one of -President King's notions that to ask such a question of any one who had -not manliness enough to confess his fault voluntarily was only leading -him into temptation, offering safety as a premium for lying. - -As the fellows filed out of chapel, Hal Somers said to his chum,-- - -"It's all up with me about the leadership. Of course Grenoble will -tell, especially now the Prex makes a merit of it." - -"Fool if he wouldn't," was the reply, "after the way we fellows have -all treated him, too." - -All day Hal was in hourly expectation of being sent for to an interview -solemn and awful in the president's room. But the hours went on and -no summons came. About four o'clock he saw Max Grenoble go into the -dreaded chamber of audience. Now, he thought, all would come out. Of -course Max had gone to tell all he knew. Would he be suspended, or -expelled, he wondered, or would the Prex be satisfied with giving him -black marks enough to put the leadership altogether beyond his reach? -Then a plan came to him. The president's room was on the lower floor, -and over one of its windows grew a grape vine large enough to conceal -him from observation. He would go there and listen. That it was a -very mean thing to do he knew as well as any body, but temptation was -too strong for him, and giving one look to make sure that he was not -observed he hid himself away under the open window. The first words he -heard were in the voice of the president: - -"As soon as Vane told me you were out last evening, it occurred to me -that you would know who was at the bottom of the affair, and it seems -you do." - -"Yes, sir," firmly and quietly. - -"Then there can be no possible doubt that it is your duty to tell." - -"It cannot be my duty, sir, to be a sneak. This secret came into my -hands by accident. If I had been monitor for the evening, it would, -of course, be my duty to make it known. Not having been in any such -capacity, _I_ think were I to turn telltale I should be no gentleman." - -"It's a new order of things when fifty must come to fifteen to be told -what it is to be a gentleman," the president said, hotly. "Perhaps you -don't know, sir, that if you persist in your resolution you lose all -hope of the leadership? You will be considered an accessory in the -crime, and you will lose as many credit marks as would be taken from -the ringleader were he detected." - -"I can afford to lose those better than my own self-respect," Max said, -stoutly, and then added, "I think _you_ would have done the same, -President King, when you were at my age." - -Hal waited to hear no more, but edged cautiously from his place of -concealment. He thought he was not above profiting by Max's generosity. -He tried to think Max was a fool, but there was an inner voice in his -heart which whispered that there was something sublime in such folly, -and, try as he might, this inner voice would not altogether be silenced. - -The days went on swiftly. Max kept his scholarship up to the highest -standard, but the twenty credit marks taken from his list put all hope -of his attaining the leadership out of the question. - -It was the very night before the examination when President King -answered a tap on his door with his well known, resonant "Come in." His -visitor was Hal Somers. - -The next morning, after prayers, the president said, very quietly,-- - -"Young gentlemen, before the examination commences I have to detain you -long enough to perform a simple act of justice. I acquit Max Grenoble -of all complicity in the misdemeanor committed on the night of the 14th -of June; the entire burden of the same having been assumed by Henry -Somers, in behalf of himself, William Graves, George Saunders, and John -Morse. And as this confession was voluntary, I shall visit upon the -offenders no severer penalty than the loss of all their credit marks -for the last quarter." - -Poor little Molyneux Bell forgot time and place, and threw his -handkerchief into the air with one glad shout:-- - -"I knew Max would come out right at last; I knew he would." - -So Max went back the next year to Eagleheight, as the head boy; and -under his leadership a new state of affairs was brought about. He led -them not only in class, and in athletic exercises, but in all true -manliness. They had found out at length that he had plenty of "pluck -and grit," even though he might not emulate Sayers or Heenan. One of -his warmest friends was Hal Somers, in whose character enough nobility -was latent to recognize at last the sterling worth even of his rival. - - - - -AGATHA'S LONELY DAYS. - - -They had buried Agatha's mother,--put her away under a sheltering -tree, beloved of bird and breeze, which waved its boughs between her -and the bending, changeful summer sky. Agatha thought no other spot in -the world could be so pleasant or so dear; and she longed, from the -depths of her little, ten-years-old heart, to stay there with bird, and -breeze, and tree, and the buried mother, who must hear her voice, she -thought, even though she could never reply to it again in all the years. - -Her father, pale with sorrow himself, had never come near enough to his -child to be her comforter now. He talked little to any one of either -his joys or his sorrows. Agatha loved him, partly because she had -always been taught to love and have faith in him; and, partly, too, -because she knew well, with that childish and intuitive perception -which discovers every thing, how dear he was to her mother; but she did -not feel near to him, and she could not possibly have told him how she -longed to stay there beside that grave. She made no protest when he -took her hand to lead her away, though it seemed to her that she left -her heart behind her, and that the lump in her breast was a cold stone -to which warmth would never come back any more. - -She went home, and some one took off her little black hat, and put on -an apron over her mourning gown, and then she was left in peace to -sit at the window, and look out toward the spot where they had laid -her mother, and wonder what was to become of _her_. They called her -to supper, but she was not hungry,--she thought she never should be -again,--and there was no mother to beguile her with dainty morsels. -When they found she did not want to come they let her alone, and still -she sat there and wondered. - -At last the twilight fell, and in the dusk her father came to her. -He loved her very dearly; and especially now, that her mother was -gone, and only she was left to him, he felt for her an unspeakable -tenderness; literally unspeakable, for he did not know how to utter one -word of it to his child. He longed to comfort her,--to tell her how -dear she was to him,--but he could not. He sat down beside her, and -looked at her little pale face, outlined against the western window, -with such a depth of pity that it seemed to make his voice quieter and -colder than ever when he spoke, because it required such an effort to -speak at all. - -"To-morrow, Agatha, I shall take you to your Aunt Irene. Every girl -needs a woman's care, and she will watch over you as faithfully as if -you were her own." - -Agatha never dreamed of objecting. She tried to think that she might as -well be in one place as another, for she shouldn't live long anywhere -without her mother. But she dreaded Aunt Irene's watching, as she -dreaded few things in the world. She had made visits now and then at -the quiet old homestead of which this aunt was mistress, and it seemed -to her, on such occasions, that Aunt Irene did nothing but watch her -from the time she entered the house; and in those days it had taken all -the sunshine of her mother's joyous nature to gild the visits into some -substitute for the pleasures other children took in their vacations. -Now, to go without her mother--all alone--and be "watched over" by -her aunt! She began to know that she had a heart, after all, by its -frightened fluttering. - -Aunt Irene was her father's sister, with all the Raymond peculiarities -of pride, and reserve, and silence, which made him half a stranger -to his own child, intensified in her by her life of seclusion and of -absolute authority over herself and her possessions. Her experiences -had been narrow, and her aims had been narrow also. Mr. Raymond saw -this, his one sister, always at her best; and, through long knowledge -of her, he understood her really trustworthy and excellent qualities. -He felt that he was doing for Agatha the best which fate now permitted -him to do, in confiding her to this guidance, so sure to be wise, as he -believed, even if not loving. - -The long car-ride next day was almost a silent one. Agatha would have -rejected with hot juvenile scorn, the idea that the presence or absence -of any material comforts could affect her grief; and yet she would -have felt a little less desolate, I think, if the heat had not been so -intense, the dust so choking, and the seat so hard and straight. - -When she had made the journey in other years with her mother, how much -shorter the way had seemed. The fresh linen frocks she used to wear -were so much easier and cooler than the stifling black gown she had -on to-day; and somehow her mother knew just when to open the windows -and when to shut them, and if the seat was straight and hard, there -was always mamma's lap or shoulder to lean against; and she forgot -to be weary when mamma beguiled the time by poem or story. But her -father rode silently, looking into vacancy for a face he would never -see again; and after he had once bought Agatha's ticket, and seated -her beside him, it did not occur to him to do any thing to relieve the -monotony of the long, dusty ride. - -It was dusk when the stage from the railway station set them down at -Aunt Irene's door. Agatha walked up the path timidly. It was a long, -straight path, and either side of it grew thoroughly well-disciplined -flowers; a rosebush on one side, just opposite to a rosebush on the -other,--Agatha wondered if either of them would have dared to bear -one rose more than the other did,--a peony on one side and its mate -opposite; so of a syringa bush, a flowering almond, and a root of -lilies. Between the well-marshalled ranks of flowers, which somehow -made the child think of soldiers on guard, she followed her father up -to the door, where Aunt Irene waited, grim chatelaine. - -Mr. Raymond shook hands with his sister, and then said gravely,-- - -"Irene, I have brought you my poor, motherless little girl," and Aunt -Irene put out her firm, strong, unyielding hand and took the child's -into it, then bent and--not kissed her, kisses belonged to the dead -days--but laid her lips on her cheek, and so Agatha went in. - -Every thing was good and substantial in Aunt Irene's house. You found -there no frail stands which a careless touch might throw over, no -brittle ornaments, no egg-shell china. The carpets were dark and rich -and sombre. The tables and chairs were all of solid wood, and stood -high and square. The sofas were heavy and firm, and the whole air of -the place was grave and respectable, as Aunt Irene's surroundings -should have been. I am not sure that any light, modern, fancy articles, -suggestive of elegant idleness, had they been placed in her rooms, -would not themselves have perceived their unsuitableness, and trundled -off on their own castors. - -The supper which awaited the travellers followed the prevailing fashion -of the house. The biscuits were three times as large as the biscuits -on other tea-tables. There were no frisky rolls, no light-minded whips -or wafers. But there were good old-fashioned preserve, serious-looking -cake, and substantial slices of cold meat. - -Aunt Irene herself, sitting behind the tea-urn--solid silver, of -course--comported with all the rest. She was a solid woman, with no -superfluous flesh, and yet with a well-fed, well-to-do aspect, which -was unmistakable. Her head was high and narrow, her features good, her -strong hair had disdained to turn gray, and her eyes were keen if cold. -Her lips, which had never cooed over babies, or soothed the sorrows of -little children, or talked nonsense to any listener, were thin, as to -such seldom-used lips seemed natural. They shut tightly over all her -secrets. - -Agatha's head began to ache furiously, and she could not eat. The room -swam round and round till she felt as if she were the centre of a -rolling ball, and her chair rocked, she thought, and she was slipping -off it, when her father saw her white, strange face and wavering -figure, and sprang up just in time to catch her in his arms. - -"She is sick, Irene," he said. "Where is her room? Let me carry her -there." - -While he went upstairs with her she revived, and lifted her tired head -from his shoulder to look into his eyes. - -"I wish you were not going away, papa," she ventured to say. - -"I can't stay on in the old places, where I have lived with your -mother, without her," was the answer which came, and which was like -giving her a key wherewith to unlock her father's heart, and so made -the two nearer to each other than they had ever been before. - -"Some time will you come back, and let me live with you?" she -whispered, wondering at her own rashness. - -"If you are good, dear, and learn to be womanly and helpful, and to -take care of yourself, I will come back for you, or you shall come to -me, and we will be together always." - -No one knew with what passionate yet timid hope Agatha's little heart -beat as she lay there alone on her strange, high bed. Womanly and -helpful,--that was what he had said, and she would be just that. She -would do all Aunt Irene said, and never mind how much she was watched, -since watching might help to make her nearer right, and get her ready -all the sooner to go to her father and be his comfort. - -The very next day he left her. The death of his wife had seemed to -sweep away all his old landmarks. He had been, hitherto, a quiet -unadventurous man contented with his narrow routine of daily duty, -which always brought him back to the tenderness of her welcoming smile. -Now that smile was frozen for ever on her cold lips, and a strange -restlessness possessed him. He had meant to stay a few days with Agatha -in her new home, but he felt as if the inaction would drive him mad, so -he hurried away; and a week afterward Aunt Irene showed Agatha his name -in the passenger list of a European steamer. - -It was June then, and the gay summer went on working its daily miracles -round Agatha's quiet home. Bright birds sang to her, and gay flowers -bloomed for her picking; and nature ran riot in a wood a quarter of a -mile away, where the flowers asked no leave of Aunt Irene to blow, or -the birds to sing. The child used to go there when her daily tasks were -done, but she carried with her so sad a heart that nothing seemed to -cheer her. She wondered what all the growing things were so glad about, -in the summer weather, and, remembering an old phrase she had heard, -she concluded it was because nature was their mother, and nature never -died. - -"Oh, Mother Nature, I wish you were a relative of mine!" she used to -cry, sometimes, with unconscious quaintness; but before the summer was -over, leaning her head so much on the mosses, a sense of kinship began -to thrill in her pulses, and before she knew it the pain in her heart -was eased a little, and she began to think of her mother, not as buried -up and hidden away from her, but as near to her and waiting for her. - -Meantime she never forgot her father's words,--"Womanly and -helpful,"--they were the keynote of her life. Aunt Irene wondered at -her. She had thought her a mischievous little elf in the old days, -but there was no mischief in her now. She herself respected no more -religiously the rules of the household than did this little quiet child. - -As for trouble, why the creature gave none,--she was learning to do -every thing for herself. At last even Aunt Irene grew half frightened -at this still patience, which she felt must be unnatural to childhood. -She began to wish that she could hear Agatha laugh or shout,--that -sometimes the child would tear her gowns, when she had on her oldest -ones, at least,--that she would show some self-will, some little trace -of her descent from apple-eating Adam of the old time. - -She wrote to her brother how good and quiet his little girl was; but -her heart misgave her. She did not know what more she could do to make -her small inmate comfortable, but she had a vague sense that Agatha was -living an unchildlike life, and was less happy than in the old days -when the little girl and her mother came there together. - -Mother Nature has her own methods of exacting compensation, and for -Agatha's overstrained and unnatural life pay-day came in the autumn. It -had grown too cold to lie with her ear on the mosses, listening to the -earth's pulse-beats, and the child sat quietly within doors, until one -day she turned very pale and rolled off her stiff, straight chair to -the carpet, and Aunt Irene picked her up, a lighter weight now than in -the spring-time, and carried her to her room. - -Dr. Greene was sent for at once, and he looked at his little patient -very gravely, and then whispered "typhoid" to her aunt. - -Aunt Irene wrote a hurried line to Agatha's father, and then took up -her post at the bedside, which for five weeks she scarcely left. She -had a heart, only long ago she had concluded it was an inconvenience -and locked it up; but now it broke loose from its confinement and half -frightened her by its throbbings. - -Her brother was very dear to her. She had loved him all his life, after -the deep, silent, undemonstrative fashion of those who love but few; -and now if this fresh grief was to come upon him how could she bear to -see him suffer? But she did not allow these thoughts to interfere with -her usefulness at Agatha's bedside. Day and night she watched over the -child, who never once knew her, but who constantly mistook her for her -mother, and clung to her passionately in the delirium of her fever. - -"O mother!" she would say, "I thought I never, never should see you -again. No one was cross to me, mamma darling; but no one loved me -since you went away. I've been trying to grow womanly and helpful, so -papa would be glad to have me with him by and by; but now you've come -and you'll love me whether I'm good or not." - -Then again she seemed roaming through the woods. - -"Hark," she would say, "hear how the birds sing, and see the gay -flowers swing in the wind! Their mother doesn't die, and they have no -aunts. O birdies! you don't know how cold Aunt Irene's lips are." - -And Aunt Irene, listening, bent over the bed with tears blinding her -eyes. Had her life been all a failure? she asked herself. She had tried -to do her duty: was it all nothing, because she hadn't loved? Oh! if -Agatha would but get well she would find some way to make her happy. - -Before the crisis of the child's fever came, her father had arrived. -The letter found him in Paris, and he had set out in twenty-four hours -upon his homeward journey. - -"Is she alive?" he asked, when his sister met him at the door, and -started back, shocked by his haggard face. - -"Yes, she lives, and the doctor says her fever must turn soon. Come and -see her." - -The little flushed face had never been so beautiful in its brightest -days of health and joy, as now, with the clustering rings of hair -framing in scarlet cheeks and large, strangely brilliant eyes. The -father's heart almost broke as he stood there, unable to make her -recognize his presence. While he watched, she said what she had said so -often during the hours of that wasting sickness,-- - -"I have tried to be womanly and helpful. I think papa will want me -after awhile. I hope so for Aunt Irene's lips are cold." - -How keenly he reproached himself then for having left her, only God -knew. He was a silent man, as I have said, and silently he shared Aunt -Irene's vigil without even thinking of rest after his journey. - -The next night Dr. Greene waited also by that bedside for the crisis he -foresaw. At last the child slept. - -"When she wakes we shall know what to expect," he said, and went away -into the next room for a little rest. But the father and the aunt never -moved. It was midnight, and every thing was strangely, unnaturally -still, as it always seems to watchers in the middle of the night, -when they heard Agatha call out of the hush and the stillness, with a -sudden, glad cry of recognition,-- - -"O mamma! mamma!" - -"Is she dying?" Mr. Raymond's look asked, for his lips refused to -speak, and his sister's face made answer, "Not yet." - -The hours, the long, slow hours went on. The night grew darker and -deeper. Then above the hills there stretched a faint line of dawn-light -which deepened at length to rose, and then was shot through by a golden -arrow from the rising sun. And then, as the dawning glory touched the -little white, still face upon the pillows, the eyes opened, and a -voice--Agatha's own natural voice, but oh, so faint and low!--said, -softly but gladly,-- - -"I have seen mamma. I wanted to go with her, but she said papa and Aunt -Irene both needed me, and I was to stay here and grow well and happy. -And so I shall." - -"And so, please God, you shall," Dr. Greene said, cheerily, having -come in from the next room; and the father sank upon his knees by the -bedside, with some murmured words, which only the Father in heaven -understood, upon his lips; and Aunt Irene hurried off, she said, to get -something for the child to take, but she stopped a long time upon the -way. - -"I knew you were here, papa," and Agatha reached out her thin little -fingers to touch the bowed head beside her. "I knew, because mamma told -me." - -Strangely enough, all her timidity had vanished. Mamma had said that -papa and Aunt Irene needed her, and that was enough. Soon her aunt came -in, and she looked up, gratefully. - -"You have been so good to me, Aunt Irene," she said, "so good that I -thought it was mamma who was tending me, but I know now it was you, -and I think you must love me, because you have kept me alive." - -And so my story of Agatha's lonely days ends; for after this she never -was lonely any more. Her father and aunt had learned that little hearts -need something more than to be clothed and fed; and Agatha had learned, -by their care for her, their love for her, and never doubted again that -she had her own place in their hearts. - -But had she seen her own mamma? you ask. Ah, who knows the mysteries of -the border land between life and death? Some of you will believe that -she but dreamed a dream; and others, perchance, will think the Father, -who has so often sent His angels to comfort His earthly children, sent -to her the home-faced angel whom her heart loved. I cannot tell. I only -know that Agatha believed always that a beloved voice not of this world -had spoken to her. - - - - -THIN ICE. - - -The little village of Westbrook seemed to have been standing still, -while all the rest of the world had gone on. The people lived very much -as their fathers and grandfathers had lived before them. They were all -farmers except the doctor and the minister. - -The doctor was a very skilful man; but he had been reared on a -Westbrook farm, and when he went out into the world to get his medical -education he had brought back with him, to quiet Westbrook, only the -knowledge he sought, and none of the airs and graces of town life. - -The minister, too, was Westbrook born and bred, and his wife had -scarcely ever been outside the town in all her days, so that there was -no one in the simple community to set extravagant fashions, or turn -foolish heads by gayety or splendor. - -[Illustration: THIN ICE.--PAGE 100.] - -It was, therefore, as much of an event as if Queen Victoria herself -were to come and spend the winter in Boston, when it became generally -known that a rich widow lady and her son were to come, the last of -September, and very probably stay on through the winter under Dr. -Simms's roof. A famous city physician, with whom Dr. Simms had studied -once, had recommended him and Westbrook to Mrs. Rosenburgh, when it -became necessary for her to take her puny boy into some still, country -retreat. - -They came during the last golden days of September, and all Westbrook -was alive with interest about them. The lady looked delicate, but she -was as pretty as she was pale, and her boy was curiously like her,--as -pale, as pretty, almost as feminine. - -There was plenty of opportunity to see them, for the city doctor had -given orders that the young gentleman should keep out of doors all the -time; so, mornings, he and his mother were always to be seen in their -low, luxurious carriage, drawn by high-stepping bay horses, and driven -by a faithful, careful, middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair and an -impenetrable face. - -Sometimes, in the afternoons, they would all be out again, but oftener -Mrs. Rosenburgh remained at home, and her son drove, for himself, a -pair of pretty black ponies, while the impenetrable, iron-gray man sat -behind, ready to seize the reins in case of accident. - -At first the boy's face seemed often drawn by pain, or white with -weariness, and he would look round him listlessly, as he drove, with -eyes that saw nothing, or at least failed to find any object of -interest. But the clear autumn air proved invigorating, and when the -glorious, prismatic days of late October came he looked as if, indeed, -he had been re-created. - -And now one could see that he began to take a natural, human interest -in what went on around him. He would drive up his little pony carriage -to the wall, and look over it to watch the apple-pickers and the -harvesters. No one spoke to him, and he spoke to no one. The lads -of his own age, who watched his ponies with boyish envy, never -dreamed that the owner of these fairy coursers could be as shy as one -of themselves, and, indeed, as much more shy as delicate weakness -naturally is than rosy strength. They thought his silence was pride, -and felt a half-defiant hatred of him accordingly. - -Yet many and many a day he went home to his mother, and sitting beside -her with his head upon her knee, cried out, in very bitterness,-- - -"Oh if I only could be like one of those healthy boys! How gladly I'd -give up Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed, to be able to run about as they -do! Shall I never, never be strong, mamma?" - -And she would comfort him with the happy truth that every day he was -growing stronger, and that she expected him to be her great, brave boy, -by and by, who would take care of her all the days of her life. - -Meantime, other boys, in other homes, talked to other mothers. For the -very first time the evil spirit of envy had crept into quiet Westbrook. - -Why should Ralph Rosenburgh have every thing he wanted, and they -nothing? What clothes he wore,--and a watch, a real gold watch they had -seen him take out of his pocket,--and those ponies; for wherever they -began they always ended with those ponies. And, as not all the mothers -in Westbrook were wise, any more than elsewhere in the world, while the -wise ones would say that strong boy-legs were worth more than horses' -legs, the weak ones would foster the evil spirit, and answer,-- - -"He ain't a bit better than you are, with all his watches and ponies. -Pride will have a fall some day, see if it don't, and he may be glad -enough to stand in your shoes yet, before he dies." - -Jack Smalley was the son of one of these injudicious mothers, and so -his envy grew, unchecked; till he nourished a vigorous hatred for Ralph -Rosenburgh in his heart, without ever having exchanged a single word -with him. - -It was a hatred, however, of which its object never could have dreamed. -He had been so accustomed to be petted and pitied, and he was so -very sorry for himself, that he could not be a wide-awake, vigorous, -ball-playing, leaping, running boy, it would never have occurred to him -that any one else could fail to see his condition in the same light. - -So he went steadily on the even tenor of his way, gaining something day -by day and week by week, and hoping--how earnestly no one knew--for -the happy time when Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed might stand idle in -their stalls, and he go about on his own feet with the rest. - -The cold weather came on early that year. Before the middle of December -Westbrook pond was frozen over, and then began the winter's fun. Every -afternoon Ralph Rosenburgh drove his ponies down to the very edge of -the pond, and sat there for awhile, a patient looker-on at the frolics -he could not share. - -With Christmas, however, there came to him from the fond, maternal -Santa Claus, a chair constructed on purpose for pushing over the ice, -and then he became a daily partaker in the festivities upon the pond. -The chair was modelled after a certain kind of invalid, garden chair, -which is arranged to be either propelled by some one else from behind, -or by the occupant turning a kind of crank at the sides. - -Ralph soon learned to manage it for himself, and finding himself strong -enough to do so, he used to make the iron-gray man stay with the -ponies, while he himself moved round among the skaters. - -And, now that he seemed really one of themselves, the young people, -all except Jack Smalley, began to feel a kindly interest in him. Jack -alone went on hating him more and more, finding daily fresh causes of -offence in this boy who wore velvet and fur in place of his own coarse -gray cloth, and woollen, hand-knit comforter. What was he, this puny -wretch, without pluck enough to stand on his own legs, that he should -wear the garments of a young prince? You see that Master Smalley -had the primitive idea of young princes, and supposed them clad in -everlasting velvet and ermine. But there were no princes in America, -thank Heaven, and nobody in Westbrook wanted fools round who tried to -look like king's sons. Very innocent of trying to look like any one was -poor Ralph, if the truth had been known,--this mother's darling of a -boy, who took no more thought of his attire than a weed, but whom Mrs. -Rosenburgh wrapped assiduously in all that was softest and warmest, as -she had, all his life, surrounded him with warmth and softness. - -After a while there came a January afternoon, over which a gray, moist -sky brooded. Already the ice had shown some symptoms of breaking up, -and everybody was out, making the most of it while it lasted. - -Among the rest Ralph Rosenburgh came down to the pond,--left -Pease-blossom and Mustard seed in the iron-gray man's charge, as usual, -and began to propel himself over the ice, with arms whose increasing -vigor was a daily and happy astonishment to himself. - -At last he wandered away a little from most of the skaters. He felt -himself and his chair rather in their way, they were wheeling and -zigzagging so swiftly, and he moved along the pond quite rapidly toward -the eastern end. - -It chanced that no one noticed his course except Jack Smalley, and Jack -knew that he was going directly toward a place where the ice had been -recently cut, and where it was thin and treacherous now. Slowly Jack -followed him. - -"I'd like to see him and that fine chair of his get a good ducking," -Jack muttered. "It would serve him right. I guess all them prince's -feathers and fineries would look a little more like common folks', -after they'd been soused." - -I do not think another and darker possibility crossed Jack's mind. -Hating Ralph Rosenburgh though he did, I do not think one wish for his -death had ever entered his heart. He himself had been in the water, -time and again, and got no other harm from it than perhaps a hard cold. -He did not realize what a different thing it would be for this delicate -invalid, seated in his heavy chair. And so Ralph propelled himself -along toward destruction, and Jack, with an evil sneer on his face, -skated slowly after him. - -Suddenly a third figure shot from the group of skaters,--the fastest -skater of them all, and the one boy in the world whom Jack Smalley -loved,--his own cousin, Nelson Smalley. - -He, too, had turned his eyes and seen in what fatal direction the chair -with the delicate, golden-haired invalid in it was tending. He did not -speak a word: he had but one thought,--to reach Ralph Rosenburgh in -time to save him. He skated on, with the swiftness of light. And Jack -Smalley saw him coming, nearing him, passing him, on toward the thin -ice. Now, indeed, he shrieked at the top of his voice,-- - -"Nell, Nell, come back. The ice out there is thin. Come back--come -back. Don't you hear?" - -"I hear," floated backward on the wind from the flying figure; "I hear, -but don't you see Rosenburgh? I must save him." - -Then Jack himself skated after, making what speed he might. But he -seemed to himself slow as a snail; and already Rosenburgh was very near -the treacherous ice, and Nelson was almost up with him, flying like -the wind. He heard Nelson's voice: - -"Stop, Rosenburgh, stop. The ice beyond you is just a crust. Stop, you -will be drowned." - -And then he heard a plash, and looked. It was Nelson, who had gone on, -and gone under, unable to arrest, in time, his own headlong speed. And -then, while he himself was shrieking madly for help, he saw Rosenburgh, -prince's feathers and all, just throw himself out of his chair, and -down into the cold, seething water where Nelson Smalley had gone under. - -The ice grew thin suddenly, just where the saw had cut it squarely -away, so the chair stood still upon the solid ice, and by that -Rosenburgh held with one hand, while with the other he grasped the long -hair of Nelson Smalley, who was rising for the first time. Excitement -was giving him unnatural strength, but for how long could he hold on? - -Now, at last, the skaters had perceived the real state of the case, and -such a wail as one might hear afterwards through his dreams for ever, -went up to the bending sky. Hurry, all who can. Run, iron-gray man, as -you never ran before, or how shall you drive home to that boy's waiting -mother? - -How was it done? How is it ever done? Who can ever tell in such a -crisis? I do not know how long they were in reaching the thin ice, for -at such times moments seem hours, and seconds are bits of eternity. -But Rosenburgh held on, and the iron-gray man threw himself flat upon -the cracking ice, with the boys holding fast to him, and drew them -both out, and then Rosenburgh turned limp and white on his hands, and -whether he was dead or not he could not tell. - -There were enough others to care for Smalley, and already the older -ones had begun trying to restore him, and some of the younger were -running in various directions for wiser aid. So the iron-gray man just -lifted his own young master in his arms, and got him straight into the -pony wagon, and drove Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed home as they had -never been driven before. - -At the gate he met Dr. Simms coming out, and told his story in a -few words. It was almost an hour before the blue eyes opened again, -and the mother felt sure that her boy was still hers to have and to -hold, to love and to cherish. Indeed, it was many days before she -felt altogether safe and sure about him. She was constantly expecting -some after consequences from his exposure,--some fever, or cough, or -terrible nervous prostration. But, strangely enough, he seemed to be -none the worse; and one day, after a careful examination of him, Dr. -Simms said to her,-- - -"I venture to tell you, now, what I have thought all along. This has -been the very best thing for him that could possibly have happened. The -severe shock was exactly what he needed, though certainly it was what I -should not have dared to take the responsibility of subjecting him to. -He is going to be the better and stronger for it." - -"And the brave, splendid fellow who was risking his own life to save -him?" - -"Is all right too. Duckings are good for boys, not a doubt of it. Trust -me, this cold bath will go far to make a man of yours." - -And the doctor was right. The languid pulses which that awful peril had -quickened never throbbed so languidly again. It was Ralph Rosenburgh's -awakening to a new life. Somehow the shyness in him passed away with -the weakness, and he became a general favorite. - -The boys no longer envied him his ponies, when one or other of them was -always asked to share his drives; and their cure was completed when he -grew strong enough to take part in all their sports, when Pease-blossom -and Mustard-seed were left to "eat their heads off" in their stall, and -Ralph Rosenburgh and his chosen and dearest friend, Nelson Smalley, -scaled rocks and climbed hills with the best of them. - -This strong friendship would have cost Jack Smalley some envious pangs, -perhaps, if the awful terror of that January afternoon had not made him -afraid of the evil in his own soul. - - - - -MY LOST SISTER: A CONFESSION. - - -I have a confession to make. When I went home from my -grandmother's,--being set down at the home-door by the stage-driver, -in whose care I had been placed,--and found my little sister in my -mother's arms, a quick growing hate of her struck its black roots in my -heart. I know that this seems unnatural. In most houses the baby is the -very light and joy of them,--the little idol to whom, from the least to -the greatest, the whole family do willing homage. - -But remember that I had grown to be ten years old, with no rival near -the throne, accustomed to be the first object with my father and -mother, petted, indulged, as much "the baby" as if I had worn white -long clothes. It was not strange that it should come hard to be deposed -from my throne of babyhood in one moment. - -When I went into the house, Nurse Sikes met me with a smile which -struck me like a blow. - -"Somebody's got her nose broke, I guess," she said, with a tantalizing -laugh. - -Before this, no one had spoken to me about the new-comer, and there, I -think, was where the wrong began; but the woman's meaning flashed into -my mind in a moment, and I tossed my head scornfully, without speaking. -Nurse Sikes was probably not an ill-natured woman,--she could not have -been, since no face was so welcome as hers in the sick rooms of all the -neighborhood,--but she was a very injudicious one. I suppose my idle, -vain contempt and indignation amused her, and so she went on provoking -me. - -"Ho, ho, Miss Fine Airs! doesn't want to see her baby sister, don't -she? Well, to tell the truth, I don't think you'll be much missed. Papa -and Mamma are pretty well wrapped up in Miss Baby. _She's_ a novelty, -you know, and I guess she'll be taken care of, even if you don't -trouble yourself." - -I would not for worlds have let her see the passion of grief and rage -which shook me. I went out of her sight, and fled, not to my own room, -which opened from my mother's, but to a remote spare chamber, and there -I bore my pain alone. - -To cry would have infinitely relieved me, but my evil pride restrained -me from that. They should not see my eyes red, and know how I felt; -I would die first, I said, bitterly, to myself, I, who had cried out -every sorrow of my life, hitherto, on my mother's tender bosom. After a -while I heard them calling me,-- - -"Annie! Annie! Annie! Why, the child came in half an hour ago. Where is -she?" - -Then I knew I must go down. So I looked at myself in the glass, and saw -a face which, indeed, no tears stained, but which was disfigured by -pride and passion; and thinking to myself,--'No one will notice how _I_ -look, now,' I went to my mother's room. - -"Come here, my darling," her gentle voice said, "come and look at -baby." - -Baby! Could she not say a fond word to me, after I had been away from -home two weeks, without bringing in baby! I moved reluctantly toward -her. - -"Baby is twelve days old," she went on, wistfully, seeing my sullen -mien. "I wouldn't let any one tell you, for I thought it would be such -a surprise." - -"A surprise, indeed!" I echoed her word with a scorn in my voice, which -must have pained that gentle heart sorely. - -"Isn't she sweet?" and, still trying to win my love for her new -treasure, mamma uncovered the little, dimpled, rosy face, and held it -toward me. - -"I suppose so; I don't think I care for babies," I said, ungraciously. - -"But you do care for mamma, and you haven't so much as kissed _me_ yet, -my darling." - -Perhaps if, even then, she could have put her arms around me, and held -me fast against her loving heart, as she used to when I was grieved or -naughty, it might have driven away the evil spirit, and made me her own -child again; but she could not, for there, in her lap, was baby. So I -took her kiss passively, returned it coldly, and then went away. - -It seems so incredible to my grown-up self, looking back upon it, that -I could have gone on hating my baby sister more and more, that I can -scarcely expect you to believe it; and I think I would hardly write out -this, my confession, did I not hope it might lead some other, tempted -as I was, to examine her heart in time, and root out from it the evil -weed of jealousy, which bears always such bitter fruit. - -From the first, little Lilias, or Lily, as they all called her, was a -singularly lovely child. As a baby, she cried very little, and never in -anger. Nothing but real pain ever made the red lips quiver, or filled -the violet eyes with tears. She never could see any face more grave -than usual without trying, in her baby fashion, to brighten it. I can -remember, oh, how distinctly, times when my father would come home, -worn and tired, and she would, quite untold, go through her little -_rôle_ of accomplishments till she won a smile from him, clapping her -fairy hands, nodding her gleaming, golden head, showing her two small -teeth,--all the little winning wiles she had. - -She was a very frail, delicate child, always, and she did not walk -nearly as early as other children. But she talked very soon indeed. She -was scarcely ten months old, when she learned to call us all by our -names; and, strangely enough, mine was the first name she spoke. "Nan! -Nan! Nan!" she would call me, half the day, like a little silver-voiced -parrot. - -She was very fond of me, in a certain way. I never tended her unless I -was obliged, and my mother, noticing with deep grief my spirit toward -my little sister, waited for the evil feeling to wear itself out, and -seldom called on me to amuse the child, or to give up for her sake any -whim or fancy of my own. Lily was not used, therefore, to have me hold -or play with her. - -Perhaps she thought I _could_ not, but it seemed to afford her infinite -satisfaction just to have me in her sight. It may be she felt, in some -vague way, that I was nearer babyhood than the rest, and so more of -her kind. At any rate, she always seemed perfectly happy and content -when she could watch me, at any of my pursuits; and when I left the -room, the little silvery voice would call after me,-- - -"Nan! Nan! Nan!" - -She was a full year and a half old before she began to walk, and then -she was so small and delicate that she looked as you might fancy a baby -out of fairy land would look, flitting round on her tiniest of feet, -her yellow hair glinting goldenly in every chance sunbeam, and her -wistful eyes blue as a blue flower. - -How could I help loving her? Ay, how could I? - -I fancy I must have loved her a little, even then, only I had grown -so in the habit of regarding her as an interloper, a rival, an alien, -who was taking from me all which had formerly been mine, that I never -owned, even in the silence of my own heart, to any softening toward her. - -Father and mother were good to me beyond my deserts, and beyond my -poor words to describe. I have known, since, with what infinite love -and grief they sorrowed over me, while waiting for this evil growth in -my heart to be uprooted, as they felt sure it would be, some time. They -had the wisdom to know that reproof would be vain, and simply to love -me and be silent. - -But if they loved _me_, and were to me most patient and kind, they were -devoted to little Lily, as was natural. She was so frail and so fair, -so needed their constant watchfulness, that it is not strange she had -it. - -One day, when she was two years old and I was twelve, I sat in a corner -of the sitting-room, putting a dissected map together, while a lady was -calling upon my mother. She looked earnestly and long at Lily; but that -was not uncommon; the child's dainty beauty was a pleasant thing to -watch. At last, after she had risen to go, she said, as if she couldn't -help saying it,-- - -"Take good care of that little one, Mrs. Allen. She looks to me like -one of the children the angels love." - -I saw the quick dew suffuse my mother's eyes, as she made some answer -which I failed to hear, and then went to the door with her guest. - -Am I to tell all the sad and bitter truth? I understood, as well as -they did, that they thought our Lily so frail we should have hard work -to make her flourish in the cold soil of the earth; and for one moment -a feeling of evil triumph swelled my heart. When she was gone, I should -be _all_ to my father and mother, as I used to be before she came. They -would love me, when they had no one else to love. - -I felt a guilty flush mounting to my cheeks, and I swept my map into -its box hastily, and got up to leave the room. As I went out of the -door Lily's voice followed me, sweetly shrill,--"Nan! Nan! Nan!" and, -for the very first time in my life, a conviction smote me that there -would be a sense of loss when that voice could never follow me again, -with its soft calling, through all the years. - -The next summer was a strange, warm, oppressive summer,--the summer of -'56. With its July heats our Lily began to droop. Such care as she -had, such nursing, such love! But she had been always like a blossom -from heaven, sprung up by mistake in the rough soil of this world, and -she needed for her healing the wind which blows for ever through the -leaves of the tree of life. - -She soon grew so weak that she could not run about any more, but would -lie all day, except when, for a change, my mother held her in her arms, -in a little rose-curtained crib, out from which the blue, wistful eyes -followed all our movements, with a sweet, loving, lingering look, which -I cannot describe. On me, in especial, that long gaze used to rest; and -never could I leave the room without that sweet, small voice calling -after me plaintively. - -There came a day, at last, when the doctor sat half an hour by Lily's -side, watching her with grave, silent face, and then went into another -room alone with my mother. He came out first, and went away, and when -she followed him, her eyes were very red. I knew afterwards, what I -suspected the moment I saw her face, that he had been telling her that -she must make up her mind to part with her little darling. - -My heart was not quite stone, after all, for it grew strangely soft and -strangely afraid then. She was going home to God, this little Lily of -heaven; and would she tell Him that I had hated, all through, the baby -sister He had given me? I went away by myself and prayed. I had said -my prayers night and morning, all my life, but this was quite another -thing, this cry of the child's heart becoming conscious of its guilt -and woe, to the pitying Father. - -At last, I went to my mother. Lily was asleep, and mamma sat by her -side, pale as death, but with face that made no complaint. I knelt down -beside her. - -"O mother!" I cried, "I have been so wicked,--and now I cannot undo -it! Oh, if I could! Oh, if I could only die,--I who am not fit to -live,--and let you keep Lily!" - -She bent over me, and drew me into her arms, against her bosom. - -"If you are not fit to live, my darling, you are not fit to die," she -said gently. "I can better part with Lily, for she is pure yet as when -God gave her to me. I have seen your sin and your suffering, and I -have known your repentance would come." - -"Oh, it has, it has! Mother, how can I bear it? _Will_ she go home to -God, and tell Him I have hated her?" - -"Do you think she could tell _Him_ any thing which He does not know? -But Lily has never found out what hate means. She has always loved you, -and she does not know but that all the world loves her. The pain which -your sin has caused has not rested on Lily,--thank God for that." - -"But I might have made her happier,--I might have been good to -her,--and now, perhaps I shall never have any little sister any more in -all the world." - -Just then the child awoke, and put out her frail little hands, with a -low, sweet call I was destined to listen for in vain through all the -empty, after years. I ran to her, and took her in my arms. She saw the -tears upon my face, and touched them with her mites of fingers. - -"Naughty Nan," she said, in fond reproach, "naughty Nan, to cry,--make -Lily cry too." - -And then I wiped away my tears, and tried to be cheerful; but, oh, how -heavy my heart was! and, mourn as I would, I could not bring back the -dead months and days wherein I might have loved my little sister, and -had hated her instead. - -What else? - -Nothing, but that, with the fading summer flowers, she, too, faded and -died. In her case was wrought no miracle of healing. "We all do fade -as the leaf;" but she had never been a strong, green leaf, tossed by -summer winds, freshened by summer rains, gay in summer sunshine. Just -a pale, sweet day-lily, that lived her little life, and died with the -sunset. And the first words she ever spoke, were the last words, also. -She opened her tender eyes after a long silence, during which she had -scarcely seemed to breathe, and they rested on me. - -"Nan! Nan! Nan!" she cried, as if it were a call to follow her into the -strange, new life, the strange, new world, whither, a moment after, she -was gone. - -If there has been any good in my life since then, if I have striven at -all to be tender and gentle and unselfish, let me offer such struggles -as a tribute to her memory, as one lays flowers upon an altar or a -grave. Whither she has gone, I pray God to guide my feet also, in His -own good time and way; and I shall know that I have reached the place -whither my longings tend, when I hear, soft falling through the eternal -air, her low, sweet call,-- - -"Nan! Nan! Nan! Welcome, Nan!" - - - - -WHAT CAME TO OLIVE HAYGARTH. - -A CHRISTMAS STORY. - - -It was the afternoon of the 24th of December, a dull, gray afternoon, -with a sky frowning over it which was all one cloud, but from which -neither rain nor snow fell. A certain insinuating breath of cold was -in the air, more penetrating than the crisp, keen wind of the sharpest -January day. - -Olive Haygarth shivered as she walked along the bleakest side of -Harrison Avenue, down town. She was making her way to Dock Square, to -carry home to a clothing store some vests which she and her mother had -just completed. - -After a while she turned and walked across into Washington Street, for -an impulse came over her to see all the bright Christmas things in the -shop windows, and the gay, glad people, getting ready to keep holiday. - -She had meant, when she set out on her walk, to avoid them, for -she knew that her mood was bitter enough already. She had left no -brightness behind her at home. There were but two of them, herself and -her mother, and they were poor people, with only their needles between -them and want. - -They had never known actual suffering, however, for Mrs. Haygarth had -worked in a tailor's shop in her youth, and had taught Olive so much -of the intricacies of the business as sufficed to make her a good -workwoman. - -Accordingly they did their sewing so well as to command constant -employment and fair prices. But after all it was ceaseless drudging, -just to keep body and soul together. What was the use of it all? Not -enjoyment enough in any one day to pay for living,--why not as well lie -down and die at once? - -She walked on sullenly, thinking of these things. An elegant carriage -stopped just in front of her, and a girl no older than herself got -out, trailing her rich silk across the sidewalk, and went into a -fashionable jeweller's. - -Olive stopped, and looking in at the window, ostensibly at the vases -and bronzes, watched the girl with her dainty, high-bred air. She noted -every separate item of her loveliness,--the delicate coloring, the hair -so tastefully arranged, the pure, regular features. Then she looked -at the lustrous silk, the soft furs, the bonnet, which was a pink and -white miracle of blonde and rosebuds. How much of the beauty was the -girl's very self, and how much did she owe to this splendid setting? -Olive had seen cheeks and lips as bright and hair as shining when she -tied on her own unbecoming dark straw bonnet before her own dingy -looking-glass. - -She went on with renewed bitterness, asking herself, over and over -again, Why? Why? Why? Did not the Bible say that God was no respecter -of persons? But why did He make some, like that girl in there, to -feed on the roses and lie in the lilies of life,--to wear silks, and -furs, and jewels, and laces, and then make _her_ to work buttonholes -in Butler & Co.'s vests? Was there any God at all? or, if there was, -did He not make some people and forget them altogether, while He was -heaping good things on others whom He liked better? She could not -understand it. And then to be told to _love_ God after all; and that He -pitied her as a father pitied his children! Why! that girl in the silk -dress could love God, easily,--that command must have been meant for -her. - -Going on she caught a glimpse of an illumination in the window of a -print shop. - -"PEACE ON EARTH AND GOOD-WILL TOWARD MEN" was the legend set -forth by the brilliantly colored letters. - -What a mockery those words seemed to be! There had never been peace or -good-will in their house, even in the old days when they were tolerably -prosperous, before her father went away. - -She walked very slowly now, for she was thinking of that old time. She -had loved her father more than she had ever loved any one else. To her -he had always been kind; he had never found fault with her, and had -smoothed all the rough places out of her life. Her mother had been neat -and smart and _capable_, as the New England phrase is. Higher praise -than this Mrs. Haygarth did not covet. But like many capable women, she -had acquired a habit of small faultfinding, a perpetual dropping, which -would have worn even a stone, and George Haygarth was no stone. - -The woman loved her husband, doubtless, in some fashion of her own, -but to save her life she could not have kept from "nagging" him. She -fretted if he brought mud upon his shoes over her clean floor, if he -spent money on any pleasure for himself, any extra indulgence for -Olive; above all, if he ever took a fancy to keep holiday. - -Just five years ago things had come to a climax. Olive was thirteen -years old then, and he had brought her home for Christmas some -ornaments,--a pin and earrings, not very expensive, but in Mrs. -Haygarth's eyes useless and unnecessary. She assailed him bitterly, -and for a marvel he heard her out in dumb silence. When she was all -through, he only said,-- - -"I think I can spare the eight dollars they cost me, since I am not -likely to give the girl any thing again for some time. It will be too -far to send Christmas gifts from Colorado." - -Mrs. Haygarth's temper was up, and she answered him with an evil -sneer,-- - -"Colorado, indeed! Colorado is peopled with wide-awake men. It's no -place for you out there." - -He made no reply, only got up and went out; and, going by Olive, he -stooped and kissed her. How well she remembered that kiss! - -Through the week afterward he went to his work as usual, but he spent -scarcely any time at home, and when there made little talk. All his -wife's accustomed flings and innuendoes fell on his ears apparently -unheeded. The night before New Year's he was busy a long time in his -own room. When he came out he handed Mrs. Haygarth a folded paper. - -"There," he said, "is the receipt for the next year's house rent, and -before that time is out I shall send you the money, if I am prospered, -to pay for another year. I have taken from the savings-bank enough to -carry me to Colorado and keep me a little while after I get there; -and the bank book, with the rest of the five hundred dollars, I have -transferred to you. If I have any luck you shall never want,--you and -Olive. You'll be better off without me. I think I've always been an -aggravation to you, Martha,--only an aggravation." - -He went back again into his room, and came out with a valise packed -full. - -"I think I'll go away now," he said. "The train starts in an hour, and -there is no need of my troubling you any longer." - -Then he had taken Olive into his arms, and she had felt some sudden -kisses on her cheek, some hot tears on her face; but he had said -nothing to her, only the one sentence, gasped out like a groan,-- -"Father's little one! father's little one!" - -Olive shivered and then grew hot again, as she remembered it; and -remembered how wistfully he had looked afterwards at his wife, reading -no encouragement in her sharp, contemptuous face. - -"I guess you'll see Colorado about as much as I shall," said Martha -Haygarth, sneeringly. "Your courage may last fifty miles." - -He did not answer. He just shut the door behind him and went out into -the night,--and she had never seen him since, never heard his voice -since that last cry,--"Father's little one!" - -She felt the thick-coming tears blinding her eyes, but she brushed them -resolutely away, and looked up at the Old South clock just before her. - -Almost five. The sun had set nearly half an hour ago, and the night -was falling fast. How long a time she had spent in walking the short -distance since she came into Washington Street! How late home she -should be! She quickened her steps almost to a run, went to the -clothing store, where she had to wait a little while for her work to -be looked over and paid for, and heard the clocks strike six just as -she reached the corner of Essex Street, on her homeward way. The dense, -hurrying crowd jostled and pressed her, and she turned the corner. She -would find more room on the Avenue, she thought. - -She had not noticed that two young men were following her closely. -They would have been gentlemen if they had obeyed the laws of God and -man. As it was, there was about them the look which nothing expresses -so well as the word "fast." Their very features had become coarse -and lowered in tone by the lives they led; and yet they were the -descendants of men whose names were honored in the State, and made -glorious by traditions of true Christian knighthood. - -On the other side of the way, alike unnoticed by Olive and her -pursuers, a man walked on steadily, never losing sight of them for a -moment. At last, as she came into a quiet portion of the street, the -two young men drew near her. They were simply what I have said, "fast." -They perhaps meant no real harm, and thought it would be good fun to -frighten her. - -"'Where are you going, my pretty maid?'" said one, the bolder and -handsomer of the two. - -"'My face is my fortune, sir, she said,'" responded the other, in a -voice which the wine he had taken for dinner made a little thick and -unsteady. - -"You ought not to be out alone," the first began again. "You are quite -too young and too pretty." - -"That she is," a loud, stern voice answered, "when there are such vile -hounds as you ready to insult an unprotected girl." - -Surely it was a voice Olive knew, only stronger and more resolute than -she had ever heard it before. - -She turned suddenly, and the gas light struck full on her flushed, -frightened, pretty face, which the drooping hair shaded. The man, who -had crossed the street to come to her rescue, looked at her a moment, -and then, as if involuntarily, came to his lips the old, fond words, -the last she had ever heard him speak,-- - -"Father's little one!" - -He opened his arms, and she, poor tired girl crept into their shelter. -The two young men stood by waiting, enough of the nobility of the old -blood in them to keep them from running away, though their nerves -tingled with shame. George Haygarth spoke to them with quiet, manly -dignity. - -"When I saw you following this girl I had no idea she was _my_ girl, -whom I had not seen for five years. It was enough for me that she was -a woman. To my thinking it's a poor manhood that insults women instead -of protecting them. I meant to look out for her, and, be she who she -might, you should not have harmed her." - -"We never meant her any real harm," the elder of the two said humbly; -"but we have learned our lesson, and I think we shall neither of us -forget it. Young lady, we beg your pardon." - -Then they lifted their hats and went away; and George Haygarth drew his -daughter's hand through his arm and walked on, telling his story as he -walked. - -He had been unsuccessful at first. For more than eighteen months he -had scarcely been able to keep himself alive. Fever had wasted him, -plans had failed him, hope had deserted him. The very first money he -could possibly spare he had sent home, with a long loving letter to the -absent, over whom his heart yearned. But money and letter had both -come back to him after a while, from the dead-letter office. - -"Yes," Olive said, "we were too poor to keep on there after the year -for which you paid was out, and we have moved two or three times since -then. The postman did not know where to find us, and after the first -year we gave up asking for letters at the office." - -Her father's hand clasped hers tighter, in sympathy, and then he told -the rest of his story. - -He had never been very prosperous, never seen any such golden chances -as the mining legends picture, but he had come home better off than he -ever should have been if he had stayed in the East. - -For a whole week he had been in Boston searching for them everywhere, -and no knowing how much longer he might have had to wait but for this -accident. - -"Don't say accident, father," Olive answered, softly. "It was God's -way of bringing us together. I begin to see now what it means when -the Bible says, 'He is touched by our infirmities, and pities our -necessities.' And yet, only this afternoon I was losing all my faith, -and thinking that if He cared for all the rest of the world. He had -forgotten me. Here we are,--the next house is home." - -"Your mother--how will she receive me, Olive?" - -Olive's heart seemed to stand still. Her mother had been so bitter -through all these years; had said such cruel things about this man, -whom she accused of deserting his family and leaving them to starve, of -caring only for himself. She did not speak,--she did not know what to -say. - -"You must go in and break it to her," George Haygarth said, as they -climbed the stairs of the humble tenement house, the third story of -which the mother and daughter occupied. "I will stay outside and wait. -It won't be coming home at all if Martha doesn't bid me welcome." - -Olive went in, trembling. - -"Here is the money, mother." - -Mrs. Haygarth reached out her hand for it and looked at it. - -"Yes, it's all right; but I thought you were never coming home. What -kept you?" - -"I looked into the windows a good deal as I went down, and then I had -to wait at the store, and I've been thinking, mother. It will be five -years next week since father went away. What if we could see him again?" - -She paused, expecting to hear some of the old bitter words about her -father; but, instead, her mother's voice fell softly upon her ear. - -"_I've_ been thinking too, Olive, and I believe he is dead. I don't -think I used to be patient enough with him, and perhaps I wore his love -out. But he _did_ care for _you_, and seems to me nothing short of -death could have kept him away so long." - -"But if you _could_ see him, mother?" Olive persisted, with trembling -voice. - -Some new thought pierced Martha Haygarth's brain. A strange thrill -shook her. She looked an instant into Olive's eyes. Then, without a -word, she sprang to the door and threw it open. Olive heard a low, -passionate cry. - -"George! George! if I was cross I _did_ love you!" and Olive saw a -figure come out of the shadow and take her mother close in its arms. -And then she hid her eyes, and said a little prayer, she never knew -what. - -So, after all, God had not forgotten them. Just when their want was -sorest their help had come. And they needed all they had suffered, -perhaps, to teach her mother what love was worth, and what forbearance -signified. - -"PEACE ON EARTH AND GOOD-WILL TOWARD MEN!" - -From the very sky the words seemed to drop down to her, like an angelic -blessing; and now to their home the reign of peace had come, and she -understood what the benediction meant. - - -[Illustration: UNCLE JACK.--PAGE 143.] - - - - -UNCLE JACK. - - -"What young bears most boys are!" said my Uncle Jack, watching his -oldest hope pushing his sister in the swing so vigorously that she -almost fell out, and then pulling one side of the rope at a time, -making her fairly dizzy with swaying from side to side while she -alternately screamed and entreated. - -"Just about the same, all of them," Uncle Jack went on. "Talk about -boyish chivalry, I never found it, especially toward a boy's own kith -and kin. There may be some Highland Marys with juvenile adorers, but -nine times out of ten a boy would rather frighten a girl than kiss her. -My John here's just a specimen. Come here, sir," raising his voice. "Do -you want to hear a story about the days when I was just such another -cub as yourself?" - -This suggestion brought John and his sister both in from the swing. -When Uncle Jack began to "spin a yarn," as he often called it, all the -family were sure to want to be present at its unravelling. - -"You see," he began, "my sister Nelly wasn't my sister at all; but it -was all the same, as far as my feeling for her went. When I was only -three years old my mother's best friend died, and left Nelly, a little, -wailing, two-months-old baby, to my mother's care. Her father had been -killed before she was born, in a railroad accident, so there was no -one but my mother to see to her; and she brought the little thing home -and adopted her, thankfully enough, for though she had four good stout -boys, of whom I was the youngest, there was never a girl in the family -till Nelly came. - -"We all loved her, as she grew older. She was a pretty little blossom -as you would want to see, with her black eyes, and the crisp, black -hair falling about her rosy cheeks. She had a funny little rose-bud of -a mouth, too, and the daintiest little figure,--well-made all through, -and no mistake about it. - -"I think I loved her, if any thing, better than the rest did, -considering that she was nearer my age, and so we were more continually -together, but, bless you, there wasn't any chivalry in it. It didn't -keep me from painting her doll's face black, or hiding its shoes, or -from listening when she was talking with her girl cronies, and then -bursting out among them, and yelling their choicest secret to the four -winds. - -"I would have knocked any boy down, from the time I was big enough to -use my fists, who had said a saucy word to Nelly; but I said plenty of -them myself. I believe I liked to tease her for the sake of hearing her -beg me not to; just as I've seen you tease your sister a hundred times, -Master John. - -"You would think she would have hated me: but that's one curious thing -about girls and women; they don't always hate where you would naturally -expect them to; and Nelly cared a good deal more about me than I -deserved. She seemed to be proud of me, because I was a great, strong, -roystering fellow, and she never bore malice for any of the tricks I -served her. - -"I have wondered many a time since how I could have had the heart to -torment her, for she never once tried to revenge herself on me, nor -can I recollect her ever being angry with me. When I got myself into -disgrace with parents or teachers, it was always her gentle voice -which pleaded for me, and hard enough folks found it to say no to her, -whether it was the dark eyes and bright cheeks, or a little winning, -coaxing way she had. - -"When I was fourteen and Nelly was eleven we went one day to a -huckleberry picnic. We had great fun all the afternoon, and stayed a -good deal later than we meant to, so that it was almost dark when we -started to go home. We had two miles to walk, and the first half of -the distance our way lay with the rest of the company. I had got well -stirred up by the general merriment, and wasn't half satisfied with the -frolic ending there. - -"Nelly, I remembered afterwards, was very quiet, and seemed tired. She -was a delicate little thing, any way, and got worn out with fatigue or -excitement a good deal sooner than most of her mates. Finally our road -turned off away from the rest, and led through a long pine wood. As -we went on under the thick trees it grew darker and darker, and Nelly -cuddled up closer to my side. - -"You'd have thought that at fourteen I was old enough for chivalry, and -that sort of thing, if I was ever going to be; but not a bit of it,--I -was just a great, strong, rollicking boy, with some heart, to be sure, -but liking fun better than any thing, and headstrong and inconsiderate -to an extent which I am ashamed to remember. Full still of unexhausted -animal spirits, and, as I said, not half satisfied with the frolic I -had had, I began, in default of other amusement, to tease Nelly. - -"I told her a ghastly story or two, and then I would rush away from her -among the thick trees, as if in pursuit of something, and come back -again to her side, in a few minutes. I wanted her to scream after me, -but she didn't. She was so still that I actually thought she didn't -care; and after a while I grew vexed because I couldn't vex her, and -make her implore me to stay with her, and confess her dependence upon -me. - -"At last, when we were about a third of a mile from home, a path led -through the woods, branching off from the main path on which we were, -to the farm where my greatest crony lived. I thought of something I -wanted to say to him. Here was a chance, to tease Nelly well,--let her -see whether she was just as comfortable without me as with me. - -"You look at me as if you didn't believe I could have been such a -brute; but I was, and what is more, I did not at all realize at the -time that I was doing any harm. That Nelly would have a little scare, -and hurry home somewhat faster than usual, was the most I apprehended; -so I said, with a sort of boyish swagger,-- - -"'It just occurs to me that there is something I want to say to Hal -Somers, and we are so near home now that you won't be afraid, so I'll -just branch off there. Tell mother I had supper enough at the picnic, -and she needn't wait for me.' - -"It was too dark to look at Nelly, or perhaps her white face, sad and -frightened as I know it must have been, would have turned me from my -purpose. She did not speak one word, and I struck off at a tearing pace -through the woods. - -"By the time I had reached Hal Somers's place, I began to get sobered -down a little, and to feel somewhat uncomfortable about what I had -done. I had to wait a few minutes before I could see him, but I did my -errand briefly, and it was not more than an hour after I had left Nelly -before I myself was at home. I found mother in the porch, looking out -anxiously. - -"'I'm so glad you've come, children,' she cried, when she heard my -footsteps, and then, as I drew nearer, 'Why, Jack, where is Nelly?'" - -"'Here, I suppose,' I answered, trying to face the music boldly. 'I -left her about an hour ago in the woods, where the path branches off -to go to Hal Somers's, and she had nothing to do but to come straight -home.' - -"'You left Nelly in the woods, an hour ago!' my mother cried, in a tone -which made my heart stand still, and then turn over with a great leap. -And then she sprang by me like some wild creature, and called through -the darkness to my father to come with his lantern, quick, quick, for -Nelly had been alone in the dark woods for an hour. - -"Instantly, as it seemed to me, my father and my oldest brother were -following mother along the woodland path, and I stole after them, -feeling like a second Cain. It was but a very few minutes before we -came up to Nelly, for there she was, just where I left her. She had -sunk to the ground, and was half sitting there, her back leaning -against a tree beside the path. The light from the lantern flashed on -her face, a face white and set as death, but with the wide-open eyes -glaring fearfully into the dark beyond. - -"It was my mother who touched her first; and felt to see whether her -heart had stopped beating. - -"'Is she dead?' my father asked huskily. - -"'I don't know. It seems to me I can feel the very faintest throb, but -I cannot tell until we get her home. If she isn't dead, I am afraid she -is worse,--frightened out of her senses, for ever.' - -"Then father and William made preparations to carry her. I asked, -timidly, if I could help. I think none of them had noticed before that -I was there. - -"'You!' my father said, with such concentrated scorn and wrath in his -voice as I cannot describe; and then mother said, more mildly, but so -sadly it was worse than any anger,-- - -"'No, I trusted her to you once. I supposed you loved her.' - -"So I saw them move off, carrying her between them, and I followed -after like an outcast, until it occurred to me that, at least, I could -call a physician. So I flew by them like the wind, and off on the road -to town. By some singular good fortune, if we ought not always to say -Providence and never fortune, before I had gone forty rods I met Dr. -Greene, who was coming in our direction to visit a patient. So I had -him with me on the door-stone when they brought Nelly in. - -"I did not dare to go into the room where they carried her; but I -waited outside in an agony which punished me already for my sin. At -last my mother had pity on me and looked out. - -"'She is not dead, Jack,' she said, 'but she is still insensible, and -until she is restored to consciousness there is no telling what the -result will be.' - -"Then an awful terror came over me, which I cannot put into words. What -if she died, or what if she never had her reason again? Who in that -house would ever bear to look at me? When Cain had murdered his brother -he had to go forth alone,--what was left for me, another Cain, but to -go also alone into the world? - -"We lived nine miles away from a seaport town from which whaling -vessels were continually starting, and it came into my mind that I -might ship on board one for a three years' cruise; and, by the time it -was over, the folks at home might have learned to forgive me for being -in the world. So off through the night I hurried. - -"How strangely our ways seem made ready for us, often, in the great -moments, big with fate, of our lives! I found a whaler which was to -sail in the early morning, a captain disappointed in one of his green -hands, whose place I could have, and before I had been half an hour in -the town my bargain was made, I had been fitted out with necessaries, -and I went into a tavern to write a note to my mother. - -"A strange, incoherent note it was; but it told her where I was gone -and why, and begged her, whatever came, to forgive her boy, who loved -her, and who might never see her again. - -"Never mind about the long, long days, and weeks, and months which -followed,--the empty hours of solemn nights and gusty days, during -which I was face to face with my own soul. - -"Of course before a week had gone by I was sorry enough for the rash -step I had taken. It seemed to me I could not live for three years -and not know what had become of Nelly. I would have gone barefoot to -the ends of the earth to find out about her, but I could not walk the -sea. I was growing so wild with grief and anxiety that I sometimes -think I should have walked overboard some night, and so ended all my -pain for this world, if Providence had not raised me up a friend in my -need--only a common sailor, and a man whose strange history I never -knew, but a gentleman and a scholar, in whose locker were Milton, and -Shakespeare, and Don Quixote. - -"I had studied pretty well at school; and was rather forward than -otherwise, for a boy of fourteen; and I have sometimes thought no -course of study in any school would have been so much to me as was the -entire absence of frivolous and worthless literature, and the constant -companionship of these great minds. Besides these, I read daily in my -pocket Testament; and I owed a great deal also to the instructions and -explanations of the friend who was, as it has always seemed to me, -God's especial gift to my needs. - -"Our voyage appeared destined, at first, to be a highly successful one; -but just as we were nearly ready to return, we encountered a storm -which strewed the sea with wrecks. We saw our vessel go down, but we -were fortunate enough to escape in our boats; my friend and I, and two -or three more, were with the second mate in his boat, and we were soon -separated from the others. We made land on a fruitful island, peopled -by savages who were not unfriendly; but it was many months before, at -last, we got away in an East Indiaman, and while we were on the island -my friend had died suddenly, leaving untold the story of his life. - -"I will not enter into the particulars of my return home,--how from -port to port and ship to ship I made my way, until, at length, after -five years of absence, I sighted the well-known landmarks of the old -town from whence I embarked. - -"How familiar it all looked to me! I knew every field through which the -homeward road led, and I walked the nine miles between the town and my -father's farm in the night, as I had done before. It was three o'clock -of a September morning when I reached the old place, and I had nearly -two hours to wait before there were any signs of life about it. For -now, after all these years, I had not the courage to summon them from -their rest. How I passed those waiting hours, divided betwixt hope and -fear, you can guess. I lived over in them all the torturing anxieties -of the last five years. Was Nelly dead or alive? Should I ever see my -mother again? What had changed, while the old house among the trees had -stood so still? - -"At last I heard a sound. A door opened, and my mother, who of old -always used to be the first to move, looked out. Her hair was white, -and her thin cheeks were pale; but I knew the kind eyes that looked -forth to meet the morning, and should have known them despite any -amount of change. I sprang forward to greet her. - -"'Mother,' I said. She knew my voice and turned toward me trembling. - -"'O Jack, Jack! I thought you were dead long ago. O my boy, my own boy!' - -"And her arms were round my neck, her tender lips were kissing me; and -so she drew me in, into peace, shelter, home. - -"'And Nelly?' I asked, half afraid to call the name. - -"'Nelly is well. Oh, if you had but waited to see. She was ill for -awhile, but no serious harm came to her; and, instead, it was my own -boy who went away to break my heart.' - -"'And has come back to heal it,' I cried, growing bold and merry with -my relief and joy. - -"By this time the rest heard us, and came to the scene,--father, -brothers, and last of all, Nelly; such a beautiful Nelly of sweet -sixteen, ten times fairer and brighter than my brightest memories of -her, and all ready to forgive me, and make much of me. - -"_Then_ was when the chivalry began. _Then_ I was ready enough to fetch -and carry for Miss Nelly of the dark eyes and the bright cheeks." - -"Oh," said John, laughing, "then when a fellow is nineteen he can be -chivalrous to his own sister?" - -"Very likely he can," Uncle Jack answered, "but my experience doesn't -prove it; for I began to be glad, very soon indeed, that Nelly was -only my adopted sister, after all. It was a good while before I got my -courage up to ask her whether she would trust herself to me on the long -home stretch through life. Be sure that I promised her, if she would, -that I'd never leave her in any dark places." - -"And what did she say?" - -"Oh! I mustn't tell her secrets. Go and ask her. There she comes, with -her first grandchild in her arms. Her cheeks are not bright now, she -says, but somehow they look to me just as they used to look; and I know -her eyes are as dark and deep as ever; and though I call her 'mother,' -with the rest of you, when you are all round, there is never a night -that I don't say to her, before she goes to sleep, 'God bless you, -Nelly!'" - - - - -NOBODY'S CHILD. - - -The summer sun was warm in the five-acre lot, and the east porch was -cool and pleasant, so the owner of the lot lingered in the porch and -talked awhile with his wife. He had married her only the April before, -and to live with her and love her had not yet grown to be an old -story. It would be her fault if it ever did grow to be one; for he was -a tender, kindly man, this Marcus Grant, with a gentle and clinging -nature, and a womanly need of loving. - -His wife, though she was young and pretty, with bright eyes, and bright -lips, and soft, waving hair, was harder than he, and colder, and more -selfish. But she had given him all the heart she had, and in these -early days she cared very much indeed about pleasing him, and keeping -him satisfied with her; or, rather, making him continue to admire her, -for quiet satisfaction on his part would not have been enough. - -He had thrown himself down on the door-stone, and his head was leaning -against her lap, as she sat on her low chair in the porch, and ran her -fingers in and out of his thick chestnut hair, thinking to herself -what a fortunate woman she was to be the wife of this manly, handsome -fellow, whom so many girls wanted, and the mistress of his well-filled, -comfortable house. - -From this east porch where they sat they could see down the long line -of dusty road that led to the church and the few houses clustered round -it, which passed for a village. The farmhouse stood on the top of a -high hill; and up this hill they now saw a woman toiling slowly. The -summer sun burned fiercely down on her, the dust rose with every step -in a choking cloud about her, but still she struggled on. - -Little events are full of interest in country solitudes, and both Grant -and his wife watched the wanderer with curiosity. - -"Well, I never saw her before, that's certain," the husband said, -after a long look as she drew nearer. - -"Nor I," returned his wife. "But see, Mark, she has a baby in her arms. -She's trying to keep the sun off it with that shawl; and, sure as you -live, she is turning in here." - -"Why, so she is;" and Grant rose to his feet. - -"May I sit down in the shade and rest?" asked the stranger, drawing -nigh. She spoke in a clear, silvery voice, which betrayed some of -her secrets, since it was the voice of a lady, and also it was the -utterance of despair, for its hopeless monotone was unvarying. - -"Certainly," and Mrs. Grant rose and offered her own low chair, for -clearly this was no common tramp. - -"And might I trouble you for a glass of water?" - -"I'll go for some fresh," Grant said, full of hospitable intent. - -But before he got back with the water he heard his wife calling him, -and hurrying forward at the sound, he found her holding the stranger's -head, on her shoulder, and the baby, who was just opening sleepy eyes, -in her arms. - -"Quick, Mark, do something. I think she is dying. She must be -sun-struck." - -And so it proved. No one ever knew how far she had toiled in that -intense heat, with the baby in her arms,--no one ever knew any thing -more about her, for when the sun set, which had scorched and withered -her life, she, too, was gone to unknown shores. She spoke only once -after she asked for the glass of water, and that was just before she -died. The baby, in another room, uttered a cry, and she tried to turn -her head toward the sound. - -"It is your baby," Mrs. Grant said, kindly, "but she is all right. What -do you call her?" - -The strangest change came over the dying face: it may have been only -a foreshadowing of death, but it seemed more like a mortal agony of -renunciation and of despair. - -"Nothing," she said, as evenly and with as little change of inflection -as if she were already a ghost; "nothing: she is nobody's child." - -But in half an hour after that she was dead, and Mrs. Grant, who was -very literal in her ideas, always thought that the stranger had not -known what she said; but, she used to add, the child _was_ nobody's -child, for all they should ever know about it. - -After the mother was buried, she began to think it was time to dispose -of this child, which was nobody's. She was not without heart, and -she had worked diligently to fashion small garments enough to make -the little creature comfortable; but now, she thought, her duty was -done, and she wondered Mark said nothing about taking the baby to the -alms-house. - -At last, one evening, she herself proposed it. Her husband looked at -her in mild surprise. He supposed all women loved babies by instinct, -and he took it for granted that of course his wife wanted this one, -only she probably thought he wouldn't like it round. - -"Why, did you think I wouldn't let you keep it?" he asked quietly. -"I think God has sent it to us, and we've really no right to turn it -over to any one else, to say nothing of the pleasure it is to have the -little bundle." - -As I said, Mrs. Grant was still in a state of mind not to be satisfied -without her husband's admiration. She would not have fallen short of -his ideal of her for any thing; she would, at least, _seem_ all that he -desired her to _be_. She was quick enough to understand that he _would_ -think less of her if he saw her unwilling to keep the baby, so she -smiled on him with what cheerfulness she could summon, and treated the -matter as settled. - -Thus the child, which was nobody's, grew up in the Grant household. -She had been six months old, apparently, when she came there, and by -midwinter she began to totter round on her little feet, and to say -short words. - -But no one ever taught her to say papa or mamma, those lovely first -words of childhood. What had nobody's child to do with such names? - -It might have seemed strange to most people that Julia Grant did -not love this little thing, so thrown upon her mercy in its tender -babyhood. But, despite theories, all women are not fond of children. -Every woman is, perhaps, fond, in a blind, instinctive way, of her own; -but the more heavenly love which takes all children in its arms and -blesses them is not by any means universal. - -The most powerful trait in Mrs. Grant's character was a silent, -unobtrusive selfishness. The whole world revolved, to her thought, -about _her_. Rains fell, dews dropped earthward, winds blew and suns -shone for Julia Grant. She had consented with secret reluctance to -keep the child, and from that moment a root of bitterness and jealousy -had sprung up in her heart. If her husband had thought much of _her_ -comfort, she used to say to herself, he would not have wanted to put -all this care upon her. - -She was quite ready, therefore, to be jealous, and to feel as if -something was taken from her every time he tossed the little one in -his arms, or called it a pet name; and after a while--not at once, for -he was naturally the most unsuspicious of men--some instinct revealed -this to him, and made him, lover of peace as he was, very chary of -manifesting in his wife's presence any especial tenderness for the -little stranger within his gates. - -But summer and winter came and went, and with their sun and shade -nobody's child grew on toward girlhood. She had a great deal of beauty, -of a shadowy, delicate kind. She was seldom ill, but she was a very -frail-looking child. The quick, changeful color in her cheeks, the -depth of feeling in her dark eyes, the tremulous curves about her -mouth, all indicated an organization of extreme sensitiveness; a nature -to which love would be as the very breath of life, but which was too -shrinking and timid ever to put forth any claims for it, or make any -advances. - -For ten years she was the only little one in the Grant household. -Their affairs prospered, they grew richer every year, as if nobody's -child had brought a blessing with her; but it was a constant source of -bitterness to Mrs. Grant that they were laying up for strangers, or -perhaps for this waif, whom no one else claimed, and who seemed likely -to remain in their house for ever, like some noiseless, unwelcome -shadow. - -But at last, when the child had been for ten years her unwelcome -housemate, to Mrs. Grant herself was given a little baby girl, God's -messenger of love, as I think every child must be, to every mother. -Never had baby a warmer welcome. The preparations made for her were -worthy of a little queen, and she opened her eyes on a world of love -and of summer. - -But perhaps no one, not even her mother, lavished upon her such a -passion of devotion as the poor little waif, nobody's child, who had -never in her life before had any one whom she dared to caress. Perhaps -her devotion to baby touched Mrs. Grant's heart; at any rate she -saw that she could trust the little one to her without fear, and so -nobody's child became a self-constituted but most faithful nurse and -body-guard to this other child, whom loving hearts were so proud and -glad to own. - -And little Rose--for so they named the summer baby--clung to her young -nurse with a fond tenacity, very exacting and wearing, indeed, but -unutterably sweet to the shy girl whom no one else loved. She began to -feel that she was of some use,--even she had her own name and place in -the world; and this reminds me that I have not yet told you her name. -She had been christened Annette soon after she came under the Grant -roof, but little Rose called her "Nanty," and this odd title was the -very first word that small person ever spoke. She was a lovely baby, -one of the rosy, fat, dimpled, laughing kind, and so thoroughly healthy -that she seldom cried, except when "Nanty" disappeared for a moment -from her sight. The touch of her baby fingers seemed to make Marcus -Grant and his wife both young again. Day by day some line of care faded -out of their faces, which time had begun to harden. The mother smiled, -as she had never smiled before, on her baby; and here, at last, was an -object on which the father's great, loving heart could lavish itself, -unblamed, and unquestioned. - -Rose was a year and a half old, when one cold winter night her father -and mother were persuaded to go to a house warming, a mile away. Mrs. -Grant was seldom willing to leave her baby, but this gay company was to -assemble at the new house of one of her best friends, and she took a -fancy to be present. - -"'Nanty' will be just as careful of Rose, to do her justice, as I -should," she said; "and I think it's only neighborly to go." - -Her husband, always sociable in his nature, assented readily enough; -and eight o'clock saw them well tucked in under the buffalo robes of -their sleigh, and started for the scene of festivities. - -"Nanty," for her part, was well content. Rose was already asleep, her -little cheek, pink as the heart of one of her namesake flowers, resting -on one dimpled hand, while the other was tossed above her head, as we -have all seen babies sleep. The maid-of-all-work went off early to her -bed in the next chamber, and the man, who had a family of his own not -far away, took his departure, and then "Nanty" raked up the fire, and -crept softly into bed beside little Rose. - -It was nearly midnight when she woke, roused from her slumber by -a light, a vivid, red light, brighter than day. In one moment she -realized her position. The house was on fire, and the flames were -already far advanced. - -She sprang to the door and opened it, but it was only to be met and -driven back by a sheet of fire. There was no hope of escape that way. -Rose was her only thought. If she could save the child, she did not -care for herself. - -She opened the chamber window. The leap seemed desperate to her timid -gaze, but the snow underneath the window might break the fall. Then -she thought of something better. She caught the blankets from the bed, -and rolled Rose in them hurriedly, then dragged off the feather-bed, -by an effort of uttermost strength, and forced it through the window; -and then, reaching out as far as she could, she dropped Rose, closely -wrapped in the blankets, upon the bed, and sprang herself from another -window, lest she might fall upon the child. - -For her there was no bed underneath, and no wrapping of soft woollens. -Heavily she fell to the ground, and a violent shock, followed by deadly -pain, told her that she had broken her arm. She thanked God, in that -breathless moment, that it was not her leg, for somehow she must move -Rose to a place of safety, out of reach, at least, of falling timbers. -How she did it she never could have told, but in thirty seconds Rose -and the bed were out of the yard and across the street, and then she -sank down beside her charge, utterly unconscious. - -Mr. and Mrs. Grant were driving home after the festival when they -caught the gleam of a wild, strange light in the direction of their own -home. - -"The house is on fire!" Mrs. Grant cried, with white lips. - -"Rose!" the father answered hoarsely, and whipped his horse into a run. -A quarter of a mile away from home they met the maid. - -"Master, mistress," she screamed after them, "the house is on fire, and -I'm going for help." - -They did not stop for questions. Had "Nanty" also forsaken little Rose? - -But they found "Nanty" at her post, though at first they thought she -was dead. The mother pulled away the blankets from the little bundle -beside her, and Baby Rose rubbed her chubby hands into her sleepy eyes. - -"Where is I?" she said, "and what for you make morning so soon?" - -"O Mark, Mark! she's all right," the mother cried, in a passion of joy. -"'Nanty' has saved her;" and then she bent over the little girl in her -thin night-gown, and took her by the arm. - -"Nanty, Nanty!" - -She had seized the broken arm, and the pain roused the fainting girl. - -"Yes'm," she said, starting up. "I'm so sorry to be good for nothing -just now, when you want me so much, but I broke my arm jumping out." - -Afterwards, when the family had found a new shelter, the whole story -came out. The maid, Judith, had read herself to sleep, and her candle -had tipped over and set the bed on fire. The flames had aroused her to -a terror which utterly swept away whatever presence of mind she might -have had under other circumstances, and without one thought for Rose -or "Nanty" she had hurried off to call the neighbors to the scene of -action. - -One might have feared that the fright and exposure would prove fatal to -one so frail and delicate as "Nanty" had always been; but by the time -her arm was well healed she was stronger than ever before, drawing new -life, as it seemed, from the love and care lavished on her so freely; -for now even Mrs. Grant's heart had opened and taken her in. - -One day Marcus Grant said to his wife,-- - -"But for 'Nanty' we should have had no child at all. It seems hard that -she, who saved our darling, should be nobody's child herself." - -"You think we ought to adopt her, and make her ours legally?" his wife -answered, smiling cheerfully. "I have been thinking the same thing -myself. We will do it when you please, for I believe God sent her to -us, to be our own, just as much as ever He sent Rose." - -So it came about, before another spring, that "Nanty" was no longer -nobody's child. Father, mother, and little sister all belonged to her, -and she had name and place in life, and a happy home where love smiled -for ever. - - - - -MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. - - -For a year the great house rising on the summit of Prospect Hill had -been an object of interest and observation, and a chief subject for -talk to the quiet country neighborhood surrounding it. Hillsdale was -an old town--a still, steady-going farming place--where the young men -ploughed the unwilling fields, and coaxed reluctant crops out of the -hard-hearted New England soil, as fathers and grandfathers had done -before them. But in all the generations since the town was settled, no -one had ever thought of building on Prospect Hill. It had been used as -pasture ground, until now, when a man from Boston had bought it, and -had had a road made to its top, and a house built on its very brow. - -This house was a wonder of architectural beauty. - - - "With its battlements high in the hush of the air, - And the turrets thereon." - - -It was built of a kind of mixed stone; so that its variegated coloring -had an air of brightness and gayety very unusual. The farmers about -were exercised in mind over the amount of ox-flesh and patience -required to drag stone enough for the great building up the high hill; -but that did not trouble the architect, who gave his orders composedly, -and went on with his business, quite unheeding comment. The house, -itself, puzzled the neighbors, with its superb, arched dining-hall, -its lovely, frescoed drawing-room, its wide passages, its little -music-room, and its great library all lined with carven oak. Then, why -there should be so many chambers, unless, indeed, Mr. Shaftsbury had a -very large family. - -But it was when the furniture began to come in that wonder reached -its height. Such plenishings had never been seen before in Hillsdale. -The carpet on the drawing-room must have been woven in some loom -of unheard-of size; for it seemed to be all in one piece, with a -medallion in the centre, a border round the edge, and all over its soft -velvet--into which your feet sank as into woodland moss--the daintiest -flowers that ever grew. Marble statues gleamed in front of the great -mirrors; and pictures of lovely landscapes, and radiant sunsets, and -handsome men, and fair women, hung upon the walls. In the music-room -were placed a grand piano, a harp and a guitar. The shelves which ran -round the library on all sides, half way from floor to ceiling, were -filled with substantially bound books; and above them were busts of -great men by whom immortal words had been written. It was a dream of -beauty all through,--and when it was finished, and a troop of servants, -men and women, came to make all things ready, expectation reached its -height. - -A presidential progress could hardly have excited more interest than -did the arrival of a quiet, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in gray, -with iron-gray hair and beard, at the little railroad station, where -a carriage had been sent down from Prospect Hill to meet him. This, -of course, was Mr. Shaftsbury. He was accompanied, in spite of the -many chambers, by a family of only two,--a lady much younger than -himself, dressed with elegant simplicity, with a face full of all -womanly sweetness, and a boy, about twelve or thirteen, apparently,--a -high-bred little fellow in his appearance, but somewhat pale and -delicate, and in need of the bracing air of Prospect Hill. - -They drove home in the sunset,--this little family of three,--and -looked for the first time on their new abode. Mr. Shaftsbury had -selected the location, and bought the land, somewhat more than a -year before; and then had put the whole matter into the hands of a -competent architect, while he took his family to Europe, so that the -new residence had as entirely the charm of novelty for him as for the -others. - -For a month after that he was to be seen busily superintending matters -about his place in the forenoon, while his wife and boy sauntered -along, never far away from him, or driving with them in the pleasant -May afternoons,--always these three only, and always together. - -The first of June, the summer term of the district school began. It -was an intense surprise to the scholars to find, first of all in his -place, young Shaftsbury, from the hill. "Robert Shaftsbury, thirteen -years old," he replied to the teacher, who asked his name and age. He -studied quietly till recess, and even then lingered in his seat, with -evident shyness, though he watched the others with a look of interest -on his face. They stood apart, and talked of him among themselves, -instead of rushing out at once to play, as was their wont. - -At last, after a good deal of wonderment and talk, one boy, bolder or -more reckless than the rest, marched up to him. - -"I say, Velvet Jacket, how came you here?" was his salutation. "Seems -to me you're too much of a gentleman for our folks." - -A slight flush warmed young Shaftsbury's pale cheeks; but he answered, -with frankness as absolute as his courtesy was perfect:-- - -"I have been taught at home, up to now, but my father wants me to be -with other boys of my own age; and he says a true gentleman belongs -everywhere." - -The boys all heard what he said; and, in spite of their boyish -rudeness, it inspired them with a certain respect. That was the -beginning of the title which they gave him, among themselves, of -"little gentleman,"--_only_ among themselves, at first; though -afterwards, when they grew more familiar with him, they used to address -him by it, more often than by his name. - -If there had been a philosophical observer to take note of it, it would -have been curious to watch how unconsciously the boys were influenced -by my little gentleman,--how their manners grew more gentle,--how -they avoided coarse or unclean or profane words in his presence, as -if he had been a woman. He led his classes, easily, in their studies. -The teacher had never to reprove him for carelessness in his duties, -or for broken rules. His father had said, "A true gentleman belongs -everywhere;" and he was quietly proving it. - -The scholars liked him,--they could not help it, for his manner was -as courteous as his nature was unselfish and kindly; and yet in -their feeling for him there was a little strain of envy,--a slight -disposition to blame him for the luxury and elegance to which he was -born; and, because of his very courtesy, to underrate his courage and -the real manliness of his character. - -But there was one in whose eyes he was, from first to last, a hero. -Jamie Strong was yet more delicate than young Shaftsbury. He had -something the matter with one of his ankles, and could not join in the -rough sports of the others. He was the only son of his mother, and she -was a widow. Her husband and her other three children had all died of -typhoid fever, and been, one after another, carried out of the little, -lonesome cottage at the foot of the hill, where the sun seldom came, -and now Jamie was the last. - -He would never be strong enough to do hard work. Sowing, ploughing, -mowing, harvesting,--he could never manage any of these; so for -his weak limbs his quick brain must make up; and Widow Strong had -determined that he should be a scholar,--a minister, if it pleased the -Lord to call him to that; if not a teacher. - -So she quietly struggled on to keep him at school, and to earn money to -provide for future years of academy and college. She sewed, she washed, -she picked berries,--she did any thing by which she could add a dollar -to her hoard. - -Jamie understood and shared her ambition, and studied with might and -main. He was used to harshness and rudeness from stronger boys, and he -had grown shy and shrunk into himself. To him the coming of my little -gentleman was as grace from heaven. Here was one who never mocked at -his feebleness, or his poverty,--who was always kind, always friendly, -and who did many a little thing to make him happy. Young Shaftsbury on -his part was quick to perceive the tender and loyal admiration of the -other; and there grew between them the tie of an interest which had -never been put into words. - -It had been a damp and strange summer, intensely warm, even in that -hilly region. It had rained continually, but the rains, which kept -the fields green and made vegetation so unusually lush and ripe, had -seemed scarcely to cool at all the fervid heat of the air. Wiseacres -predicted much sickness. Indeed, several cases of slow fever were in -the town already. - -One day my little gentleman looked about in vain for his friend Jamie, -and finally asked for him anxiously, and found that the boy was ill of -typhoid fever. At recess he heard the boys talking of it. - -"He'll never get well," one said. "His father died just that way, and -his three brothers. You see it's damp, down in that hollow, and the sun -hardly ever touches the house. I heard Dr. Simonds say it was ten to -one against anybody who was sick there." - -When school was over Robert Shaftsbury hurried home. He found his -mother sitting, dressed all in white, in the music-room, playing a -symphony on the piano, while his father sat a little distance off, -listening with half-closed eyes. He waited until the piece was over, -and then he told his story and preferred his request. - -The doctor had said it was ten to one against any one who was sick -in that little damp house in the hollow; and he wanted Jamie brought -up the hill to their own home. He watched the faces of his father and -mother as he spoke; and it seemed to him that a refusal was hovering -upon their lips, and he said, earnestly,-- - -"Don't speak, just yet. Remember that he is his mother's only son, as -I am yours. If I lay sick where there was no hope for me, and some one -else might, perhaps, save me by taking me in, would you think they -ought to try it, or to let me die?" - -Mr. Shaftsbury looked into his wife's eyes. - -"Robert is right," she said, with the sudden, sweet smile which always -seemed to make the day brighter when it came to her lips. "If the poor -boy can be helped by being brought here, we must bring him." - -"I will go and see," Mr. Shaftsbury answered, at once. - -"And I, too, papa," said my little gentleman. - -"Not you, I think. I fear contagion for you." - -"I think there is no danger for me, living on this bright hill-top, in -these great, airy rooms,--but even if there were, I am sure you would -let me go if you knew how much Jamie loves me." - -"Come, then," his father said, quietly. He had been, all his son's -life, preaching to him of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion. He -dared not interfere with almost his first opportunity for any real -exercise of them. So the two went down the hill together. - -It chanced that they met Dr. Simonds coming away from the house, and -proposed to him the question of the removal. It would not do, the -doctor declared at once,--the disease had made too much progress. To -remove him now would be more dangerous than to leave him where he was. - -"Then I must go and see him," Robert said, resolutely. "You know he has -only his mother, and I must spend all the time I can spare from school -with him." - -"But I will send an excellent nurse, my son. Do you not see that I -cannot have you expose yourself?" - -"Send the nurse, too, please, papa; but do not keep me from going. He -will not care for the nurse, and he does care very much for me. I do -not believe in the danger, and I know how glad he will be to see me." - -Mr. Shaftsbury hesitated. This boy was as the apple of his eye. Must -he indeed begin so soon to look danger in the face, for the sake of -others? But dared he withhold him, when the boy felt that honor and -duty called? It ended by his walking in with him quietly. - -It was something to see how Jamie's face brightened. He had been very -dull and stupid all day, his mother said, and some of the time his mind -had been wandering. But now a glad, eager light came into his eyes, and -a smile curved his parched lips. He put out his hot hands. - -"Oh! is it you, my little gentleman?" he said: "I had rather see you -than any thing else in the world." - -"Well, then, I will come every day as soon as I am through school," -Robert Shaftsbury answered. - -"Do you know what you have done?" his father asked, when, at last, they -stood outside the house together. - -"Yes, papa. I have promised that poor, sick, helpless little fellow -all the comfort I can give him. I have promised to do by him as I -should want him to do by me if I were Jamie Strong, and he was Robert -Shaftsbury." - -Mr. Shaftsbury was silenced. This, indeed, was the rule of living he -had taught. Should he venture to interfere with its observance? - -So my little gentleman had his way. He took every precaution which his -mother's anxiety suggested, such as going home to lunch before he went -to the little cottage where the sick boy lay and longed for him. But -he went regularly. And no matter how wild Jamie might be, his presence -would bring calmness. The dim eyes would kindle; the poor, parched lips -would smile; and Mrs. Strong said the visit did Jamie more good than -his medicines. - -At school the boys looked upon my little gentleman with a sort -of wondering reverence. They all knew of his daily visits to the -fever-haunted place, which they themselves shunned, and they marvelled -at his courage. This was the boy they had fancied to be lacking in -manliness, because he was slight and fair,--because he was carefully -dressed and tenderly nurtured! They said nothing; but in a hundred -subtile ways they showed their changed estimate. - -The days went on, and with them Jamie Strong's life went toward its -end. The doom of his house had come upon him; and love and prayers -and watching were all, it seemed, of none avail. One night the fever -reached its crisis, and the doctor, who watched him through it, knew -that the end was near. Jamie knew it, also. When the morning dawned he -whispered faintly to his mother,-- - -"I shall never see another morning; but oh, if I can only live till -night, and see my little gentleman!" - -She proposed to send for him; but that was not what the boy wished. - -"No," he said, feebly, "I want to see him coming in, at the old time, -with some flowers in his hand, 'and make a sunshine in a shady place.' -Somebody said that, mother, I forget who; I forget every thing now; but -that's what _he_ does; he makes a sunshine in this shady place." - -A dozen times that day it seemed as if the breath coming so faintly -must be his last; but he clung to life with a strange, silent tenacity. -At last, just a few moments before it was time for the accustomed -visit, he said,-- - -"Kiss me good-by, mother. I want to save the rest of my strength for -him." - -She kissed him, with her bitter tears falling fast. He put up a hand so -thin that you could almost see through it, and brushed the tears away. - -"Don't cry," he said; "it hurts me. Life here was hard, and up above -Christ says it will be all made easy." - -Then he was silent, and presently Robert came with a great bunch of -white lilies in his hand. - -"The lilies of heaven," murmured Jamie, in a low, strange tone. Then -into his eyes broke once more the light which never failed to respond -to Robert's coming, and a wan smile fluttered over his lips, as a soul -might flutter before it flies away. - -"I am going now," he said. "I waited to say good-by, my little -gentleman. Do you think they are all gentlemen up there?" - -With this question his life went out, and voices we could not hear made -answer. - -This was the beginning of Robert Shaftsbury's career. No harm came -to him through his presence in the fever-tainted house,--but he had -learned a lesson there. The one thing for which he has striven in life -is to be a gentleman; and his interpretation of that much-abused phrase -he finds in the Book which tells us to do unto others as we would that -they should do unto us. - -[Illustration: RUTHY'S COUNTRY.--PAGE 191.] - - - - -RUTHY'S COUNTRY. - - -It was such a strange, sad, old face to be on such a young, slight -form, that you could not help looking at it again and again. Otherwise -there was nothing remarkable about her. She was just a girl sweeping a -crossing, in a bustling, dirty street, on a muddy, sloppy March day. - -She was thinly clothed, but not more so than others of her class; -and there was nothing in particular to make me notice her except -this queer, expressive, melancholy, unyouthful countenance. She wore -a worsted hood which left the whole face visible. You could see the -forehead, broad and low, and lined with puzzled thinking; the dusky, -tumbled hair; the wishful, pathetic mouth with its drooping corners; -and the great, strange, olive-colored eyes, which looked as if they -had asked for something they could never find for such a weary while -that now they would never ask again,--eyes dark with despair, and yet -with a suggestion of something else in them which set you questioning. - -Patiently she swept on. Sometimes she had to spring aside from the -rapid passage of cart or carriage, sometimes she made clean the way -of some dainty foot passenger, who rewarded her with a penny; but all -the time the hopeless, unchildlike visage never betrayed the slightest -gleam of interest. I was dabbling in art a little, just then; and -I stood in the window of a picture store and watched her, thinking -that her strange, impassive face ought to fit, somewhere, in the -illustrations I was making for a book of ballads, but not knowing quite -how to use it. - -All at once, as I watched, I saw a singular change pass over her. She -held her broom motionless, her lips parted, a light as if at midnight -the sun should rise, lighted the darkness of her eyes, her whole -expression kindled with something,--interest, surprise, expectation,--I -hardly knew what, but something that transformed it as by a spell. I -stepped to the door then, and followed her eyes up the street. - -It takes ten times as long to tell this as it was in happening. It -all came in an instant,--the change in her face, my going out to look -for its cause, and the sight which, following her eyes, I saw,--a -carriage coming swiftly down street, an elegant open barouche, in -which sat a lady dressed in furs and velvet, and a wonderfully -beautiful, golden-haired child. It was at the child that my little -crossing-sweeper was looking, with a gaze which seemed to me to say,-- - -"So this, then, is childhood? _This_ is what we ought to be when we are -young; and how beautiful it is!" - -She looked so intently that she forgot she was standing in the way, -until the coachman shouted out to her, while he tried with all his -strength to pull up his horses. She had looked one moment too long. -Somehow the pole knocked her down, and the horses stepped over or on -her, which I could not see; but in another moment they were drawn up a -rod farther on, the lady was getting out of her carriage, and I myself -was in the heart of the crowd which gathered at once, as usual. "Her -arm is broken," one cried. "She has fainted," said another. - -"Where is her home; can any one tell?" asked the lady in the furs and -the velvet, standing now beside her. - -A ragged little newsboy stepped from the ranks and pulled at some -ghost of a cap. "Please, ma'am, I know," he said. "It's down here in -Moonstone Court, with old Sally." - -"Hey for Sally, in our alley," sang another little limb of evil, vexed -that he had not been the one who knew the local habitation aforesaid. - -Newsboy No. 1 was elevated to the coachman's box, and was desired to -show the way. The lady got into the carriage herself, and received -the injured and swooning girl, whom there were strong arms enough to -lift,--the golden-haired child looked on with the compassion of an -angel in her angelic face,--newsboy No. 2 hung on behind dexterously, -making sure that his offence would pass unnoticed in the general -_mêlée_, and the carriage rolled away toward Moonstone Court. Presently -the golden-haired child spoke. - -"What if they haven't any good place for her there, mamma?" - -Mrs. Brierly, for that was the lady's name, bent forward and addressed -newsboy No. 1, on the box. - -"Is the old Sally you spoke of the girl's mother?" - -"No, ma'am. She ain't no relation to her. I've heard folks say, Ruthy's -father and mother died, and old Sally took her in to beg for her; to be -a sufferin' orphin, you know; and lately Ruthy won't beg any more, and -they say the old un do beat her awful." - -"O mamma!" It was all the pitiful, childish lips said; but the blue -eyes full of tears finished the prayer. - -"Don't be afraid, Gracie," the lady answered, smiling; "she shall not -go there." Then she turned to newsboy No. 1. "Here is some money for -you. You can tell old Sally that the girl got hurt, and has been taken -to the hospital. You had better go and let her know at once." - -So newsboy No. 1 got down from his unwonted elevation, pulled again -at the phantom of a cap, and, looking curiously at the fresh, crisp -currency in his hand, walked away. Newsboy No. 2, correctly divining -that nothing was to be gained by remaining, while, by following his -comrade he might perhaps come in for a treat, let go his hold on the -carriage, and went after the other. - -"Now, James," Mrs. Brierly said to the coachman, "you may drive to the -Children's Hospital, on Rutland Street." - -"We shall go right by home, shan't we, mamma?" - -"Yes, dear." - -"I suppose we couldn't be a hospital, could we?" - -"Not very conveniently, I think. It is better to help keep up a -hospital outside than to turn our own house into one." - -"Yes'm," Gracie said, thoughtfully, "only this once, when we did the -hurting, I didn't know but it would be nice if we did the curing." - -Just then, before Mrs. Brierly answered, the swooning girl revived, -and opened for an instant her curious, olive-colored eyes. There was -something in their look, perhaps, which went farther than Gracie's -argument. At any rate, the lady said,-- - -"After all, James, you may as well leave us at home, and go at once for -Dr. Cheever." - -In five minutes more the carriage had stopped before a substantial, -prosperous-looking house, the coachman had carried the poor, suffering -little waif upstairs in his arms, and Mrs. Brierly had summoned Mrs. -Morris, the good, motherly woman who had been Gracie's nurse, to her -councils. - -When Dr. Cheever came, he found his patient in clean, pure clothes, in -a fresh, lovely room, waiting for him with a piteous, silent patience -which it was pathetic to see. She suffered cruelly from her hurt, a -compound fracture of the wrist, but she was not used to making moans -or receiving sympathy; and it would have seemed to her a sort of -sacrilege to cry out with human pain in this paradise to which she had -been brought. One could only guess at her suffering by her compressed -lips, with the white pallor round them, and the dark rings about her -eyes. - -Dr. Cheever listened to the account of the accident, while he dressed -the poor hurt wrist with a gentleness which soothed the pain his touch -caused. When he had done all he could, he followed Mrs. Brierly from -the room. - -"This will be an affair of several weeks," he said. "Would it not have -been better to take the girl to one of the hospitals?" - -"I thought so, at first; but, as Gracie said, we did the hurting, and -it seemed right we should do the healing. Besides, the child's face -interested me strangely, and I think it will not be a bad thing for us -to have a little experience of this sort." - -Meantime Ruthy lay and looked about her, as we have all fancied -ourselves looking when, the death sleep over, we shall open our eyes -to a new morning in some one of the Father's "many mansions." To a -denizen of Moonstone Court this peaceful spot in which Ruthy found -herself might well seem no unworthy heaven. The walls were tinted a -soft, delicate gray, with blue borderings. On the drab carpet blue -forget-me-nots blossomed. Blue ribbons tied back the white muslin -curtains, and all the little china articles for use or ornament were -blue and gilt. - -Only one picture was in the room, and that hung over the mantel, -directly opposite the pure white bed where Ruthy lay. It was a -landscape by Gifford,--one of those glorified pictures of his which -paint nature as only a poet sees her. Soft meadows sloped away into -dreamy distance on one side, and, on the other, into the green -enchantment of a wood a winding path beguiled you. In the centre, with -her raised foot upon a stile by which she was about to cross into the -peaceful meadows, a young girl stood with morning in her eyes. Just -as she raised her foot she had paused and turned her head to look over -her shoulder, as if she heard a voice calling her, and was hesitating -whether to go on her appointed way or back into the green wood's -enchantment. There was a wonderful suggestion for a story in the girl's -face, her attitude, her questioning eyes. But if Ruthy felt this at -all, it was very vaguely and unconsciously; yet the picture revealed to -her a new world. Somewhere, then, meadows bloomed like these meadows, -and woods were green, and light flickered through tender leaves, and -over all the great, glorious blue sky arched and smiled. Somewhere! -That must be country,--outside of the pavements and the tall, frowning -houses. Oh, if she _could_ go! Oh, but she _would_ go! Let her wrist -but get well, and then! She had never had these dreams before. The -vision of the country, the true country, had never dawned on her till -now. And yet she must have seen pictures of it in the windows of print -shops; but her eyes had not been anointed, or Gifford had not painted -the pictures. - -All through the quiet weeks in which her sore hurt was healing, she -watched that painted landscape, and her longing to find it grew and -grew. But she never said a word about it. Indeed, she seldom spoke at -all except to answer some question. - -Mrs. Brierly became strangely interested in her in spite of this -silence, which piqued and disappointed Gracie. The child could not -understand what the mother guessed at,--the sense of isolation which -tormented Ruthy. She was among them, but not of them, the girl felt. -She had been injured by an accident for which these people in some -wise held themselves responsible, and so they were good to her, and -gave her this glimpse of heaven. But they were of the chosen people, -and she a Gentile, an outcast at their gates. If she could but go away -from every thing she had ever known, and follow that winding path into -the still wood, she should be happy. Who knew what she might not find -there,--love, may be, and friends, and home,--perhaps, even, the father -and mother who, as old Sally said, were dead? Who knew? - -One day Mrs. Brierly came in to sit with her. Ruthy could sit up now, -and she was in a low rocking-chair, still facing the picture. The lady -saw the direction of her eyes, and said, gently,-- - -"I think you must like pictures very much, Ruthy?" - -The olive-colored eyes gleamed, and a flickering flush came and went in -the thin cheeks, but the girl answered shyly and guardedly, as her wont -was. - -"I don't know, ma'am; I have never seen any. I like this one. It is the -country; isn't it?" - -Mrs. Brierly smiled. - -"Yes; it is the country as Gifford, the man who made the picture, saw -it. Country means ploughed fields and potatoes to some people, and -paradise to others. I think _you_ could find Gifford's country, Ruthy." - -The girl's heart gave a great, sudden bound. That was just what she -meant to do; but she was silent. Soon Mrs. Brierly asked,-- - -"Do you remember your father and mother, Ruthy? I think they must have -been very different people from old Sally." - -"Yes, ma'am, I remember my mother. Father died so long ago I have -forgotten all about him, and mother and I grew poorer and poorer, until -one day I woke up, as it seemed, from a long dream, with my hair all -gone, and very weak; and the neighbors said mother and I had both had -a fever, and she was dead. Then Sally took me and sent me out to beg, -until I wouldn't beg any more; and since then I've sold matches and -swept crossings, and done any thing else I could. My wrist is getting -so I can use it now, and I must go to work again. I am very thankful -to you, ma'am. I would have my wrist broke twenty times to come once -into this house and lie in this white bed, and see that picture. But -to-morrow I shall be well enough to put on my own clothes again and go -to work, and I will, please, ma'am." - -"These are your own clothes that you have on, Ruthy, your very own. And -here are more changes for you in this drawer, and here in the closet -are your shawl and hat. You must not go away yet, till you are much -stronger; but when you do go, all these things are your own." - -"My very own!" It was a sort of glad cry which came from the girl's -quivering lips. Her eyes filled, and the flickering color came into her -cheeks. Mrs. Brierly got up and went away. She had never heard Ruthy -speak so many words before, and she began to feel that she should get -to the girl's heart in time, but she would not let her excite herself -any more, now. And Ruthy sat and looked at the picture, and thought. - -The next morning rose bright and clear,--a summer morning, which had -slipped away from its kindred and stolen on in advance to brighten the -last week in April. Nurse Morris went first into Ruthy's room, and -found the little white bed empty, and the room empty also. She called -the maid who had been sweeping down the steps and washing the sidewalk, -and asked if she had seen any one go out. No one, the girl said, but -she had left the door unfastened while she just chatted a bit with -Katy, next door, and some one might have gone, and she not know it. - -Mrs. Morris went next to Mrs. Brierly with her tale, and Mrs. Briefly -came in dressing-gown and slippers to look at the empty room. The -hat and shawl she had put in the closet for Ruthy were gone, but the -changes of clothes in the drawer were untouched; and upon them lay a -piece of paper on which the girl had printed laboriously, in great -capital letters,-- - - - "I AM GOING TO FIND THE COUNTRY. I DID NOT TELL, FOR FEAR I WOULD - NOT BE LET TO GO. GOD BLESS YOU, MA'AM, I'M VERY THANKFUL." - - -It seemed useless to try to follow her on her unknown road. No one -could guess in what direction she had gone. Tender-hearted little -Gracie cried over her departure; Mrs. Brierly felt very anxious and -uneasy, but they could only wait. And it was three days before any -news came. It was brought, at last, by an odd messenger. A market-man -stopped with his wagon before the house, and, ringing the bell, asked -to see the mistress, and was shown upstairs. - -"Did a young girl, sort of delicate lookin', leave you lately, ma'am?" - -"Yes, on Tuesday morning. Can you tell me any thing of her?" - -"Well, you see, I get up nigh about in the middle of the night to get -things ready for market, and Wednesday morning I found a girl lying in -a dead faint on my barn floor. I called my wife, and we brought her -to, and wife asked her where she came from. 'Mrs. Brierly's, No. 775 -Tremont Street,' she answered, straight enough; and then she went off -again, and the next time we brought her to there was no more sense to -be got out of her. She just kept saying over something about finding -the country, and 'it ain't there.' - -"I had to come off to market, but we carried her into the house, and -in the middle of the forenoon wife see the doctor goin' by, and she -jest called to him. He said it was brain fever; and she don't get any -better; and wife said I'd better stop at 775, and if there was a Mrs. -Brierly here, why, I could let her know. We live at Highville, about -fifteen miles from Boston; and if you ask for Job Smith's you'll find -my house." - -So poor little Ruthy had walked all those lonesome miles to find the -country that Gifford saw, and had found, instead, pain and weariness, -and who knew what more? - -That day Mrs. Brierly drove out there, and took Nurse Morris with her; -Ruthy recognized neither of them, and at length Mrs. Brierly drove -sadly away, leaving Nurse Morris behind to care for the sick child, as -busy Mrs. Job Smith, with all her kindliness, was unable to do. - -And after a while the fever wore itself out, and Ruthy, a white wraith -of a girl, was carried back into the chamber of peace, where the -country Gifford saw was hanging on the wall. But the days went by, and -the spring came slowly up that way, and the young summer followed, -and Ruthy was still a pale, white wraith, and grew no rosier and no -stronger. - -"Do get well, Ruthy," loving little Gracie used to say, "and we'll take -you to find the country." But Ruthy would shake her head with a slow, -mournful motion, and answer,-- - -"No use, Miss Gracie, it is in the picture, but it ain't anywhere -else." - -And by and by they began to know that Ruthy would never go where -pleasant paths led through the wood's green enchantment, or peaceful -meadows smiled in the summer sunshine. Sorrow and privation and -weariness had done their work too well, and the little heart, that -beat so much too fast now, would stop beating soon. But Ruthy was very -happy. The unrest that had possessed her before she went to find the -country was all over. She had tried her experiment, and found out, as -she thought, that the true country was not to be reached by earthly -winding ways, and she was content to watch it as Gifford painted it, -and dream her silent dreams, which no one knew, as she watched. - -One night when Gracie bade her good-night and danced away, she looked -after her with the old, wistful wonder in her eyes, and then looked up -at Mrs. Brierly. - -"How beautiful God can make children, ma'am. I think they'll _all_ be -so, in the true country." Then reaching forward she took Mrs. Brierly's -hand and touched it for the first time with her humble, grateful lips. - -"Oh, ma'am," she said, "you are so dear and good." - -The next morning, when they found her lying still, she was whiter -than ever. She would never speak again to tell her disappointment or -her joy, but a wonderful smile, a smile of triumph, was frozen on her -young, wistful mouth, and Mrs. Brierly, looking at her, stooped to kiss -Gracie's tears away, and said,-- - -"Do not cry, my darling,--I think, at last, Ruthy has found the true -country." - - - - -JOB GOLDING'S CHRISTMAS. - - -It was very strange, thought old Job Golding, that he couldn't -be master of his own mind. He had lived a great many years, and -neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing -him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his -life were breaking up. He was through with his day's work,--he had -dined comfortably,--he sat in an easy-chair, in a luxurious room -whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the December -afternoon,--for the 24th of December it was. He was all ready to enjoy -himself. How singular that this state of things should remind him of a -coming time when his life work would be all done,--even as his day's -work was all done now,--when he would be ready to sit down in the -afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. How curiously -the old days came trooping in slow procession before him. - -His dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but -how vivid was his memory of her now! He could see her moving round the -house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once -or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, -with her face growing whiter every day. He began to understand, as he -looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when -her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into God's -haven. She had had enough to eat and to drink, but he saw now that he -had left her heart to starve. He seemed to see her white, still face, -as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin -lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never -again plead vainly, closed for ever. - -He recalled how passionately the three-days-old baby cried in another -room, just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the -funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. -She _was_ a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he -remembered. She wanted--missed without knowing what the lack was--the -love which her mother would have given her, and protested against fate -with all the might of her lungs. But, as soon as she grew old enough to -understand how useless it was, _she_ had grown quiet, too; just like -her mother. He recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still -girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. -Did she have tastes, he wondered--wants, longings? She never told him. - -But suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that -had made her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he -thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his -wishes. He remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking,-- - -"Father, do you know any thing against Harry Church?" - -"Yes," he had answered wrathfully; "I know that he is as poor as Job -was when he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife." - -"Any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye. - -"No, that's enough," he had thundered; "and I'll tell you, besides, -that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. My doors -will never open to you again, never." - -He met with a will as strong as his own that time. She _did_ marry -Harry Church, and went away with him from her father's house. She had -written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters -all back unopened. He wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in -them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. He wondered why he -had opposed the marriage so much. Harry Church had been a clerk in his -store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only--poor. In that word lay -the head and front of his offending. He, Job Golding, was rich,--had -been rich all his lifetime,--but what special thing had riches done for -him? He was an old man now, and all alone. "All alone;" he kept saying -that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity. - -And all this time a message was on its way to him. - -He heard a ring at the door, but he went on with his thoughts, and did -not trouble himself about it. Meantime, two persons had been admitted -into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. -Her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child -stood there,--a dainty, delicate creature,--her golden curls drooping -softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet -lips. The housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as -she saw that little face. - -"Miss Amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "It is as much as -my place is worth to let her come in here." - -"You are Mrs. Osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at -her. - -"Hear the blessed lamb! Who in this world told you there _was_ a Mrs. -Osgood?" - -"Mamma. You loved mamma, didn't you? She said you were always so kind -to her." - -"Loved your ma? Well, I _did_ love her. The old house has never been -the same since she went out of it." - -"Then you'll let me go up alone and see grandpa? That is what mamma -said I was to do." - -Mrs. Osgood hesitated a moment, then love and memory triumphed over -fear, and she said,-- - -"Yes, you shall. Heaven forbid I should hinder you! Go right upstairs -and open the first door." - -The man who had come with her sat down in the hall to wait, and the -little figure, with its gleaming, golden hair, tripped on alone. - -She opened the door softly, and went in. She did not speak; perhaps -the stern-looking old man sitting there awed her to silence. She -just stepped up to him and handed him a letter. He took it, scarcely -noticing, so busy was he with his thoughts, at the hand of what strange -messenger. He looked at the outside. It was his daughter's writing. -Ten years ago he had sent her last letter back unopened; but this -one,--what influence apart from himself moved him to read it? It was -not long, but it commenced with "Dear father." He had never been a dear -father to her, he thought. - -She had waited all these silent years, she told him, because she was -determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for -him to know that she did not write from any need of his help. They had -passed these ten years in the West, and Heaven had prospered them. Her -husband was a rich man, now; and she wanted from her father only his -love,--wanted only that death should not come between them, and either -of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the -other. - -"Let _her_ lips speak to you from the grave," she wrote; "her lips, -which you must have loved once, and which never grew old or lost their -youth's brightness,--let them plead with you to be reconciled to her -child. Surely, you will not turn away from the messenger I send,--your -own grandchild." - -The messenger,--he had forgotten about her. He turned and she was -standing there, like a spirit, on his hearthstone, with her white face -and her gleaming golden hair. He looked at her, and saw her father's -broad, full brow and thoughtful eyes, and below them the sweetness of -her mother's smile. His grandchild--his! His heart throbbed chokingly. -He grew hungry to clasp her,--to feel her soft arms clinging round his -neck, her tender lips kissing away the furrows of his hard life from -his face. But he feared to startle her. He tried to speak gently,--he, -to whom gentleness was so new and strange. - -"Come here, little girl," he said; and she went up to him fearlessly. -"Can you tell me how old you are, and what your name is?" - -"I am eight, grandpapa, and my name is Amy." - -Another Amy! He felt the great sobs rising up from his heart, but he -choked them back. - -"What have they told you about me?" he asked her anxiously. Could it be -possible, he wondered, that they had not taught her to hate him? - -"They always told me that you were far away toward where the sun rose; -and if I were good they would fetch me to see you some day. And every -night I say in my prayers, 'God bless papa and mamma, and God bless -grandpapa.'" - -"Why _didn't_ they fetch you; what made them let you come alone?" - -"Mamma said she would surprise you with your big grandchild. They are -waiting at the hotel, and John is down-stairs. They want you to come -back with me. Will you, grandpapa?" - -Mrs. Osgood looked on in wonder, as her master came downstairs and put -on his overcoat,--came down holding the child's hand in his, her golden -hair floating beside him. Was that old Job Golding? - -He stepped into the carriage in which careful Mistress Amy had sent her -messenger. The horses did not go fast enough. He would have been in a -fever of impatience, but the child's hand in his quieted him. Through -it all he was wondering vaguely what it meant,--whether he were his own -old self, or some one else. - -At last they were there, and the child led him in,--up the long hotel -stairs, across hall and corridor,--until, at length, she opened a door -and said cheerily,-- - -"Mamma, here's grandpapa." - -His head swam. He was fain to sit down, and there were his own Amy's -arms about his neck. Why had he never known what he lost, in losing the -sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? He held her -fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:-- - -"Father, are we reconciled at last?" - -"I don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven -me." - -"There need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "You went -according to your own light. It is enough that God has brought us -together again in peace. I thought that no one could resist my little -Amy, least of all her grandpapa." - -He looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight -glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. He -put out his arms and drew her into them, close--where no child, not -even his own, had ever nestled before. Oh, how much he had missed in -life! he thought. He felt her clinging hold round his neck,--her kisses -dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he--_was_ -it himself, or another soul in his place? - -"Here, father," Amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy -married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing -woman, "here are Harry and the boys waiting to speak to you." - -He shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. Old feuds, old things, -were over now, and all was become new. Then he looked at the -boys,--six-years-old Hal, three-years-old Geordie,--brave, merry little -fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be -to him quite like this girl in his arms,--his first-found grandchild. - -He sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their -household love, and felt as if a new life had come. He did not go away -until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three -pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they -must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. When, at length, he went, he -told them that they must all come home to him on the morrow,--there -must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was -waiting for them. - -"To-morrow is Christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully. - -"All the better. If Christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to -be. Come round to dinner,--three o'clock sharp,--and bring all the -boxes with you. That will give you time to pack up, and Mrs. Osgood -time to get your rooms ready." - -"Boxes and boys,--won't they be too much for you, father?" - -"When they are I'll tell you,"--with a last touch of the old gruffness. - -Then he went out on the street, and began looking for Christmas -gifts. It was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and -anxiously. It was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it -would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. So he -perambulated the streets like a bewildered Santa Claus,--and went home, -at last, laden with books and toys and jewels and bon-bons,--with -a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of -sweets and confections. - -He called Mrs. Osgood to help him put them away, and when they were -all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old -sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,-- - -"Mrs. Osgood, I hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. My -daughter, Mrs. Church, is coming home with her husband and children, -and I want the best Christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table -at a quarter-past three." - -Mrs. Osgood had always loved Miss Amy, in the old days, and had been -hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which -had come now. So her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a -master-piece,--a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told -the story afterwards. - -Amy, and Amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the -little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and -her golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,--what -a jubilant party they were! And among them all Job Golding saw, or -fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, -he had seen the grave-sod piled,--a face sad and wistful no longer, but -bright with a strange glory. No one else saw _her_, he knew, for the -gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; -and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, -which only his ear caught,--the Christmas anthem,-- - - - "Peace on earth and good will toward men." - - - - -MY COMFORTER. - - -I got up and hung a shawl over the canary's cage to keep him quiet. He -had been singing all day, till it seemed to me I could not bear it any -longer. That morning the doctor had told me that my mother would never -be any better. She was liable, he said, to die at any time. At the -longest, it was only a question of days or weeks. And my mother was all -I had in the world. - -My father had been dead a year. In his lifetime we had lived in a -pleasant country home. He had been employed in the county bank, and we -had lived most comfortably, and even with some pretensions to elegance. -I had been sent to school, and learned a little French, a little music, -and something of art. I had, too, a great deal of skill in fancy work, -and had been used to find in that and my painting my amusements. -Indeed, we all had what are called elegant tastes,--tastes which suited -a much larger income than ours, and we indulged them. This was unwise, -perhaps. People said so, at any rate, when my father died suddenly, and -left us with no property and no dependence save our home. - -It was to escape alike their censure and their pity, as much as because -I fancied I could find more openings for employment, that I persuaded -mother to join me in selling our little place, and remove to New York. -She was willing enough to do this. I think that it was a relief to -her to go away from all the familiar sights and sounds which kept so -constantly before her the memory of the dead husband who had made her -life among them so blessed. She fancied, perhaps, that when she was -among unfamiliar things the first bitterness of her grief would wear -away. But with her, as it proved, change of place was only change of -pain. She was not made of the stuff to which forgetfulness is possible. - -Our home and furniture brought us a little over three thousand -dollars, and with this sum we went to New York. In spite of my mourning -for my father I had the elasticity of youth, and I did not make this -removal, enter into this wide, strange, new life, without my share of -the high hopes and brilliant anticipations of youth. - -We went first to a hotel, and then looked up a boarding-place in a -quiet, unpretentious street, suited to our means. We expected to use -two or three hundred dollars before we got well established; and then -I hoped to earn enough to keep us, with the help of the interest of -the three thousand we should still have remaining, without encroaching -upon the principal. I might have succeeded, perhaps,--for I was not -long in procuring fancy work from two fashionable trimming stores,--if, -when we had been there a little while, my mother's health had not begun -seriously to decline. I think she made an effort to live on, after all -the joy of her life was dead, for my sake; but she failed, and by and -by she grew weary and gave up the struggle. - -Of course her illness brought upon us new expenses. I would have for -her the best medical advice, however she might protest against it as -useless; and there were various little comforts and luxuries that I -could not and would not deny myself the pleasure of procuring for her. -So we were gradually going behindhand all the time. This had troubled -me a little; but now that the doctor had spoken my mother's doom, the -matter of dollars and cents faded into utter insignificance. There -would be more than enough to take care of her to the last, and after -that I could not bring myself to think. I would have shuddered at the -thought of self-destruction, but I believe the prayer was in my mind, -every moment in the day, that God would let me care for her till the -end, and then lie down and die beside her. So I carried back the work -I had from Richmond's and La Pierre's, and spent all my time with -her,--my darling. - -Often when I tried to talk with her, the thought how soon she would be -past all hearing would rise up and choke me, and I would turn away to -hide the sudden rush of tears. It was on Wednesday the doctor had told -me what I must expect; and up to Saturday night I had kept it from her, -trying my poor best to wear a cheerful face. That night I sat beside -her in the twilight. She was on the lounge, bolstered up with pillows, -and I on a low hassock, which brought my face on a level with hers. We -had been silent a long time, since the last ray of sunset touched our -western windows, and now the dusk had fallen so that we could see each -other no longer. At last out of the shadows came her voice, clear and -sweet,-- - - - "Beyond the sowing and the reaping, - Beyond the watching and the weeping, - Beyond the waking and the sleeping, - I shall be soon." - - -Then she put out her hand and touched my wet face. - -"Do not grieve, my darling," she said,--oh, how tenderly,--"because I -am going home. The only pang I feel is for you, and it will not be long -before you come." - -"It may be years," I said, bitterly. "I am young and strong. Oh, I wish -I wasn't,--if God would only take me too, and not make me stay in this -great, empty world without you!" - -"I think, darling, He will send you a comforter." - -"Oh, I am not so bad that I do not want His Spirit. I do believe; I do -try to follow the dear Lord; but I want a human comforter,--something -to see and feel,--tender lips, gentle fingers. The flesh is so weak." - -"And I meant a human comforter. I believe He will send you one in His -own time and way,--when you learn, perhaps, to forget yourself in -helping some one still more desolate." - -"As if that could be. O, mother, when you are gone there won't be in -the whole wide world such a lonesome, aching heart as mine." - -"People always say that, dear; always think there is no sorrow like -their sorrow, until God teaches them better, either by making their own -burden heavier, or by showing them how to help some one else. God grant -it may be this last with you, Bessie." - -"But is there no hope, mother?" I said, with a wild longing for a -little of the comfort a doubt would give. - -"I think none. Dr. West told you so Wednesday, did he not? and you have -been trying to keep it from me,--as if I could not read it in your -face, every time you looked at me." - -All reserve broke down then. I was in her arms, sobbing and crying on -her bosom; I that so soon would have no mother's bosom for my refuge -any more for ever. - -The doctor had said her life was a question of days or weeks. She lived -four weeks after he told me that, and then one night she talked with -me a long, long time. At last she said she was tired, and would go to -sleep. Then she kissed me, as she always did, and turned her gentle -face toward the wall. She awoke again in another world than ours. But -by the calm blessedness of the smile on the dead face I knew that her -soul had departed in peace. It was a smile that made her young and fair -again, as the mother I remembered away back in my childhood. - -Oh, what a desolate funeral that was! I had no friends near enough to -give them any claim to be sent for, and I wanted no one. I made all the -arrangements myself, and the third day I buried my dead. I remember the -minister, after the funeral rites were over, stopped a moment beside -the grave to speak a few words of sympathy to me, sole mourner. But I -was deaf with sorrow. I made no answer, and presently he turned away. -I don't know how long I stood there. After a while my driver came up, -touching his hat, respectfully, and asked,-- - -"Would ye plaise to start soon, miss?" and mechanically I went toward -the carriage, and he put me in and shut the door. So I went back to the -desolate room where she had died. - -Some one had been in during my absence and made it all bright and tidy, -but I would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as -when I went away. The days which followed were sad and evil. My soul -rose in revolt. I asked why I, of all others, should be so set apart by -sorrow,--left so lonely and so desolate. For a whole week I had been -thus mutinous. I had seen in my God no Father, but an Avenger. All -the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. I passed through the -very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil -did battle for my soul; until at last I slept, one night, and dreamed -of mother, for the first time since she died. In the dream she seemed -beside me, but not as of old. A spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a -blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her -voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "I think, darling, the Father -will send you a comforter." - -I woke refreshed, as I had not been before by any slumber. The voice of -my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to. -I began to have faith. I remembered _how_ she had thought my comforter -was to come. But when and where should I find some one more desolate -than myself to help? At any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe, -an idler in the vineyard. I must go to work. - -I put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. If I could get my old -work from the trimming stores, I could earn enough now to take care of -myself, and keep what money I had left as surety against the proverbial -rainy day. I made my way first to Richmond's. As I went in I noticed a -little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. One sees such -objects of charity often enough in New York. I doubt if this one would -have attracted me but for her singular beauty. She had the fairest skin -I ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. It -was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness. -I noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while I stood a -few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop -a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. I followed the universal -example as I went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush -crimsoned the sensitive little face. - -I made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out, -and down the street to La Pierre's. When I came back, half an hour -later, the child was still sitting there; and I looked at her again, -wondering anew at her delicate beauty. Then a thrill of compassion -warmed my heart for the poor little waif. It was a cold day in the -autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon -the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself, -even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her -occupation. I went up to her and spoke to her. - -"What is your name?" - -"Jennie Green." - -"Whose little girl are you?" - -"Nobody's, ma'am." - -Oh, perhaps I should not have understood the wail of sadness in those -words if I, too, had not been nobody's girl. - -"Have you no friends?" I asked, putting my question in a new form. - -"No, ma'am. Mother died last spring, and I've had no friends since." - -"But you live somewhere?" - -"Oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took -me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she -takes the money I get to pay for my keeping." - -"Do you like to live with her?" I pursued, getting strangely interested. - -A quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,-- - -"Oh, no, no!" - -A sudden impulse moved me. I beckoned to a policeman who stood near by -watching us. - -"Do you know any thing of this child?" I inquired. - -"Not much. She seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. A woman brings -her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back -after her toward night. I've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes." - -"That woman is no relation to her," I said, "only a person in the -house, that kept her when her mother died,--to make money out of her, -I suppose. Would it be against any law if I took her home with me, -without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her? -Could that woman claim her again?" - -The policeman whistled, by which token proving himself Yankee born, and -considered a moment. Then he answered, deliberately,-- - -"No, it ain't agin no law, as I knows of. I don't think the woman would -dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb -you. All I'm thinking on is,--you're young, miss,--would your folks -like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?" - -"I have no folks," I said, with the old sadness rising up and choking -me. "Will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?" - -I had given my direction without at all consulting the child. When he -was gone for the hack I went up to her and asked her if she would go -home with me, and have it for her home. - -"Do you mean me to leave Mrs. McGuire?" she cried, with wide eyes. - -"Yes, if you want to." - -"And not--not come out for money any more?" - -"Not, please God, while I have strength to work for us both." - -"Oh, I do want to go, I do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. And then -she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and -stood there waiting. - -"Oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "It's almost -time for Mrs. McGuire." Just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk, -and I carried my poor little foundling home. - - * * * * * - -Yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and I lived -over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. I laid my head -on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation -which swept over me. And as I lay there crying I heard gentle -footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,-- - -"Oh, can't I comfort you, Miss Bessie? Can't I do any thing for you, -now you've made my life all new and bright?" - -And I opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed, -bright-haired girl, and realized that God indeed had sent me my -comforter,--a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when I -forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate. - -I should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring -the child home, had I been less utterly alone in the world. But I have -never regretted it. I found that her parents had brought her up in -the fear of God, and all the rude and rough associations, which had -worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled -her innate purity. My care and tenderness have made of her all I hoped. -Dr. West's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a -crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. She helps -me at my tasks, and for her sake I have recalled my old pencil craft, -and here I foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and -some day I fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by -a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,--the child who was my -comforter. - - -Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son. - - - - -_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._ - -BED-TIME STORIES. - -BY - -LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. - -WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD. - -Square 16mo. Price $1.50. - - "Mrs. Moulton's 'Bed-time Stories' are tender and loving, as - the last thoughts of the day should be. They are told simply - and sweetly. All of them teach unselfishness, faithfulness, and - courage. 'What Jess Cotrell did,' and 'Paying off Jane,' are - perhaps the best; although 'Mr. Turk, and what became of him,' - is such a sympathetic revelation of a bit of child life, that we - are half inclined to give it the first place. The stories are not - for very young children, but for those old enough to think for - themselves; and the influence they exert will be pure, gentle, and - decidedly religious. The dedication is very graceful."--_Boston - Daily Advertiser._ - - "It is long years since we were a lad; but, as we have read - these tales, we have dreamed ourself a boy again, have exulted - with some of the young heroes and heroines of Mrs. Moulton's - coinage, and have wept sweet tears with others, just as, we have - no doubt, many a boy and girl will do who takes our advice and - secures this delightful budget of stories out of their first - savings. Parents, who appreciate the difficulty of providing - suitable reading for young people when they are at the doubtful - age which Burns describes as being ''twixt a man and a boy,' - will find Mrs. Moulton one of the most graceful and thoughtful - purveyors of an elevated literature, especially adapted to the - wants and tastes of their bright-eyed and quick-witted sons and - daughters."--_Christian Intelligencer._ - - "Very delicately and prettily are these stories for children - told.... Children, the kindest and sharpest of critics, will - willingly read them too. And not on the other side of the Atlantic - only, but on this, and in every land where the English language - is spoken. Real stories these for real children, not namby-pamby, - teachy-teachy little tales, but regular stories, full of life, - told in the good old-fashioned, diffuse, delightful manner."--_The - London Bookseller._ - - -_In Preparation._ - -MORE BED-TIME STORIES. - -_Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers_, - -ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. - - - - -WHAT KATY DID. - -BY SUSAN COOLIDGE. - -Author of "The New Year's Bargain." With Illustrations, by ADDIE -LEDYARD. One vol. Square 16mo. Cloth. Price $1.50. - - -_From the Lady's Book._ - - "The New Years Bargain" was one of our pleasantest juvenile books - for the last holidays. Now we have by the same author a story - of child-life so natural and so charming that the authoress has - fairly earned a foremost place among her class. It takes a great - deal to write a good story for children. Women who think it easy, - and sit down with a stock of platitudes and worn-out incidents, - always fail miserably. This book tells "What Katy Did" in a way - that will make all its readers long to hear about her again. - - -_From the Christian Register._ - - It must have been with a smile of rare complacency that Roberts - Brothers sent forth such a brace of volumes as Susan Coolidge's - "What Katy Did" and Miss Alcott's "Shawl-Straps." Not only will - the children "cry for them," but the grown-up people will laugh - over them until they too shall have tears in their eyes. Two books - so bright, wise, and every way delightful, are seldom given to the - public at once by a single firm. - - -_From the Woman's Journal._ - - Since "Little Women" we have not seen a more charming book than - this for children. It possesses the crowning merit of all story - books,--that of being perfectly natural without becoming tedious. - The author has the happy gift of knowing what to leave out; and - describes the amusing or sorrowful incidents of child-life in the - pleasantest manner, while unobtrusively instilling lessons of - courtesy, patience, and kindness. Illustrations by Addie Ledyard - add to the attractions of the story. - - -_From the Buffalo Courier._ - - None who take it up will want it to leave their hands until they - reach the last page. As to the author, she is one of the few lucky - mortals who know how to write for the little ones,--and that is - saying a great deal. - - -_From Hearth and Home._ - - The author of that delightful book, "The New Year's Bargain," has - prepared another rare treat for her young friends. It is a story - of child-life; and is so perfect in its delineations, so sweet and - tender at times, and again so irresistibly funny, that it starts - both tears and laughter. - -_Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers_, - -ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's More Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BED-TIME STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 60581-8.txt or 60581-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/5/8/60581/ - -Produced by Sonya Schermann, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: More Bed-Time Stories - -Author: Louise Chandler Moulton - -Illustrator: Addie Ledyard - -Release Date: October 27, 2019 [EBook #60581] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BED-TIME STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Sonya Schermann, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="center"><a name="cover.jpg" id="cover.jpg"></a><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="Missy" /></div> - -<p class="bold">MISSY.—<a href="#Page_50"><span class="smcap">Page 50.</span></a></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<h1><span class="smcap">More <br />Bed-Time Stories.</span></h1> - -<p class="bold space-above">BY</p> - -<p class="bold2">LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON,</p> - -<p class="bold">AUTHOR OF "BED-TIME STORIES," AND "SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS."</p> - -<p class="bold space-above"><i>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.</i></p> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="logo" /></div> - -<p class="bold space-above">BOSTON:<br />ROBERTS BROTHERS.<br />1875.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center">Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by</p> - -<p class="center">LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON,</p> - -<p class="center">In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.</p> - -<p class="center space-above"><i>Cambridge:<br />Press of John Wilson & Son.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - -<h2><i>TO MY DAUGHTER FLORENCE.</i></h2> - -<p class="bold">[AFTER A TWELVEMONTH.]</p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>"More Bed-Time Stories," Sweetest Heart,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And all to you belong:</i></div> -<div><i>All that I have and am, my dear,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>I give you with my song.</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>All that I have and am, my dear,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Is not too much to pay</i></div> -<div><i>As tribute to the fair, young queen</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>Who rules my heart to-day;</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>As tribute to the dear, blue eyes,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>And to the golden hair,</i></div> -<div><i>And sweet, new grace of maidenhood</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>That wraps you everywhere,—</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>The shy surprise of maidenhood,</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>That still turns back to hear</i></div> -<div><i>The tales I tell at shut of day:—</i></div> -<div class="i1"><i>So these are yours, my dear.</i></div> -<div class="right"><i>L. C. M.</i></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>October, 1874.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Against Wind and Tide</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Blue Sky and White Clouds</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Cousin from Boston</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Missy</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Head Boy of Eagleheight School</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Agatha's Lonely Days</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Thin Ice</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">My Lost Sister: A Confession</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">What came to Olive Haygarth</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Uncle Jack</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Nobody's Child</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">My Little Gentleman</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Ruthy's Country</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Job Golding's Christmas</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">My Comforter</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_224">224</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<h2>MORE BED-TIME STORIES.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<h2>AGAINST WIND AND TIDE.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>Jack Ramsdale was a bad boy. He had been a bad boy so long that -secretly he was rather tired of it; but he really did not know how to -help himself. It was his reputation, and it is a curious thing how -naturally we all live up to our reputations; that is to say, we do the -things which are expected of us. There is a deal of homely sense in -the old proverb, "Give a dog a bad name and hang him." Give a boy a -bad name, and he is reasonably sure to deserve one. Not but that Jack -Ramsdale had fairly earned his bad name. His mother had died before he -was old enough to remember her, so he had never known what a home was. -Once, when his father was unusually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> good-natured, he had asked him -some questions about his mother.</p> - -<p>"She was one of God's saints, if ever there was one," the man answered, -half reluctantly. "Everybody wondered that she took up with me, but -maybe it was because she saw I needed her more than anybody else did. -She might have made a different man of me if she'd lived; at least, -I've always thought so. I never drank so much when she was alive -but what I kept a comfortable home over her head. But when she was -gone, it didn't appear to me there was any thing left to live for. I -lacked comfort sorely, and I don't say but what I've sought for it in -by-paths,—by and forbidden paths, as she used to say."</p> - -<p>"I wish I could ha' seen her," said Jack.</p> - -<p>"She was a dreadful motherly creetur, and was always hangin' over you. -Cold nights I've known her get up half-a-dozen times, often, to see if -the clothes was all up over your shoulders; and sometimes I've seen her -stand there looking down at you in the biting cold till I thought she'd -freeze; but I didn't dare to say any thing, for her lips were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> movin', -and I knew she was prayin' for you. She was a prayin' woman, your -mother was. I used to think her prayers would save both of us."</p> - -<p>"I can't make out how she looked," Jack persisted. He was so anxious -to hear something about this dead mother who had loved him so. Ever -since she died, he had been knocked round from pillar to post, as they -say, with his father. Sam Ramsdale was good help, as all the farmers -knew, when he was sober; but he was not reliable, and then he had the -disadvantage of always being incumbered with the boy, whom he took with -him everywhere,—an unkempt, undisciplined little fellow whom no one -liked. Now, as his father talked, it seemed to him so strange a thing -to think that some one used to stand beside his bed in cold winter -nights and pray for him, that he could hardly believe it; and he said -again, out of his desolate longing,—</p> - -<p>"I wish I could ha' seen how she looked."</p> - -<p>"I don't suppose folks would ha' said she was much to look at." His -father spoke, in a musing sort of way. "She was a little pale slip of -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> woman, with soft yellow hair droopin' about her white face, and eyes -as blue as them blue flowers you picked up along the road. But there, -I can't talk about her, and I ain't a goin' to, what's more; and don't -you ever ask me again!"</p> - -<p>From that time Jack never dared to ask any more questions about -his mother, but all through his troublesome, turbulent boyhood he -remembered the meagre outlines of the story which had been told him. No -matter how bad he had been through the day, the nights were few when he -failed to think how once a pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair -around her white face, and eyes blue as the blue gentians, had bent -above his slumbers and said prayers for him.</p> - -<p>When he was ten years old his father died in the poor-house. Drink had -enfeebled his constitution; a sudden cold did the rest. There were a -few weeks of terrible suffering, and then the end came. Jack was with -him to the last. There was nowhere else for him to be, and the father -liked to have him in his sight. One day, just before the end, when they -were all alone, the man called the boy to his bedside.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I can't tell you to follow my example, Jack; that's the shame of it. -I've got to hold myself up as a warnin', and not as an example. Just -you steer as clear o' my ways as you can; but remember that your mother -was a prayin' woman. I s'pose nobody'd believe it, Jack; but since I've -been lyin' here I've kinder felt nearer to her than I ever did before -since she died. Seems as if I could a'most hear her prayin' for me; and -I think, by times, that the God she lived so close to won't say no. -It's the 'leventh hour, Jack, the 'leventh hour, I know that as well as -anybody; but she used to sing a hymn about while the lamp holds out to -burn. When I get there I shall get rid of this awful thirst for drink. -It's been an <i>awful</i> thirst; no hunger that I know of can match it; but -I shall get rid of that when this old body goes to pieces. And what -does a Saviour mean, if it ain't that He'll save us from our sins if we -ask Him?"</p> - -<p>As he said these last words he seemed sinking into a sort of stupor, -but he started out of it to say once more,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Never follow my example, Jack, boy. Remember your mother was a prayin' -woman."</p> - -<p>Those were the last connected words any one ever heard him speak. After -that the night came on,—the double night of darkness and of death. -Once or twice the woman who acted as nurse, bending over him, heard him -mutter, "The 'leventh hour, Jack!" and afterwards she wondered whether -it was a presentiment, for it was just at eleven o'clock that he died.</p> - -<p>Jack had been sent to bed a little before, and when he got up in the -morning, he knew that he was all alone in the world.</p> - -<p>After the funeral Deacon Small took him home. He wouldn't be of much -use for two or three years to come, the deacon said. Maybe he could -drive up the cows, and ride the horse to plough, and scare the crows -away from the corn, but he couldn't earn his salt for a number o' years -to come. However, somebody must take him, and he guessed <i>he</i> would. It -would be a good spell before the "creetur" would come of age, and the -last part of the time he might be smart enough to pay off old scores.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> - -<p>But surely Jack Ramsdale must have eaten more salt than ever boy of -ten ate before if he did not work enough for it, for it was Jack here, -and Jack there, all day long. Jack did everybody's errands; Jack drew -Mrs. Small's baby-grandchild in its little covered wagon; Jack scoured -the knives; Jack brought the wood; Jack picked berries; Jack weeded -flower-beds. From being an idle little chap, in everybody's way, as he -had been in his father's time, he was pressed right into hard service, -for more hours in the day than any man worked about the place. Now work -is good for boys, but all work and no play—worse yet, all work and no -love—is not good for any one. Jack grew bitter; and where he dared to -be cruel, he was cruel; where he dared to be insolent, he was insolent. -Not toward Deacon Small, however, were these qualities displayed. The -deacon was a hard master, and the boy feared, and hated, and obeyed -him. But as the years went on, five of them, he grew to be generally -considered a bad boy. At fifteen he was strong of his age, a man, -almost, in size.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> - -<p>His schooling had been confined to the short winter terms, and he had -always been the terror of every successive schoolmaster.</p> - -<p>When he was fifteen, a new teacher came,—a handsome, graceful -young man, just out of college. He was slight rather than stout, -well-dressed, well-mannered, fit, you would have said, for a lady's -drawing-room, rather than the country schoolhouse in winter, with its -big boys, tough customers, many of them, and Jack Ramsdale the toughest -customer of all. After Mr. Garrison had passed his examination, one of -the committee, impressed by what he thought a certain-fine-gentleman -air in the young man, warned him of the rough times in store for him, -and especially of the rough strength and insubordination of Jack -Ramsdale. Ralph Garrison smiled a calm smile, but uttered no boasts.</p> - -<p>He had been a week in the school before he had any especial trouble. -Jack was taking his measure. The truth was, the boy had a certain -amount of taste, and Garrison's gentlemanliness impressed him more than -he would have cared to own. It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> possible that he might have gone -on, quietly and obediently, but that now his bad name began to weigh -him down. The boys who had looked up to him as a leader in evil grew -impatient of his quiet submission to rules. "Got your match, Jack?" -said one. "Goin' to own beat without giving it a try?" said another. -And Jack began to think that the evil laurels he had won, as the bravo -and bully of the school, would fall withered from his brow if he didn't -make some effort to fasten them.</p> - -<p>So one morning, midway between recess and the close of school, he took -out an apple and began paring it with a jack-knife and eating it. For -a moment Mr. Garrison looked at him; then he remarked, with ominous -quietness, in a tone lower and more gentle than usual,—</p> - -<p>"Jack, this is not the place or time for eating."</p> - -<p>"My place and time to eat are when I am hungry," Jack answered, with -cool insolence, cutting off a mouthful, and carrying it deliberately to -his mouth.</p> - -<p>"You will put up that apple instantly, if you please."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> - -<p>Still the teacher spoke very gently, and turned a little pale. The -persuasive words and the slight paleness misled Jack. He thought his -victory was to be so easily won, there would not even be any glory in -it. He smiled and ate, quite at his ease.</p> - -<p>"You will come here whether you please or not," was the next sentence -from the teacher's desk. Jack cut off another mouthful and sat still.</p> - -<p>Then, he never knew how it was, but suddenly, in the twinkling of -an eye, he felt himself pulled from his seat out into the middle of -the floor while knife and apple flew from his hand. He kicked, he -struggled, he tried to strike; but an iron grasp held his wrists. The -strong muscles of the stroke-oar at Harvard did good service. The -handsome face was pale, but the lips were set like steel, and the cool -eyes never wavered as they fixed and held those of the young bully. -Then suddenly he whipped from his pocket a ball of strong fish-line and -bound the struggling wrists tightly, and, pushing a chair toward his -captive, said, coolly,—</p> - -<p>"I want nothing more of you till after school. You can sit or stand, as -you please. Now I will hear the first class in arithmetic."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was a strange hush in the school, and every scholar knew who was -master.</p> - -<p>When all the rest had gone, the teacher turned to Jack Ramsdale.</p> - -<p>"I took you a little by surprise," he said. "Perhaps you are not yet -satisfied that I am stronger than you."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'm satisfied," Jack answered. "I ain't so mean but what I'm -willing to own beat when it's done fair and square."</p> - -<p>Mr. Garrison, meanwhile, was untying his wrists. As he unwound the last -coil, he said,—</p> - -<p>"The forces of law and order are what rule the world. I think if you -fight against them, you'll always be likely to find yourself on the -losing side."</p> - -<p>A great bitter wave of defiance swelled up in Jack's heart; not against -Mr. Garrison as an individual, but against such as he,—handsome, -graceful, cultured; against his own hard lot; against a prosperous -world; against, it almost seemed, God, Himself.</p> - -<p>"What do <i>you</i> know about it?" he said <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>sullenly. "You never had to -fight. It was all on your side. God did it. He made you handsome and -strong, and had you go to school and college, and grow up a gentleman. -And he made me"—how the face darkened here—"what you see. He took my -mother, who did love me and pray for me, away from me when I wasn't -more than three years old. He gave me to a father who drank hard and -taught me nothing good. And then he took even him from me, and handed -me over to Deacon Small; and I tell you, teacher, you don't know what -a tough time is till you've summered and wintered with Deacon Small. -I've got a bad name, and who wonders? and I feel like living up to -it. I hadn't any thing against you, specially; but if I'd given in -peaceably to all your rules, the boys would have said I had grown -chicken-hearted, and a little name for pluck is all the name I have -got."</p> - -<p>Mr. Garrison looked at him a few moments, steadily. Then he said,—</p> - -<p>"It does seem as if fate had been hard on you. But do you know what I -think God has been doing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> for you, in giving you all these hard knocks; -for things don't <i>happen</i>; God never lets go the reins."</p> - -<p>The boy looked the question he did not speak, and Mr. Garrison went on.</p> - -<p>"I think He has been making you strong, just as rowing against wind and -tide made my wrists strong, until now you could fight all your enemies -if you would.</p> - -<p>"The thing we are put here for," he continued, "is to do our best; and -if we are doing that, in God's sight, there is nothing that can prevail -against us; not fate, or foes, or poverty, or any other creature. There -is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a -soul that is bound to go up and not down. You may go home, now."</p> - -<p>It was one of Mr. Garrison's merits that he knew when to stop. Jack -Ramsdale went home with that last sentence ringing in his ears,—</p> - -<p>"There is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand -against a soul that is bound to go up and not down."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> - -<p>The words went with him all the rest of the day. They lay down with -him at night, and he looked out of his window and fixed his eyes on a -bright, far-off star, and thought of them.</p> - -<p>What if he should turn all the strength that was in him to going up -and not down? If he did right, who could make him afraid? If he served -willingly, he need fear no master. It was very late, and the star, -obedient to the law which rules the worlds, had marched far on, out -of his sight, before he went to sleep. He had made a resolve. In the -strength of that resolve he awoke to the new day.</p> - -<p>"I will not go down," he said to himself; "I will go up and on!"</p> - -<p>He was not all at once transformed from sinner to saint. Such sudden -changes do not belong to this slow world. But the purpose and aim of -his life was changed. Never again did he lose sight of the shining -heights he meant to climb. If the mother in the heavenly home could -look down on the world below, she knew that not in vain had she been -"a praying woman." To Mr. Garrison the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> boy's devotion was something -wonderful,—humble, loyal, faithful, and never ceasing. From being the -teacher's terror, Jack had become the teacher's friend.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> - -<h2>BLUE SKY AND WHITE CLOUDS.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>"Say yes, and you'll be such a dear papa."</p> - -<p>Papa bent down and kissed his girl, before he asked, half -reproachfully,—</p> - -<p>"And how if I say 'no'? Shan't I be dear, then?"</p> - -<p>Kathie blushed, and then laughed.</p> - -<p>"Why, of course you'll be dear, any way; but may be it's partly because -you are so good, and hate so to say no to your own little daughter, -that I love you so much."</p> - -<p>"To my little daughter as tall as her mother? Do you know, small -person, that I've often thought it might be better for that same little -daughter if I said no to her oftener? I couldn't love you more, but I'm -afraid I might love you more wisely. A hundred and twenty-five dollars -for a new party dress! Bring your own mature<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> judgment to bear on it, -and tell me if it appears quite sage, even to you."</p> - -<p>Kathie thought so hard for a moment that she fairly scowled with -earnestness; then she answered,—</p> - -<p>"Yes, on the whole, I think it will be eminently judicious. You see, -I shall be going out a good deal now, and I can do so many different -things with a handsome silk, and if I got a tarleton, or any of those -cheap, thin goods, it would be used up at once."</p> - -<p>Papa smiled.</p> - -<p>"Well, if you are quite sure you're right, I'll bring the check home -this noon, and you and mamma can begin your search for this wonderful -yellow gown."</p> - -<p>"Yellow!" Kathie clapped her hands to her ears. "What did I ever do to -make you think I would wear a horrid yellow gown?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, was it red you said you wanted?"</p> - -<p>"Worse and worse. You talk like a Hottentot. My gown is to be blue, -soft, and lustrous, like a summer sky, and I am to look in it,—well, -you shall see on Christmas Eve."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then, with half a dozen good-by kisses, the father of this only -child—happy, easy-going, and too indulgent—took himself off down -town, and Kathie danced away to the sewing-room to find her mother and -inform her of her success.</p> - -<p>Kathie Mason, at sixteen, was a girl bright, and sweet, and bonny -enough to tempt any parent to a little over-indulgence. She had soft, -sunny, yellow hair; and lovely, dark brown eyes; with a look in them -that kept saying, "Oh, be good to me!"; a delicate, flower-like face; -and a mouth red as Fair Rosamond's, which has long been dust now, but -which poets and painters raved about centuries ago. She had a graceful -little figure, and a clear, fresh young voice; and she had a heart, -too, which was in the right place, though she herself was almost a -stranger to it. She loved beauty dearly, whether in books, or nature, -or human faces, or blue silk gowns, and it was just as natural to her -to be a picture, whatever way she looked or moved, as it was to be -Kathie.</p> - -<p>As she danced along she was humming a verse of a gay little French -<i>chanson</i>, where some lover<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> said his love was like a rose; and you -thought it might have been written about herself, only Kathie had -no thorns. As she drew near the sewing-room she stopped, for her -mother and the dress-maker were talking busily. Miss Atkinson was a -pathetic little woman, with eyes which looked as if the color had been -washed out of them by many tears, a thin, frail body, and a voice not -complaining, but simply plaintive. Somehow Kathie hated to break in -upon the slow pathos of those tones with her blue silk ecstasy, so she -stood leaning against the door for a few moments and waited.</p> - -<p>"You see," the little woman was saying, "it was a great pull-back, -my being sick two months in the summer, and then my brother being so -much worse. But it will all come right, somehow. If I can manage to -get Alice clothed up so she can go to school, I shall be thankful; for -she's a bright child, and it's too bad to have her wasting her time. -But then, food and fire must come first, and if people are sick they -are sick, and two hands can't do any more than they can."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was nothing to oppose to this mild fatalism; so Kathie's mother -only said, very sympathizingly, that it was hard, and that it seemed -as if, with her sister and her sister's child to support, Miss -Atkinson had all she could do before, without undertaking any new -responsibilities for the ailing brother and his family.</p> - -<p>"Oh! but there's no one else to do it if I don't, you see," quoth the -little dress-maker, almost cheerfully—as cheerfully, that is, as her -voice could be made to speak; but Kathie noticed that a moment after -she pressed her hand on her side and drew a sharp, hard breath.</p> - -<p>"Does your side pain you, Miss Atkinson?" she asked, kindly.</p> - -<p>"Not much more than usual. It's rather bad, most days. I went to work -too soon after I was sick, the doctor said. But he didn't tell me how -the rest were going to live if I laid by any longer; and, dear me, I'm -thankful enough to be able to work at all."</p> - -<p>Kathie thought she should be ashamed to have this poor little woman, -who had two people <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>besides herself to provide for, entirely, and no -knowing how many more, in part, work on her blue silk superfluity. -Clearly <i>that</i> must be made by some other dress-maker; and she could -not even speak to her mother about it now; so she just asked for some -work, and sat down with it, thinking more seriously than, perhaps, she -had ever thought in her gay, butterfly life before.</p> - -<p>"How old is your little niece, Alice?" she asked, after a while.</p> - -<p>"Ten, and she is as far along in her studies now as a good many girls -of twelve. I did mean to have sent her straight through, normal school -and all, and let her prepare to be a teacher; but it doesn't look much -like it, now William's taken so poorly. I expect I shall have to pretty -much clothe his three children besides Alice."</p> - -<p>"Can't your sister, little Alice's mother, help you at all?"</p> - -<p>"Well, yes, she does help. She does all she's able to, and more; for, -you see, she's feeble, too. She keeps house for us, and cooks, and -washes and makes our things after I fit them, and keeps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> us mended; -but there's nothing she can do to bring in any thing. But there, I -beg your pardon ten times over, apiece. It's against my principles to -go out sewing, and harrow up folks' minds with my troubles; only, you -see, I'm a little nervous and unsettled to-day on account of Alice's -crying pretty hard this morning because she hadn't any thing to wear to -school."</p> - -<p>Papa Mason took Kathie aside when he came home to dinner, and with a -little fun, and teasing, and pretence of mystery, produced the check. -There it was, one hundred and twenty-five dollars, all right, and three -weeks between now and Christmas Eve to get her blue silk gown made.</p> - -<p>While she ate her roast beef she began to think again. One question -kept asking itself over in her mind,—Why should some people have blue -silk gowns, and others have no gowns at all? I rather think we have -all asked ourselves this same thing, in one form of words or another. -Since the great Father made and loves us all, why should one be Queen -Victoria and another little Alice staying at home from school for want -of a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> yards of woollen and a pair of boots? Political economists -have ciphered it all out, beautifully; but Kathie did not know that, -and so the vexing question puzzled her. What if it was done just to -give us a chance to help each other? she asked herself, at last, and -the text of a sermon she heard once came into her mind,—"Bear ye one -another's burdens." If all fared just alike there would be no chance -for helpfulness, or charity, or self-denial; so may be clothes would be -put on people's backs at the expense of better things in their hearts. -It must be that God knew best. Oh! if one couldn't think that, the -world might as well fall to pieces at once.</p> - -<p>"Will you have pudding, dear? I have asked you three times," said Mrs. -Mason's voice, with a little extra energy in it; and Kathie looked up -out of her dream with a certain vagueness in her eyes, and answered,—</p> - -<p>"A hundred and twenty-five," whereat they all laughed.</p> - -<p>"I can't give you a hundred and twenty-five puddings; but, if you'll -please make a beginning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> with this one, no doubt the rest will come -before the year is over."</p> - -<p>Whereupon Kathie roused herself from her speculations, ate her pudding, -and sent her plate for more, with a good, healthy, girlish appetite.</p> - -<p>That afternoon she sewed quite diligently, and talked little; but her -eyes were bright, and her face all the time eager with some thought.</p> - -<p>After tea was over, and Miss Atkinson had gone, and papa had stepped -out to see a business friend, Kathie sat down, as was one of her -habits, on a low stool beside her mother, and laid her head in her lap. -Mrs. Mason knew that all the afternoon's thinking would come out before -the child got up again; so she just smoothed the fluffy, yellow hair -with her hand and waited.</p> - -<p>"Don't you think, mamma, that Miss Atkinson must be a good deal better -Christian than the rest of us, she's such a patient burden-bearer? She -never seemed to think for one moment that it was hard she should have -to work so, or that she couldn't have what she wanted herself. All -that troubled her was because she couldn't do what she had planned for -Alice."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then, when Mrs. Mason had made some slight answer, there was silence -again for a time; and then Kathie cried impulsively,—</p> - -<p>"Mamma, what a perfect good-for-nothing I am. I never carried a burden -for any one in my life. I have just been a dead weight on some one -else's hands."</p> - -<p>"Not a <i>dead</i> weight, by any means," and Mrs. Mason laughed, "and -really, papa and I have found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to -carry you."</p> - -<p>The loving girl kissed the hand that had been stroking her hair, but -she was quite too much in earnest to laugh.</p> - -<p>"Well, mamma, you know it doesn't say,—'Bear ye one another's burdens, -all of you but Kathie, and she needn't.' I think this rule without any -exceptions means me, just as much as it does any one; and I shan't feel -quite right in my own mind till I begin to follow it. I want to bear -part of Alice."</p> - -<p>Kathie was talking very fast by this time, and her cheeks were very -pink, and her brown eyes very bright.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You see I've thought it all out, this afternoon. If Miss Atkinson will -feed her and house her, I do think I might undertake to clothe her -until she is through school and ready to teach; and don't you think -I'd feel better when I came to die to have done some little thing for -somebody? You see it would come very easy. My dresses, and cloaks, -and hats would all make over for her. There wouldn't be much to buy -outright, except boots, and stockings, and under clothes, generally."</p> - -<p>"And wouldn't you find all that rather a heavy drain on your -pocket-money? I don't ask to discourage you, childie; only I want you -to consider it all thoroughly, for if you should once undertake this -thing and lead Miss Atkinson and Alice to depend on it, there could be -no drawing back then."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have thought about it all. Didn't you see me working it out -in my head this afternoon, like a sum in arithmetic? I think half the -money papa gives me for lunches, and presents, and the other things -pocket-money goes for, would be just as good for me as the whole; and -I am sure with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> half of it I could keep Alice along nicely after I -once got her started; and its just about this start I want to speak -to you now. Papa gave me a hundred and twenty-five dollars to-day to -buy me a blue silk gown for Aunt Jane's Christmas-Eve party. Now fifty -dollars will get me a lovely white muslin, and a blue sash, and all the -fresh little fixings I should need; and that would leave seventy-five -dollars, with which I could buy flannels, and boots, and water-proof, -and a good, warm, strong outfit altogether, for Alice to commence with. -Now do you think papa would be willing? I don't want to ask him, for he -doesn't understand silks and muslins, or what Alice needs; but would -you answer for him? Just think, mamma, what burdens poor Miss Atkinson -has to bear."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mason started to say,—"It is all for her own relations,"—but -stopped, for the command didn't read, "Relations, bear <i>ye</i> one -another's burdens." Had she any right to interfere between Kathie -and this first work of charity the child had ever been inspired to -undertake? Would not this object<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> of interest outside herself, apart -from blue silk gowns, and flounces, and furbelows, do something for -her girl that was likely to be left undone otherwise? What a very cold -loving-one-another we were most of us doing in this world, after all? -So she bent over and kissed the eager, lovely, upturned face that -waited for her words, and said fondly,—</p> - -<p>"Yes, I will answer for papa, my darling. I approve your plan heartily, -but I will not offer help. This shall be all your own good work."</p> - -<p>The next morning Miss Atkinson was told of the new plan. Her faded eyes -opened twice as widely as usual. She was not sure she heard aright.</p> - -<p>"Do you mean to say Miss Kathie, that you undertake, with your mamma's -full consent, to clothe Alice until she is through school?"</p> - -<p>"That is precisely what I bind myself to do," Kathie answered, gravely -copying the solemnity of the little dress-maker.</p> - -<p>"Then all I have to say is, bless you, and bless the Lord. You never -can tell what good you're doing."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> - -<p>And then the poor little woman began to cry, just for pure joy; and she -sobbed till Mamma Mason felt her eyes growing misty, and Kathie ran -away out of the room.</p> - -<p>Be sure that Miss Atkinson made up Kathie's muslin lovingly. It would -not be her fault if it were not prettier than any silk. And truly, when -Christmas Eve came and Kathie was dressed for Aunt Jane's party, there -could hardly have been a more radiant vision than this white-robed -shape with the sunny, soft hair, the gleaming brown eyes, and the -wild-rose cheeks, where the color came and went. Her father looked her -over with all his heart in his eyes, and a tenderness which quivered in -his voice, though he tried to speak jestingly.</p> - -<p>"So there wasn't blue sky enough for any thing but your sash, and you -had to take white clouds for the rest."</p> - -<p>"<i>Just</i> that. Don't you like the clouds?"</p> - -<p>He bent and kissed her.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I like the clouds; and I think the sunshine struck through them -for somebody."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> - -<h2>THE COUSIN FROM BOSTON.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>We had been friends ever since I could remember, Nelly and I. We were -just about the same age. Our parents were neighbors, in the quiet -country town where we both lived. I was an only child; and Nelly was an -only daughter, with two strong brothers who idolized her.</p> - -<p>We were always together. We went to the same school, and sat on the -same bench, and used the same desk. We learned the same lessons. I had -almost said we thought the same thoughts. We certainly loved the same -pleasures. We used to go together, in early spring, to hunt the dainty -may-flowers from under the sheltering dead leaves, and to find the shy -little blue-eyed violets. We went hand in hand into the still summer -woods, and gathered the delicate maiden-hair, and the soft mosses, and -all the summer wealth of bud and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> blossom. Gay little birds sang to us. -The deep blue sky bent over us, and the happy little brooks murmured -and frolicked at our feet.</p> - -<p>In autumn we went nutting and apple gathering. In the winter we slid, -and coasted, and snowballed. For every season, there was some special -pleasure,—and always Nelly and I were together,—always sufficient to -each other, for company. We never dreamed that any thing could come -between us, or that we could ever learn to live without each other.</p> - -<p>We were thirteen when Nelly's cousin from Boston—Lill Simmonds, her -name was—came to see her. It was vacation then, and I had not seen -Nelly for two days, because it had been raining hard. So I did not know -of the expected guest, until one morning Nelly's brother Tom came over, -and told me that his Aunt Simmonds, from Boston, was expected that -noon, and with her his Cousin Lill.</p> - -<p>"She'll be a nice playmate for you and Nelly," he said. "She's only a -year older than you two, and she used to have plenty of fun in her. -Nelly wants you to come over this afternoon, sure."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> - -<p>That was the beginning of my feeling hard toward Nelly. I was -unreasonable, I know, but I thought she might have come to tell me -the news, herself. I felt a sort of bitter, shut-out feeling all the -forenoon, and after dinner I was half minded not to go over,—to let -her have her Boston cousin all to herself.</p> - -<p>My mother heard some of my speeches, but she was wise enough not to -interfere. When she saw, at last, that curiosity and inclination had -gotten the better of pique and jealousy, she basted a fresh ruffle in -the neck of my afternoon dress, and tied a pretty blue ribbon in my -hair, and I looked as neat and suitable for the occasion as possible.</p> - -<p>At least I thought so, until I got to Nelly's. She did not watch for -my coming, and run to the gate to meet me, as usual. Of course it was -perfectly natural that she should be entertaining her cousin, but I -missed the accustomed greeting; and when she heard my voice at the -door, and came out of the parlor to speak to me, I know that if my -face reflected my heart, it must have worn a most sullen and unamiable -expression.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'm so glad you've come, Sophie," she said cheerfully. "Lill is in the -parlor. I want you to like her. But you can't help it, I know, she's so -lovely; such a beauty."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I shan't see with your eyes," I answered, with what I imagined -to be most cutting coldness and dignity.</p> - -<p>"Oh yes! I guess you will," she laughed. "We have thought alike about -most things, all our lives."</p> - -<p>I followed her into the parlor, and I saw Lill. If you are a country -girl who read, and have ever been suddenly confronted with a city -young lady in the height of fashion, to whom you were expected to -make yourself agreeable, you can, perhaps, understand what I felt; -particularly if by nature you are not only sensitive, but somewhat -vain, as I am sorry to confess I was. I had been used to think myself -as well-dressed, and as well-looking as any of my young neighbors; I -was neither as well-dressed nor as well-looking as Lill Simmonds.</p> - -<p>Nelly was right. She was a beauty. She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> a little taller than Nelly -or I,—a slender, graceful creature, with a high-bred air. It was -years before they had begun to crimp little girls' hair, but I think -Lill's must have been crimped. It was a perfect golden cloud about her -face and shoulders, and all full of little shining waves and ripples. -Then what eyes she had—star bright and deep blue and with lashes so -long that when they drooped they cast a shadow on the pale pink of -her cheeks. Her features were all delicate and pure; her hands white, -with one or two glittering rings upon them; and her clothes! My own -gowns had not seemed to me ill-made before; but now I thought Nelly and -I both looked as if we had come out of the ark. It was the first of -September, and her dress had just been made for fall,—a rich, glossy, -blue poplin, with soft lace at throat and wrists, and a pin and some -tiny ear jewels of exquisitely cut pink coral.</p> - -<p>"Yes," I thought to myself bitterly, "no wonder Nelly was dazzled. -<i>She</i> may like to be the contrast, to help Miss Fine-Airs show off; but -I object to that character, and I shall keep pretty clear of this house -while Miss Lill is in it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> - -<p>I spoke to her politely enough, I suppose; and she answered me, it -might have been either shyly or haughtily: I chose in my then mood to -think the latter. Decidedly the afternoon was not a success.</p> - -<p>Nelly did her best to make it pleasant; but she and I couldn't go -poking about into all sorts of odd places, as we did when we were -alone, and we did not know what the Boston cousin would like to do; so -we put on our company manners and <i>talked</i>, and for an illustration of -utter dulness and dreariness commend me to a "talk" between three girls -in their early teens, who have nothing of the social ease which comes -of experience and culture, and where two of them have nothing in common -with the other, as regards daily pursuits and habits of life. Lill -talked a little about Burnham's—it was before Loring's day—but we had -read no novelists but Scott and Dickens, and we couldn't discuss with -her whether it wasn't too bad that Gerald married Isabel and did not -marry Margaret.</p> - -<p>We might have brightened a little over the supper, but then Mrs. -Simmonds, who had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> sitting upstairs with Nelly's mother, was -present,—a stately dame, in rustling silk and gleaming jewels, who -overawed me completely. I was glad to go home; but the little root of -bitterness I had carried in my heart had grown, until, for the time, it -choked out every thing sweet and good.</p> - -<p>While the Boston cousin stayed, I saw little of Nelly. I am telling the -truth, and I must confess it was my fault. I know now that Nelly was -unchanged; but, of course, she was very much occupied. Whenever I saw -her she was so full of Lill's praises that I foolishly thought I was -nothing to her any more, and Lill was every thing. If I had chosen to -verify her words, instead of chafe at them, I, too, might have enjoyed -Lill's grace and beauty, and learned from her a great many things worth -knowing. But I took my own course, and if the cup I drank was bitter, -it was of my own brewing.</p> - -<p>At last, one afternoon, Nelly came over by herself to see me. I was -most ungracious in my welcome.</p> - -<p>"I don't see how you could tear yourself away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> from your city company," -I said, with that small, hateful sarcasm, which is so often a girl's -weapon. "They say self-denial is blest: I hope yours will be."</p> - -<p>Perhaps Nelly guessed that my hatefulness had its root in pain; or it -may have been that her own heart was too full of something else for her -to notice my mood.</p> - -<p>"Lill is going to-morrow," she said, gently.</p> - -<p>"Indeed!" I answered; "I don't know how the town will support the loss -of so much beauty and grace. I suppose I shall see more of you then; -but I must not be selfish enough to rejoice in the general misfortune."</p> - -<p>Nelly's gentle eyes filled with tears at last.</p> - -<p>"Sophie," she said, "how can you be so unkind, you whom I have loved -all my life? I am going, too, with Lill, and that is what I came to -tell you. Ever since she has been here, Aunt Simmonds has been trying -to persuade mother to let me go back for a year's schooling with Lill, -but it was not decided until last night. Mother thought, at first, that -I must wait to have my winter things made;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> but Aunt Simmonds said she -could get them better in Boston, and the same woman would make them for -me who makes Lill's."</p> - -<p>"Indeed! How well dressed you will be!" I said bitterly. "How you will -respect yourself!"</p> - -<p>"Sophie, I don't <i>know</i> you," Nelly burst out, indignantly. "The -hardest of all was to leave you, for we've been together all our lives; -but you are making it easy. Good-by."</p> - -<p>She put her arms round me, even then, and kissed me, and I responded -coldly. Oh how could I, when I loved her so? I watched her out of -sight, and then I sank down upon the grass, and laid my head upon a -little bench where we had often sat together, and sobbed and cried till -I could scarcely see. I was half tempted to go over to Nelly's, and ask -her to forgive me; but my wicked pride and jealousy wouldn't let me. -Lill would be there, I thought, and she wouldn't want me while she had -Lill. So I stayed away.</p> - -<p>The next morning they all went off. When I heard the car-whistle at the -little railroad station a mile and a half away, I began to cry again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> -Then, if it had not been too late, I would have gone and implored my -friend to forgive me, and not shut me out of her heart. But the day for -repentance was over.</p> - -<p>The slow months went on. I missed Nelly at school, at home, everywhere. -I longed for her with an incurable longing. It was to me almost as if -she were dead. People wrote many less letters in those days than they -do now, and neither Nelly nor I had learned to express any thing of -our real selves on paper. We exchanged three or four letters, but they -amounted to little more than the statement that we were well, and the -list of our studies. One look into Nelly's eyes would have been worth a -thousand such.</p> - -<p>There were other pleasant girls in town, but I took none of them into -Nelly's vacant place: how could I? Who of them would remember all my -past life, as she did,—she who had shared with me so many perfect -days of June, so many long, bright summers and melancholy autumns, -and winters white with snow? I was, as I have shown you, jealous and -hateful and cruel, but never for a moment fickle.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> - -<p>At last Nelly came again. It was a day in the late June, and she found -me just where she had left me, under the old horse-chestnut tree in -the great old-fashioned garden. I knew it must be almost time for her -coming, but I had not asked any one about it. Somehow I couldn't. I -very seldom even spoke her name in those days. So she stole upon me -unawares, and the first I knew her arms were round me,—her warm, -tender lips against my own,—and her sweet, unchanged voice cried,—</p> - -<p>"O Sophie, this is good, this is coming home, indeed!"</p> - -<p>I cried like a very child. Nell didn't quite understand that; but then -she had not had, like me, a hard place in her heart, which needed happy -tears to melt it away. I think, in spite of the tears, I was more glad -of the meeting even than she. After a little while she said,—</p> - -<p>"Come, I want you to go home with me now, and see Lill."</p> - -<p>Will you believe that even then the old, bitter jealousy began to gnaw -again at my heart?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> She had been with Lill almost a year; could she not -be content to give me a single hour without her? Perhaps she saw my -thought in my face; for she added, in such a sad, pitiful tone, "Poor -Lill!"</p> - -<p>"Poor Lill," indeed! with her beautiful golden hair, and her eyes like -stars, and her lovely gowns, and her city airs, "poor Lill!"</p> - -<p>"I should never think of calling Miss Simmonds poor," I said, with the -old hardness back in my voice.</p> - -<p>"You will when you see her, now," Nelly answered gently. "She had a -hard fall on the icy pavement, last winter, and she hurt her hip, and -it's been growing worse and worse. She can hardly walk at all, now, and -she has suffered awfully. But she has been, oh so patient!"</p> - -<p>And how I had dared to envy that girl! I was shocked and silenced. I -walked along by Nelly's side very quietly. When we got there she took -me up into her room, and there I saw Lill Simmonds. I should hardly -have known her. The golden glory of hair floated about her still.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> The -eyes were star-bright yet, but the cheeks which the long lashes shaded -were pink no longer, and they were so thin and hollow that it was -pitiful to see them.</p> - -<p>She wore a wrapper of some soft blue stuff, and on her lap lay her -frail, transparent hands. She started up to meet us with a smile which -for a moment gave back some of the old brightness to her face, but -which faded almost instantly. I sat down beside the lounging-chair -where she was lying, but I could not talk to her. The sight of her -wasted loveliness was all too sad. After a little while she said to -Nelly,—</p> - -<p>"Won't you, you are always so good to me, go and fetch me a glass of -the cool water from the spring at the foot of the garden?"</p> - -<p>Nelly went instantly, and then Lill turned to me and put her hand on my -arm.</p> - -<p>"I asked her to go, Sophie," she said, "because I wanted to speak to -you. I wanted to say something to you which it would hurt her to hear. -I used to be very jealous of you, Sophie. I wanted Nelly to love me -best, but she never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> did. She had loved you so long that I could see -you were always first in her heart. And now I am glad. I shall never be -well again, and when I am gone I would not like Nelly to be so unhappy -as she would be if she had loved me first and best. She will miss me, -and she will be very sorry for me; but she will have you, and you can -comfort her. I am ashamed now of that old jealousy. I think it made me -not nice to you last summer."</p> - -<p>Lill jealous of me! I was dumb with sheer amazement. And I, how much -bitterness and injustice I had to confess! But before I could put it -into words Nelly had come back, and a look from Lill kept me silent.</p> - -<p>That night, when I went away, I put my arms round my darling and kissed -her with my whole heart, as I had not done for a year. She never knew -how much went into that kiss, of sorrow and shame and self-reproach.</p> - -<p>What months those were which followed! I was constantly with Nelly -and her cousin. Mrs. Simmonds was there, but Lill spent most of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> -day-time hours with us girls; to spare her mother, probably, who was -with her every night, and also because she loved us both. Sometimes, on -fine days, she would walk a little under the trees; and I have knelt -unseen, in a passion of loving humility, and kissed the grass over -which she had dragged after her her helpless foot. Growing near to -death, she grew in grace. As Nelly said, one day,—</p> - -<p>"Her wings are growing. She will fly away with them soon."</p> - -<p>And so she did. Through the summer she lingered, suffering much at -times, but always patient and gentle and uncomplaining. And when the -dead leaves of autumn went fluttering down the wind, she died with the -dead summer, and upborne on the wings of some messenger of God her soul -went home.</p> - -<p>Even her mother hardly dared mourn for her,—her life had been so pure -and so peaceful,—her death was so tranquil and so happy. I had ceased, -long before, to be jealous of her. No one could love her too much. She -was my saint;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> and her memory has hallowed many a thought during the -long, world-weary years since. I need but to close my eyes to see a -pale, patient face, with its glory of golden hair and its eyes bright -as stars; and often, on some soft wind, I seem to hear her voice, -speaking again the last words I ever heard her speak,—</p> - -<p>"Love each other always, my darlings, and remember I loved you both."</p> - -<p>We have obeyed her faithfully, Nelly and I. Through the long years -since, no coldness or estrangement has ever come between us. My first -and last jealousy was buried in Lill's grave; and Nelly and I have -proved, to our own satisfaction at least, that a friendship between -two girls may be strong as it is sweet, faithful as it is fond,—the -inalienable riches of a whole life.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> - -<h2>MISSY.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>Miss Hurlburt had wandered farther into the woods than was her habit, -beguiled by the wonderful loveliness overhead, underfoot, all about -her. It was an afternoon in early October, but warm as June. The leaves -were of a thousand brilliant hues; for one or two nights of keen frost, -a week before, had seemed to set them on fire. There were boughs as -scarlet as the burning bush before which Moses wondered and worshipped. -There were others of deep orange; and others, still, of variegated -leaves, where the green lingered and was mixed with scarlet and brown -and yellow, till some of them looked like patterns in a kaleidoscope.</p> - -<p>Underfoot was the delicate, fresh woodland moss. Sometimes pine needles -made the path<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> soft; and sometimes, leaves, which had died earlier than -their mates, rustled under Miss Hurlburt's tread. Above, high over the -flaming tree boughs, was the deep, lustrous, blue sky, with all its -heavenly secrets. The air was full of that wonderful, radiant haze of -autumn which makes the distance vague with beauty. And the temperature, -as I said, was of June; so warm that Miss Hurlburt had taken off her -hat, and let the scarlet mantle fall from her shoulders.</p> - -<p>She herself, had a painter been there to study the scene, would have -been no unworthy wood nymph. Her figure was full, but not too full for -grace. Health and strength were in every line of it. Her fine, abundant -hair, like that of which Lowell wrote, "outwardly brown, but inwardly -golden," was brushed back from her low, broad forehead, and coiled in -a great heavy knot, from which a stray curl or two had escaped, at the -back of her proud little head.</p> - -<p>She had great brown eyes, full of thought and feeling; cheeks, in -which the rich, warm color glowed; bright, full, half-parted lips. -She <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>carried herself with grace, regal though unstudied. She never -consciously remembered that she was Eleanor Hurlburt,—whose father -owned the two great factories in the valley, and all the lands far -and near, even these royal woods through which she walked,—but, -unconsciously to herself, the fact gave firmness and elasticity to her -step, and self-possession to her air.</p> - -<p>She very seldom wandered alone so far away from home. The factory -hands were a necessary part of the great wealth which surrounded Miss -Hurlburt's life with ease and luxury; but some of them might not be -altogether pleasant to meet in lonely places,—so she usually was -driven out in the elegant Victoria, with the spanking bays which were -her father's pride, by the decorous family coachman; or drove herself -in her jaunty little pony phaeton, with her own man, all bands and -buttons, seated in the rumble behind.</p> - -<p>But to-day it happened that she was walking. I said "it happened," -because we speak in that way before we think; though nothing is farther -from my belief than that any thing ever <i>happens</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> in this world which -God has made, and in which He never loses sight of the smallest or -poorest thing. At any rate, Miss Hurlburt was walking, and she wandered -on, until at last she heard a tender little voice singing a tender -little song. It was so fine and clear, it might almost have been the -carol of a bird, only birds have not yet learned the English language, -and <i>this</i> voice sang:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Your brother has a falcon,</div> -<div class="i1">Your sister has a flower;</div> -<div>But what is left for manikin,</div> -<div class="i1">Born within an hour?</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<div>"I'll nurse you on my knee, my knee,</div> -<div class="i1">My own little son;</div> -<div>I'll rock you, rock you in my arms,</div> -<div class="i1">My least little one."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Such a quaint little song, such a quaint little voice! Miss Hurlburt -wondered for a moment who it could possibly be. Then she remembered -hearing that, while she was away in the summer, an elderly English -woman and a little girl had been allowed to take possession of the -cabin in the woods which her father owned.</p> - -<p>It was a little house with two rooms, which had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> been built, long ago, -as a lodge for hunters; but which had for several years stood vacant, -being too far from the factories to be a convenient residence for any -of the hands.</p> - -<p>Miss Hurlburt went on a few steps farther, and saw the singer. It was a -pretty picture. A little creature, who looked about five or six years -old, sat in the door-way tending a battered doll. She was almost as -brown as a gypsy, this small waif, but there was a singular grace about -her. Her black hair hung in thick, short curls. She had great, bright, -black eyes; lips as red as strawberries; and teeth as white as pearls.</p> - -<p>Miss Hurlburt moved on softly, so as not to disturb her; and the waif -took up her doll, and talked to it wisely and soberly, after the manner -of some mothers.</p> - -<p>"Now, Pinky, me love, I have singed you a song. Now you must be good -for a whole week of hours, or I shan't sing to you, never no more. I -mean any more, Pinky. Be very careful how you speak, always; no good -children ever go wrong in their talking."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> - -<p>By this time Miss Hurlburt had almost reached her side.</p> - -<p>"Does your child give you much trouble?" she said, in a tone friendly -and inviting confidence.</p> - -<p>The mite shook her head, with all its black curls.</p> - -<p>"Pinky, me love? No; she only gives me trouble when she is bad. She is -good most always, unless it rains."</p> - -<p>"Is she bad then?" with an air of anxious interest.</p> - -<p>"Certain she is: who wouldn't be? She has to stay in the house then; -and she doesn't like it. Would you? How can persons be good when they -don't have what they want?"</p> - -<p>By this time a nice, motherly-looking old English woman had heard the -talk, and came forward to the door.</p> - -<p>"Missy," she said, "always thinks Pinky is bad when she is bad herself; -and Missy is most always cross when it rains."</p> - -<p>"What is your name?" Miss Hurlburt asked, bending to smooth the black -curls.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Berenice Ashford," the child answered, in a slow, painstaking manner, -as if the words had been taught her with care; "but they don't call me -that,—they call me 'Missy.'"</p> - -<p>"Is she your grandchild?" was the next question, addressed to the -elderly woman, who had set a chair near the door and asked the young -lady to sit down.</p> - -<p>"No, that she isn't, and I would like much to find out whose child she -is. To be sure, I should miss her more than a little, if I had to part -with her: but, all the same, I should like to find her kindred. She -belongs to gentle-folks, and I can't do for her what ought to be done."</p> - -<p>A few more questions drew out the whole story. The woman, Mrs. Smith, -had a son in America, who was doing well at his trade of dyeing; and he -had sent for her to come out to him. He had sent money enough for her -expenses, and she had taken passage in the second cabin of a steamer.</p> - -<p>Among her fellow-passengers were Missy and her mother,—the latter a -beautiful young lady, Mrs. Smith said, but very pale and sad. She had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> -complained sometimes of a keen and terrible pain in her heart; but she -had made little conversation with any one. When they were five days -out, she had been found in the morning dead in her berth, with Missy -sound asleep beside her.</p> - -<p>There was no possible clew to her history. In her trunk, full of her -own clothes and Missy's, was no scrap of handwriting, no address. The -one or two books which were there, bore on their fly-leaves only the -inscription "E. Forsyth." She had taken passage as Mrs. Forsyth, but -the captain knew nothing more about her.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Smith had somehow taken possession of Missy. She had played with -the child and amused her a good deal, before her mother died; and now -the little creature clung to her as her only friend.</p> - -<p>There was something over a hundred dollars in the mother's trunk, -but as yet Mrs. Smith said she had not used it. When she reached New -York, instead of being met by her son, an old neighbor came for her -to the steamer, brought her the news of his death, and gave her the -money—nearly a thousand dollars in all—which he had been saving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> to -make the new home they were to have together comfortable.</p> - -<p>It was an awful blow, and she clung to Missy, then, for it seemed as -if the child was all she had left in the world. The captain said that -he would advertise for the little one's friends; but, meantime, he was -evidently very glad to be relieved of the responsibility of her.</p> - -<p>"How happened you to come here?" Miss Hurlburt asked.</p> - -<p>"I had always lived in the country, miss, and I didn't want to stay any -longer than I could help in New York; and my son had been meaning to -bring me here. It seemed a little comfort, to come where I should have -come with him. He had engaged with Mr. Hurlburt—the one who owns the -big factories—to come here and see to the dyeing; and Mr. Hurlburt was -so good as to give me this little house rent-free, for a while. By and -by I want to get something to do. If I could be housekeeper somewhere -where I could keep Missy, or head-nurse, or something of that sort, it -would suit me,—but there's no hurry."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Mr. Hurlburt is my father," the young lady said, when she had heard -the story through. "We must see what can be done. Missy, should you -like to live with me?"</p> - -<p>The child considered. Then she addressed her doll, inquiringly.</p> - -<p>"Pinky, me love, should <i>you</i> like to live with the lady? I guess she's -good. Would you go, if your mother went?" Then she pretended to listen. -"'No, I thank you,' Pinky says; 'she couldn't go without Grandma -Smith.'"</p> - -<p>"Of course Pinky couldn't," Miss Hurlburt said, laughing. "Well, then, -I'll come again to see you, and bring Pinky's new gown."</p> - -<p>That evening, at dinner, Miss Hurlburt was radiant. She knew her father -liked to see her well dressed, and she made a handsome toilet. She -coaxed him into his very best humor by all the arts only daughters -of widowed fathers are wont to use; and then, when he was seated -comfortably before the open fire, which tempered the chill of the -October evening, she unfolded her plan and her wishes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> - -<p>The beginning and the end were that she wanted Missy,—she must -have Missy,—and the middle was that she couldn't be so cruel as -to take from Mrs. Smith her one comfort, so she wanted Mrs. Smith. -She represented herself as fearfully overworked, in keeping the -establishment in order. Now how nice it would be if Mrs. Smith could -take all the troublesome details of that off her hands; could see that -the house was clean, and the washing well done, and the buttons on. She -had needed just such a person a long time, but she hadn't known where -to find her; and now here she was, really made to order, as it seemed.</p> - -<p>Of course she had her way. The world called Jonathan Hurlburt a stern -man, but it was not often he could say "no" to his motherless daughter. -The very next day Miss Hurlburt went with her proposition to the little -cabin in the wood; and, before a week was over, Missy and Grandma Smith -were duly installed as members of the Hurlburt household.</p> - -<p>As for the business part of the experiment, Mrs. Smith proved worth -her weight in gold, as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> say. Before three months were over, Mr. -Hurlburt discovered that she saved him five times her wages in money, -and added immeasurably to the household comfort,—indeed, he concluded -that she was, as Eleanor had said, really made to order.</p> - -<p>As for Missy, with her quaint ways, her odd, old-fashioned speeches, -and the little songs she sang, she was speedily the delight of the -household. She lost no whit of her affection for Grandma Smith, but it -was Miss Hurlburt who was her idol.</p> - -<p>"Pinky, me love," she used often to say to her faithful doll friend, -"did you ever see any miss so nice as our Miss Hurlburt? You had better -not say you did, Pinky, me love; because then it would be me very -sorrowful duty to whip you for telling lies."</p> - -<p>Miss Hurlburt's delight in her little waif was unbounded. She dressed -her up, like a child in a story-book. When she drove in her Victoria, -Missy always sat beside her, gorgeous in velvet suit and soft ermine -furs; and at home Missy was never far away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> - -<p>Before spring, another strange event took place. I will not say -happened, for no chapter of accidents would ever have read so -strangely. A young English manufacturer came over to America. Mr. -Hurlburt had had, by letter, various dealings with the firm which -he represented; and, on hearing of his arrival in New York, wrote, -begging a visit of some length from him. The young man, whose object in -his American journey was partly business and partly pleasure, saw an -opportunity to combine both in this visit, and accepted the invitation.</p> - -<p>He amused himself more or less with Missy, as did every one who came -to the house; but he had been a member of the household for several -days before it occurred to him that she was not Miss Hurlburt's young -sister. Under this impression he remarked one night,—</p> - -<p>"How curiously slight is the resemblance between yourself and your -little sister, Miss Hurlburt!"</p> - -<p>"Oh! Missy is not my sister," was the smiling answer. "She is -treasure-trove, Mr. Goring."</p> - -<p>And a little later, when Missy had danced away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> in search of Pinky, she -told him the whole story. He listened with intense interest.</p> - -<p>"And do you know her name?" he asked, at last.</p> - -<p>"She says it is Berenice Ashford. You would laugh to hear the slow, -painstaking way in which she pronounces it."</p> - -<p>Mr. Goring had turned pale as she spoke.</p> - -<p>"Excuse me, Miss Hurlburt, but I truly believe your Missy is my niece. -My half-brother married against the wishes of his family, and I was the -only one of them who ever made the acquaintance of his poor, pretty -young wife. Even when he died, last year, the rest would not have any -thing to do with her. She had a brother in America, and she wanted to -come here, so I took passage for her in the "Asia." She insisted on -coming in the second cabin, because it was quieter, she said; but I -think it was to save expense, as well. Tom had left her nothing; and, -after the rest of the family had rejected her, I could see that it hurt -her pride cruelly to let me help her. She should be all right, she -said, when she reached her brother. She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> to write me when she got -there, but I have never heard a word. I confess that the hope to hear -of her was one motive for my coming to this country."</p> - -<p>"But she was Mrs. Forsyth," Miss Hurlburt said, in a curiously -bewildered state of mind.</p> - -<p>"Certainly: Forsyth was my brother's name. Berenice Ashford is the -child's Christian name. It was the name of Tom's mother and mine."</p> - -<p>"But I wonder you did not know Missy at once."</p> - -<p>"Of course to find her here was the very last thing I could have -expected. Then I had not seen her for two or three years. I had -communicated with my sister-in-law chiefly by letter; and it was my man -of business, and not myself, who put her on board the steamer."</p> - -<p>"But her brother? Why has he never looked for his sister nor her child?"</p> - -<p>Goring smiled.</p> - -<p>"You are bent on making me prove my title to Missy, as one does to -stolen goods. I think Mrs. Forsyth must have gone on without writing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> -to him in what steamer she was coming, and he probably did not know -my address. Nor do I think he had ever shown any especial interest -in his sister. It was only her indomitable pride which made her so -determined to go to him, when the family of her husband rejected her. -Now, I think, I have proved property, and I'm ready to pay the cost of -advertising."</p> - -<p>Just then Missy's voice was heard in the hall, addressing a solemn -exhortation to "Pinky, me love," on the duty of never being greedy at -table. Miss Hurlburt called her in.</p> - -<p>"Missy," she said, "what was your papa's name?"</p> - -<p>"I never knew; did you ever know, Pinky, me love? Mamma called him Tom."</p> - -<p>"And did you ever hear mamma speak of Uncle Richard?" Mr. Goring broke -in, eagerly.</p> - -<p>"You do remember, Pinky, me love. It is wicked to look as if you -didn't. She said we couldn't go to America and find Uncle John, if -Uncle Richard had not given us the money. <i>I</i> remember that, but I had -'most forgotten; so if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> you forgot, too, I shall not whip you, Pinky, -me love."</p> - -<p>"I am your Uncle Richard," the Englishman said with entire calmness of -manner and gesture, but with tears in his voice and his eyes. Perhaps -he expected the child to come at once to his arms; but she stood there, -the same composed, self-poised little mite as ever.</p> - -<p>"<i>Your</i> great-uncle, Pinky, me love," she announced,—manifesting an -unexpectedly clear knowledge of degrees of kinship. "I think maybe we -shall like him."</p> - -<p>"And you will go with me back to England?" he asked, eagerly; for the -little creature's likeness to his dead brother stirred his heart.</p> - -<p>"Does <i>she</i> say I must?" Missy asked, shyly, looking at Miss Hurlburt.</p> - -<p>"I will never say you must, Missy."</p> - -<p>"Then, please, Uncle Richard, I am afraid going in a ship wouldn't -agree with Pinky; and we'd rather stay here, unless our Miss Hurlburt -will go too."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Soh, soh!" and Mr. Goring smiled a quizzical smile, "I see I have a -heart to storm."</p> - -<p>Whose heart he did not say. But he lingered some time in America, -coming back at frequent intervals to visit Missy, as he said. The -result was that when he returned to England little Missy had become -ready to go with him, even at the risk of exposing "Pinky me love," to -the perils of the sea; and Miss Hurlburt, thinking she needed something -other than masculine oversight, concluded to go with her and take care -of her, having first changed her own name to Mrs. Goring. And they all -said what a fortunate thing it was that Mrs. Smith was there to keep house.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> - -<h2>THE HEAD BOY OF EAGLEHEIGHT SCHOOL.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>The boys in Eagleheight school made up their minds before the first -fortnight of Max Grenoble's stay among them was over that he had -no spirit. The truth was, they didn't exactly understand him. They -began when he first came to exercise upon him their usual arts of -torture,—the initiation ceremonies for all new boys,—and found him -practically a non-resistant. They could not, indeed, be quite sure that -they even succeeded in vexing him: he was so imperturbable. At last Hal -Somers, goaded to a degree of exasperation by the quiet calmness of the -new boy, struck him, with the outcry,—</p> - -<p>"There, boys, see how this suits the Quaker."</p> - -<p>It was a sound, ringing blow; but Max only laughed a laugh which had a -good deal of scorn in it, and said,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> - -<p>"That's very little to take." Then regarding Hal curiously, "I looked -for a tougher blow than that. To see you, Somers, one would think you -had a good deal of strength in your arms; but a bad cause is always -weak."</p> - -<p>Hal would have liked then to "pitch into him" with whatever of strength -he had; but I think he was afraid. So he only turned on his heel, -muttered something about a fellow not worth fighting with, and walked -away. From that time those who did not vote Max Grenoble a coward -pronounced him a mystery. He did not look at all as if he were wanting -in spirit. He was a great strong Saxon of a fellow, with the head of -a young Greek, covered with thick, short golden curls. I wish I could -photograph him for you: he was such an embodiment of fresh, vigorous -life, with his clear, fearless blue eyes, his short, smiling upper lip, -his well-cut features. He was just the fellow to be popular, if only he -had not been misunderstood in the first place, and especially if he had -not happened to incur Hal Somers's enmity.</p> - -<p>Hal had been there two years, and was a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>positive force in the school. -He had a large capacity in several other directions besides mischief. -He had been the best scholar at Eagleheight before Max came to dispute -his laurels with him; a favorite, therefore, with the teachers, who -always passed over his escapades, which were not few, as lightly as -they could. In fact he was a sort of ringleader of the faster boys, -and he found time, in spite of his never failing in class, to plan -out and head the execution of most of the jollifications which were -the terror of the quiet villagers around Eagleheight. He seldom had -any of his offences positively brought home and proven, it is true, -and the faculty of the institution liked him too well to condemn him -on suspicion, or even to try very hard to strengthen suspicion into -certainty.</p> - -<p>They, the aforesaid faculty, were not at all too ready to give Max -Grenoble his due when he first came. He was not, like Hal, of their -own training. He had come to them from a rival school, and they were -secretly ill pleased to find in him a dangerous competitor with their -best scholar. But before six months were over they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> obliged to -recognize his claims, and had even come to heartily like him. And, -indeed, he was a fellow, as Edmund Sparkler would have said, with no -nonsense about him, and likely to make his own way anywhere.</p> - -<p>Whenever he had the opportunity to show his skill he was found to excel -in all athletic sports; but this was not often, for the boys rather -shunned him, and if there were enough for an undertaking without him he -was usually left out of it. He had one friend, however,—a poor little -weakling of a fellow, named Molyneux Bell, who had been friendless -before Max came. Hal Somers and his roystering set had always shoved -poor little "Miss Molly," as they called young Bell, to the wall; -and it opened paradise to him when great, strong, bright, cheery Max -Grenoble took him under his protecting wing. He gave as much as he -received too; for Max had a strongly affectionate nature, and would -have found himself desolate enough without some one to be fond of. Only -"Miss Molly" knew the secret of his friend's non-resistance. One day -Max had carried him in his arms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> across a stream they came to in one of -their walks, and set him gently down on the other side. Molyneux looked -up gratefully.</p> - -<p>"What great strong arms you have, Max! Why, you carry me as gently as -a cradle. I believe you could whip Hal Somers himself, just as easy as -nothing. Honest, now, don't you think you could? O, I <i>wish</i> you would! -The boys wouldn't dare then to call us 'Miss Molly and her sister.'"</p> - -<p>Max laughed heartily.</p> - -<p>"I shouldn't be much afraid to try it," he said. "The truth is, I have -been awfully tempted to pitch in, sometimes. But last year I made up -my mind that the Bible meant what it said when it forbade us to return -evil for evil and railing for railing. It comes tough on human nature, -though, boy human nature at any rate; but there'd be no merit if there -was no struggle, and we're put here to fight with the old man in us, as -my father calls it."</p> - -<p>"But if you'd tell 'em <i>why</i> you never knock a fellow down when he -sauces you."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> - -<p>Max's face crimsoned like a girl's.</p> - -<p>"Don't you understand that a fellow <i>couldn't</i> tell such things? at -least, I couldn't. I should feel like the Pharisee in the Bible."</p> - -<p>At the end of the school year there was to be a competitive -examination. The credits for conduct and for recitations were to be -taken into account, and the boy who stood highest on the books, and -passed the best examination also, was to be the head boy of the school -for the next year. From the first the field was abandoned to two -competitors,—Hal Somers and Max Grenoble. All Hal's emulation was -aroused. He <i>would</i> succeed. He even forsook his old ways, and for -weeks together engaged in nothing that was contraband. He had really -fine abilities. He learned some things more readily than Max himself, -and he felt that all his prestige depended on his securing this -leadership. Max took the matter more coolly, but still he worked with -all diligence. And so, till within ten days of the examination, they -were neck and neck.</p> - -<p>Just then there came a dark night,—a warm, tempting June night,—when -the moon was old,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> and only the stars shone, like very far-away lamps -indeed, through the dusk. A friend of Hal Somers was night monitor, and -doubtless the temptation afforded by such apparent security was too -much for mischief-loving Hal. It chanced that Max Grenoble had received -permission from one of the tutors to go to the neighboring village of -an errand, and this fact was known only to his own room-mate, Molyneux -Bell. About half-past nine he was returning, and for greater speed -crossed a lot belonging to the president of the institution, which -saved him an extra quarter of a mile of road. Half way across the lot -he met Hal Somers with three other boys behind him, face to face. Hal -carried a small lantern, and a great pair of shears such as are used -to shear sheep. The light from the lantern struck upon the shears with -a glitter which led Max to notice them. In the hands of one of Hal's -followers he saw the long, silvery tail of a white horse, and another -carried a bunch of hair of a similar hue, evidently the mane of the -same animal.</p> - -<p>"Hal Somers!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<p>He spoke in his first moment of surprise, without consideration; but -there came no answer. The lantern was blown out in a moment, and the -boys made the best of their way toward Eagleheight. As Max walked on -more slowly he heard a pitiful neigh, and following the sound, he -found President King's pet horse, utterly denuded of mane and tail. It -was a joke carried a little too far even for Hal Somers's effrontery, -he thought to himself. If there was any thing outside of his school -that President King loved and prided himself on more than another, it -was Snowflake. He gave her something of the fond care a family man -bestows upon his children. Every afternoon she was the companion of his -solitude, to whom he talked, with a sort of grave humor of his own, as -he took his constitutional upon her back. He would not be likely to -have much toleration for the young rascals who had shorn her of all her -glory. Max went on, reported himself to Professor Vane, from whom he -had obtained his leave of absence, and went to bed without hinting what -he had seen, even to his room-mate.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> - -<p>The next morning when the school went to chapel, there was a sense of -thunder in the air. President King had seen his favorite, as those who -were guilty did not need to be told, after one look at his lowering -face. He conducted the devotions with more than his usual solemnity, -and then detained the school a little longer.</p> - -<p>He uttered a few withering sentences, setting forth what had been done, -and commenting satirically upon the invention, the gentlemanliness, -the good sense of young men whose brains could originate nothing -more brilliant or entertaining than the disfigurement of an unlucky -quadruped, and an annoyance and insult to a teacher who had at least -this claim upon their respect, that their parents had put them under -his charge. Then he gave them the opportunity to confess their folly, -assuring them that confession was good for the soul, and adding that he -should take it as a favor if any one who knew any thing of the affair, -whether personally concerned in it or not, would give him all the -information in his power. It was not the practice at Eagleheight to ask -any <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>individual boy whether or not he had been guilty. It was one of -President King's notions that to ask such a question of any one who had -not manliness enough to confess his fault voluntarily was only leading -him into temptation, offering safety as a premium for lying.</p> - -<p>As the fellows filed out of chapel, Hal Somers said to his chum,—</p> - -<p>"It's all up with me about the leadership. Of course Grenoble will -tell, especially now the Prex makes a merit of it."</p> - -<p>"Fool if he wouldn't," was the reply, "after the way we fellows have -all treated him, too."</p> - -<p>All day Hal was in hourly expectation of being sent for to an interview -solemn and awful in the president's room. But the hours went on and -no summons came. About four o'clock he saw Max Grenoble go into the -dreaded chamber of audience. Now, he thought, all would come out. Of -course Max had gone to tell all he knew. Would he be suspended, or -expelled, he wondered, or would the Prex be satisfied with giving him -black marks enough to put the leadership altogether beyond his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> reach? -Then a plan came to him. The president's room was on the lower floor, -and over one of its windows grew a grape vine large enough to conceal -him from observation. He would go there and listen. That it was a -very mean thing to do he knew as well as any body, but temptation was -too strong for him, and giving one look to make sure that he was not -observed he hid himself away under the open window. The first words he -heard were in the voice of the president:</p> - -<p>"As soon as Vane told me you were out last evening, it occurred to me -that you would know who was at the bottom of the affair, and it seems -you do."</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir," firmly and quietly.</p> - -<p>"Then there can be no possible doubt that it is your duty to tell."</p> - -<p>"It cannot be my duty, sir, to be a sneak. This secret came into my -hands by accident. If I had been monitor for the evening, it would, -of course, be my duty to make it known. Not having been in any such -capacity, <i>I</i> think were I to turn telltale I should be no gentleman."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It's a new order of things when fifty must come to fifteen to be told -what it is to be a gentleman," the president said, hotly. "Perhaps you -don't know, sir, that if you persist in your resolution you lose all -hope of the leadership? You will be considered an accessory in the -crime, and you will lose as many credit marks as would be taken from -the ringleader were he detected."</p> - -<p>"I can afford to lose those better than my own self-respect," Max said, -stoutly, and then added, "I think <i>you</i> would have done the same, -President King, when you were at my age."</p> - -<p>Hal waited to hear no more, but edged cautiously from his place of -concealment. He thought he was not above profiting by Max's generosity. -He tried to think Max was a fool, but there was an inner voice in his -heart which whispered that there was something sublime in such folly, -and, try as he might, this inner voice would not altogether be silenced.</p> - -<p>The days went on swiftly. Max kept his scholarship up to the highest -standard, but the twenty credit marks taken from his list put all hope -of his attaining the leadership out of the question.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was the very night before the examination when President King -answered a tap on his door with his well known, resonant "Come in." His -visitor was Hal Somers.</p> - -<p>The next morning, after prayers, the president said, very quietly,—</p> - -<p>"Young gentlemen, before the examination commences I have to detain you -long enough to perform a simple act of justice. I acquit Max Grenoble -of all complicity in the misdemeanor committed on the night of the 14th -of June; the entire burden of the same having been assumed by Henry -Somers, in behalf of himself, William Graves, George Saunders, and John -Morse. And as this confession was voluntary, I shall visit upon the -offenders no severer penalty than the loss of all their credit marks -for the last quarter."</p> - -<p>Poor little Molyneux Bell forgot time and place, and threw his -handkerchief into the air with one glad shout:—</p> - -<p>"I knew Max would come out right at last; I knew he would."</p> - -<p>So Max went back the next year to Eagleheight,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> as the head boy; and -under his leadership a new state of affairs was brought about. He led -them not only in class, and in athletic exercises, but in all true -manliness. They had found out at length that he had plenty of "pluck -and grit," even though he might not emulate Sayers or Heenan. One of -his warmest friends was Hal Somers, in whose character enough nobility -was latent to recognize at last the sterling worth even of his rival.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> - -<h2>AGATHA'S LONELY DAYS.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>They had buried Agatha's mother,—put her away under a sheltering -tree, beloved of bird and breeze, which waved its boughs between her -and the bending, changeful summer sky. Agatha thought no other spot in -the world could be so pleasant or so dear; and she longed, from the -depths of her little, ten-years-old heart, to stay there with bird, and -breeze, and tree, and the buried mother, who must hear her voice, she -thought, even though she could never reply to it again in all the years.</p> - -<p>Her father, pale with sorrow himself, had never come near enough to his -child to be her comforter now. He talked little to any one of either -his joys or his sorrows. Agatha loved him, partly because she had -always been taught to love and have faith in him; and, partly, too, -because she knew well,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> with that childish and intuitive perception -which discovers every thing, how dear he was to her mother; but she did -not feel near to him, and she could not possibly have told him how she -longed to stay there beside that grave. She made no protest when he -took her hand to lead her away, though it seemed to her that she left -her heart behind her, and that the lump in her breast was a cold stone -to which warmth would never come back any more.</p> - -<p>She went home, and some one took off her little black hat, and put on -an apron over her mourning gown, and then she was left in peace to -sit at the window, and look out toward the spot where they had laid -her mother, and wonder what was to become of <i>her</i>. They called her -to supper, but she was not hungry,—she thought she never should be -again,—and there was no mother to beguile her with dainty morsels. -When they found she did not want to come they let her alone, and still -she sat there and wondered.</p> - -<p>At last the twilight fell, and in the dusk her father came to her. -He loved her very dearly;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> and especially now, that her mother was -gone, and only she was left to him, he felt for her an unspeakable -tenderness; literally unspeakable, for he did not know how to utter one -word of it to his child. He longed to comfort her,—to tell her how -dear she was to him,—but he could not. He sat down beside her, and -looked at her little pale face, outlined against the western window, -with such a depth of pity that it seemed to make his voice quieter and -colder than ever when he spoke, because it required such an effort to -speak at all.</p> - -<p>"To-morrow, Agatha, I shall take you to your Aunt Irene. Every girl -needs a woman's care, and she will watch over you as faithfully as if -you were her own."</p> - -<p>Agatha never dreamed of objecting. She tried to think that she might as -well be in one place as another, for she shouldn't live long anywhere -without her mother. But she dreaded Aunt Irene's watching, as she -dreaded few things in the world. She had made visits now and then at -the quiet old homestead of which this aunt was mistress, and it seemed -to her, on such occasions, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> Aunt Irene did nothing but watch her -from the time she entered the house; and in those days it had taken all -the sunshine of her mother's joyous nature to gild the visits into some -substitute for the pleasures other children took in their vacations. -Now, to go without her mother—all alone—and be "watched over" by -her aunt! She began to know that she had a heart, after all, by its -frightened fluttering.</p> - -<p>Aunt Irene was her father's sister, with all the Raymond peculiarities -of pride, and reserve, and silence, which made him half a stranger -to his own child, intensified in her by her life of seclusion and of -absolute authority over herself and her possessions. Her experiences -had been narrow, and her aims had been narrow also. Mr. Raymond saw -this, his one sister, always at her best; and, through long knowledge -of her, he understood her really trustworthy and excellent qualities. -He felt that he was doing for Agatha the best which fate now permitted -him to do, in confiding her to this guidance, so sure to be wise, as he -believed, even if not loving.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> - -<p>The long car-ride next day was almost a silent one. Agatha would have -rejected with hot juvenile scorn, the idea that the presence or absence -of any material comforts could affect her grief; and yet she would -have felt a little less desolate, I think, if the heat had not been so -intense, the dust so choking, and the seat so hard and straight.</p> - -<p>When she had made the journey in other years with her mother, how much -shorter the way had seemed. The fresh linen frocks she used to wear -were so much easier and cooler than the stifling black gown she had -on to-day; and somehow her mother knew just when to open the windows -and when to shut them, and if the seat was straight and hard, there -was always mamma's lap or shoulder to lean against; and she forgot -to be weary when mamma beguiled the time by poem or story. But her -father rode silently, looking into vacancy for a face he would never -see again; and after he had once bought Agatha's ticket, and seated -her beside him, it did not occur to him to do any thing to relieve the -monotony of the long, dusty ride.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was dusk when the stage from the railway station set them down at -Aunt Irene's door. Agatha walked up the path timidly. It was a long, -straight path, and either side of it grew thoroughly well-disciplined -flowers; a rosebush on one side, just opposite to a rosebush on the -other,—Agatha wondered if either of them would have dared to bear -one rose more than the other did,—a peony on one side and its mate -opposite; so of a syringa bush, a flowering almond, and a root of -lilies. Between the well-marshalled ranks of flowers, which somehow -made the child think of soldiers on guard, she followed her father up -to the door, where Aunt Irene waited, grim chatelaine.</p> - -<p>Mr. Raymond shook hands with his sister, and then said gravely,—</p> - -<p>"Irene, I have brought you my poor, motherless little girl," and Aunt -Irene put out her firm, strong, unyielding hand and took the child's -into it, then bent and—not kissed her, kisses belonged to the dead -days—but laid her lips on her cheek, and so Agatha went in.</p> - -<p>Every thing was good and substantial in Aunt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> Irene's house. You found -there no frail stands which a careless touch might throw over, no -brittle ornaments, no egg-shell china. The carpets were dark and rich -and sombre. The tables and chairs were all of solid wood, and stood -high and square. The sofas were heavy and firm, and the whole air of -the place was grave and respectable, as Aunt Irene's surroundings -should have been. I am not sure that any light, modern, fancy articles, -suggestive of elegant idleness, had they been placed in her rooms, -would not themselves have perceived their unsuitableness, and trundled -off on their own castors.</p> - -<p>The supper which awaited the travellers followed the prevailing fashion -of the house. The biscuits were three times as large as the biscuits -on other tea-tables. There were no frisky rolls, no light-minded whips -or wafers. But there were good old-fashioned preserve, serious-looking -cake, and substantial slices of cold meat.</p> - -<p>Aunt Irene herself, sitting behind the tea-urn—solid silver, of -course—comported with all the rest. She was a solid woman, with no -superfluous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> flesh, and yet with a well-fed, well-to-do aspect, which -was unmistakable. Her head was high and narrow, her features good, her -strong hair had disdained to turn gray, and her eyes were keen if cold. -Her lips, which had never cooed over babies, or soothed the sorrows of -little children, or talked nonsense to any listener, were thin, as to -such seldom-used lips seemed natural. They shut tightly over all her -secrets.</p> - -<p>Agatha's head began to ache furiously, and she could not eat. The room -swam round and round till she felt as if she were the centre of a -rolling ball, and her chair rocked, she thought, and she was slipping -off it, when her father saw her white, strange face and wavering -figure, and sprang up just in time to catch her in his arms.</p> - -<p>"She is sick, Irene," he said. "Where is her room? Let me carry her -there."</p> - -<p>While he went upstairs with her she revived, and lifted her tired head -from his shoulder to look into his eyes.</p> - -<p>"I wish you were not going away, papa," she ventured to say.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I can't stay on in the old places, where I have lived with your -mother, without her," was the answer which came, and which was like -giving her a key wherewith to unlock her father's heart, and so made -the two nearer to each other than they had ever been before.</p> - -<p>"Some time will you come back, and let me live with you?" she -whispered, wondering at her own rashness.</p> - -<p>"If you are good, dear, and learn to be womanly and helpful, and to -take care of yourself, I will come back for you, or you shall come to -me, and we will be together always."</p> - -<p>No one knew with what passionate yet timid hope Agatha's little heart -beat as she lay there alone on her strange, high bed. Womanly and -helpful,—that was what he had said, and she would be just that. She -would do all Aunt Irene said, and never mind how much she was watched, -since watching might help to make her nearer right, and get her ready -all the sooner to go to her father and be his comfort.</p> - -<p>The very next day he left her. The death of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> his wife had seemed to -sweep away all his old landmarks. He had been, hitherto, a quiet -unadventurous man contented with his narrow routine of daily duty, -which always brought him back to the tenderness of her welcoming smile. -Now that smile was frozen for ever on her cold lips, and a strange -restlessness possessed him. He had meant to stay a few days with Agatha -in her new home, but he felt as if the inaction would drive him mad, so -he hurried away; and a week afterward Aunt Irene showed Agatha his name -in the passenger list of a European steamer.</p> - -<p>It was June then, and the gay summer went on working its daily miracles -round Agatha's quiet home. Bright birds sang to her, and gay flowers -bloomed for her picking; and nature ran riot in a wood a quarter of a -mile away, where the flowers asked no leave of Aunt Irene to blow, or -the birds to sing. The child used to go there when her daily tasks were -done, but she carried with her so sad a heart that nothing seemed to -cheer her. She wondered what all the growing things were so glad about, -in the summer weather, and, remembering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> an old phrase she had heard, -she concluded it was because nature was their mother, and nature never -died.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mother Nature, I wish you were a relative of mine!" she used to -cry, sometimes, with unconscious quaintness; but before the summer was -over, leaning her head so much on the mosses, a sense of kinship began -to thrill in her pulses, and before she knew it the pain in her heart -was eased a little, and she began to think of her mother, not as buried -up and hidden away from her, but as near to her and waiting for her.</p> - -<p>Meantime she never forgot her father's words,—"Womanly and -helpful,"—they were the keynote of her life. Aunt Irene wondered at -her. She had thought her a mischievous little elf in the old days, -but there was no mischief in her now. She herself respected no more -religiously the rules of the household than did this little quiet child.</p> - -<p>As for trouble, why the creature gave none,—she was learning to do -every thing for herself. At last even Aunt Irene grew half frightened -at this still patience, which she felt must be unnatural to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> childhood. -She began to wish that she could hear Agatha laugh or shout,—that -sometimes the child would tear her gowns, when she had on her oldest -ones, at least,—that she would show some self-will, some little trace -of her descent from apple-eating Adam of the old time.</p> - -<p>She wrote to her brother how good and quiet his little girl was; but -her heart misgave her. She did not know what more she could do to make -her small inmate comfortable, but she had a vague sense that Agatha was -living an unchildlike life, and was less happy than in the old days -when the little girl and her mother came there together.</p> - -<p>Mother Nature has her own methods of exacting compensation, and for -Agatha's overstrained and unnatural life pay-day came in the autumn. It -had grown too cold to lie with her ear on the mosses, listening to the -earth's pulse-beats, and the child sat quietly within doors, until one -day she turned very pale and rolled off her stiff, straight chair to -the carpet, and Aunt Irene picked her up, a lighter weight now than in -the spring-time, and carried her to her room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - -<p>Dr. Greene was sent for at once, and he looked at his little patient -very gravely, and then whispered "typhoid" to her aunt.</p> - -<p>Aunt Irene wrote a hurried line to Agatha's father, and then took up -her post at the bedside, which for five weeks she scarcely left. She -had a heart, only long ago she had concluded it was an inconvenience -and locked it up; but now it broke loose from its confinement and half -frightened her by its throbbings.</p> - -<p>Her brother was very dear to her. She had loved him all his life, after -the deep, silent, undemonstrative fashion of those who love but few; -and now if this fresh grief was to come upon him how could she bear to -see him suffer? But she did not allow these thoughts to interfere with -her usefulness at Agatha's bedside. Day and night she watched over the -child, who never once knew her, but who constantly mistook her for her -mother, and clung to her passionately in the delirium of her fever.</p> - -<p>"O mother!" she would say, "I thought I never, never should see you -again. No one was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> cross to me, mamma darling; but no one loved me -since you went away. I've been trying to grow womanly and helpful, so -papa would be glad to have me with him by and by; but now you've come -and you'll love me whether I'm good or not."</p> - -<p>Then again she seemed roaming through the woods.</p> - -<p>"Hark," she would say, "hear how the birds sing, and see the gay -flowers swing in the wind! Their mother doesn't die, and they have no -aunts. O birdies! you don't know how cold Aunt Irene's lips are."</p> - -<p>And Aunt Irene, listening, bent over the bed with tears blinding her -eyes. Had her life been all a failure? she asked herself. She had tried -to do her duty: was it all nothing, because she hadn't loved? Oh! if -Agatha would but get well she would find some way to make her happy.</p> - -<p>Before the crisis of the child's fever came, her father had arrived. -The letter found him in Paris, and he had set out in twenty-four hours -upon his homeward journey.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Is she alive?" he asked, when his sister met him at the door, and -started back, shocked by his haggard face.</p> - -<p>"Yes, she lives, and the doctor says her fever must turn soon. Come and -see her."</p> - -<p>The little flushed face had never been so beautiful in its brightest -days of health and joy, as now, with the clustering rings of hair -framing in scarlet cheeks and large, strangely brilliant eyes. The -father's heart almost broke as he stood there, unable to make her -recognize his presence. While he watched, she said what she had said so -often during the hours of that wasting sickness,—</p> - -<p>"I have tried to be womanly and helpful. I think papa will want me -after awhile. I hope so for Aunt Irene's lips are cold."</p> - -<p>How keenly he reproached himself then for having left her, only God -knew. He was a silent man, as I have said, and silently he shared Aunt -Irene's vigil without even thinking of rest after his journey.</p> - -<p>The next night Dr. Greene waited also by that bedside for the crisis he -foresaw. At last the child slept.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> - -<p>"When she wakes we shall know what to expect," he said, and went away -into the next room for a little rest. But the father and the aunt never -moved. It was midnight, and every thing was strangely, unnaturally -still, as it always seems to watchers in the middle of the night, -when they heard Agatha call out of the hush and the stillness, with a -sudden, glad cry of recognition,—</p> - -<p>"O mamma! mamma!"</p> - -<p>"Is she dying?" Mr. Raymond's look asked, for his lips refused to -speak, and his sister's face made answer, "Not yet."</p> - -<p>The hours, the long, slow hours went on. The night grew darker and -deeper. Then above the hills there stretched a faint line of dawn-light -which deepened at length to rose, and then was shot through by a golden -arrow from the rising sun. And then, as the dawning glory touched the -little white, still face upon the pillows, the eyes opened, and a -voice—Agatha's own natural voice, but oh, so faint and low!—said, -softly but gladly,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I have seen mamma. I wanted to go with her, but she said papa and Aunt -Irene both needed me, and I was to stay here and grow well and happy. -And so I shall."</p> - -<p>"And so, please God, you shall," Dr. Greene said, cheerily, having -come in from the next room; and the father sank upon his knees by the -bedside, with some murmured words, which only the Father in heaven -understood, upon his lips; and Aunt Irene hurried off, she said, to get -something for the child to take, but she stopped a long time upon the -way.</p> - -<p>"I knew you were here, papa," and Agatha reached out her thin little -fingers to touch the bowed head beside her. "I knew, because mamma told -me."</p> - -<p>Strangely enough, all her timidity had vanished. Mamma had said that -papa and Aunt Irene needed her, and that was enough. Soon her aunt came -in, and she looked up, gratefully.</p> - -<p>"You have been so good to me, Aunt Irene," she said, "so good that I -thought it was mamma who was tending me, but I know now it was you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> -and I think you must love me, because you have kept me alive."</p> - -<p>And so my story of Agatha's lonely days ends; for after this she never -was lonely any more. Her father and aunt had learned that little hearts -need something more than to be clothed and fed; and Agatha had learned, -by their care for her, their love for her, and never doubted again that -she had her own place in their hearts.</p> - -<p>But had she seen her own mamma? you ask. Ah, who knows the mysteries of -the border land between life and death? Some of you will believe that -she but dreamed a dream; and others, perchance, will think the Father, -who has so often sent His angels to comfort His earthly children, sent -to her the home-faced angel whom her heart loved. I cannot tell. I only -know that Agatha believed always that a beloved voice not of this world -had spoken to her.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> - -<h2>THIN ICE.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>The little village of Westbrook seemed to have been standing still, -while all the rest of the world had gone on. The people lived very much -as their fathers and grandfathers had lived before them. They were all -farmers except the doctor and the minister.</p> - -<p>The doctor was a very skilful man; but he had been reared on a -Westbrook farm, and when he went out into the world to get his medical -education he had brought back with him, to quiet Westbrook, only the -knowledge he sought, and none of the airs and graces of town life.</p> - -<p>The minister, too, was Westbrook born and bred, and his wife had -scarcely ever been outside the town in all her days, so that there was -no one in the simple community to set extravagant fashions, or turn -foolish heads by gayety or splendor.</p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i100.jpg" alt="THIN ICE" /></div> - -<p class="bold">THIN ICE.—<span class="smcap">Page 100.</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was, therefore, as much of an event as if Queen Victoria herself -were to come and spend the winter in Boston, when it became generally -known that a rich widow lady and her son were to come, the last of -September, and very probably stay on through the winter under Dr. -Simms's roof. A famous city physician, with whom Dr. Simms had studied -once, had recommended him and Westbrook to Mrs. Rosenburgh, when it -became necessary for her to take her puny boy into some still, country -retreat.</p> - -<p>They came during the last golden days of September, and all Westbrook -was alive with interest about them. The lady looked delicate, but she -was as pretty as she was pale, and her boy was curiously like her,—as -pale, as pretty, almost as feminine.</p> - -<p>There was plenty of opportunity to see them, for the city doctor had -given orders that the young gentleman should keep out of doors all the -time; so, mornings, he and his mother were always to be seen in their -low, luxurious carriage, drawn by high-stepping bay horses, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> driven -by a faithful, careful, middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair and an -impenetrable face.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, in the afternoons, they would all be out again, but oftener -Mrs. Rosenburgh remained at home, and her son drove, for himself, a -pair of pretty black ponies, while the impenetrable, iron-gray man sat -behind, ready to seize the reins in case of accident.</p> - -<p>At first the boy's face seemed often drawn by pain, or white with -weariness, and he would look round him listlessly, as he drove, with -eyes that saw nothing, or at least failed to find any object of -interest. But the clear autumn air proved invigorating, and when the -glorious, prismatic days of late October came he looked as if, indeed, -he had been re-created.</p> - -<p>And now one could see that he began to take a natural, human interest -in what went on around him. He would drive up his little pony carriage -to the wall, and look over it to watch the apple-pickers and the -harvesters. No one spoke to him, and he spoke to no one. The lads -of his own age, who watched his ponies with boyish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> envy, never -dreamed that the owner of these fairy coursers could be as shy as one -of themselves, and, indeed, as much more shy as delicate weakness -naturally is than rosy strength. They thought his silence was pride, -and felt a half-defiant hatred of him accordingly.</p> - -<p>Yet many and many a day he went home to his mother, and sitting beside -her with his head upon her knee, cried out, in very bitterness,—</p> - -<p>"Oh if I only could be like one of those healthy boys! How gladly I'd -give up Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed, to be able to run about as they -do! Shall I never, never be strong, mamma?"</p> - -<p>And she would comfort him with the happy truth that every day he was -growing stronger, and that she expected him to be her great, brave boy, -by and by, who would take care of her all the days of her life.</p> - -<p>Meantime, other boys, in other homes, talked to other mothers. For the -very first time the evil spirit of envy had crept into quiet Westbrook.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> - -<p>Why should Ralph Rosenburgh have every thing he wanted, and they -nothing? What clothes he wore,—and a watch, a real gold watch they had -seen him take out of his pocket,—and those ponies; for wherever they -began they always ended with those ponies. And, as not all the mothers -in Westbrook were wise, any more than elsewhere in the world, while the -wise ones would say that strong boy-legs were worth more than horses' -legs, the weak ones would foster the evil spirit, and answer,—</p> - -<p>"He ain't a bit better than you are, with all his watches and ponies. -Pride will have a fall some day, see if it don't, and he may be glad -enough to stand in your shoes yet, before he dies."</p> - -<p>Jack Smalley was the son of one of these injudicious mothers, and so -his envy grew, unchecked; till he nourished a vigorous hatred for Ralph -Rosenburgh in his heart, without ever having exchanged a single word -with him.</p> - -<p>It was a hatred, however, of which its object never could have dreamed. -He had been so accustomed to be petted and pitied, and he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> so -very sorry for himself, that he could not be a wide-awake, vigorous, -ball-playing, leaping, running boy, it would never have occurred to him -that any one else could fail to see his condition in the same light.</p> - -<p>So he went steadily on the even tenor of his way, gaining something day -by day and week by week, and hoping—how earnestly no one knew—for -the happy time when Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed might stand idle in -their stalls, and he go about on his own feet with the rest.</p> - -<p>The cold weather came on early that year. Before the middle of December -Westbrook pond was frozen over, and then began the winter's fun. Every -afternoon Ralph Rosenburgh drove his ponies down to the very edge of -the pond, and sat there for awhile, a patient looker-on at the frolics -he could not share.</p> - -<p>With Christmas, however, there came to him from the fond, maternal -Santa Claus, a chair constructed on purpose for pushing over the ice, -and then he became a daily partaker in the festivities upon the pond. -The chair was modelled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> after a certain kind of invalid, garden chair, -which is arranged to be either propelled by some one else from behind, -or by the occupant turning a kind of crank at the sides.</p> - -<p>Ralph soon learned to manage it for himself, and finding himself strong -enough to do so, he used to make the iron-gray man stay with the -ponies, while he himself moved round among the skaters.</p> - -<p>And, now that he seemed really one of themselves, the young people, -all except Jack Smalley, began to feel a kindly interest in him. Jack -alone went on hating him more and more, finding daily fresh causes of -offence in this boy who wore velvet and fur in place of his own coarse -gray cloth, and woollen, hand-knit comforter. What was he, this puny -wretch, without pluck enough to stand on his own legs, that he should -wear the garments of a young prince? You see that Master Smalley -had the primitive idea of young princes, and supposed them clad in -everlasting velvet and ermine. But there were no princes in America, -thank Heaven, and nobody<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> in Westbrook wanted fools round who tried to -look like king's sons. Very innocent of trying to look like any one was -poor Ralph, if the truth had been known,—this mother's darling of a -boy, who took no more thought of his attire than a weed, but whom Mrs. -Rosenburgh wrapped assiduously in all that was softest and warmest, as -she had, all his life, surrounded him with warmth and softness.</p> - -<p>After a while there came a January afternoon, over which a gray, moist -sky brooded. Already the ice had shown some symptoms of breaking up, -and everybody was out, making the most of it while it lasted.</p> - -<p>Among the rest Ralph Rosenburgh came down to the pond,—left -Pease-blossom and Mustard seed in the iron-gray man's charge, as usual, -and began to propel himself over the ice, with arms whose increasing -vigor was a daily and happy astonishment to himself.</p> - -<p>At last he wandered away a little from most of the skaters. He felt -himself and his chair rather in their way, they were wheeling and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> -zigzagging so swiftly, and he moved along the pond quite rapidly toward -the eastern end.</p> - -<p>It chanced that no one noticed his course except Jack Smalley, and Jack -knew that he was going directly toward a place where the ice had been -recently cut, and where it was thin and treacherous now. Slowly Jack -followed him.</p> - -<p>"I'd like to see him and that fine chair of his get a good ducking," -Jack muttered. "It would serve him right. I guess all them prince's -feathers and fineries would look a little more like common folks', -after they'd been soused."</p> - -<p>I do not think another and darker possibility crossed Jack's mind. -Hating Ralph Rosenburgh though he did, I do not think one wish for his -death had ever entered his heart. He himself had been in the water, -time and again, and got no other harm from it than perhaps a hard cold. -He did not realize what a different thing it would be for this delicate -invalid, seated in his heavy chair. And so Ralph propelled himself -along toward destruction, and Jack, with an evil sneer on his face, -skated slowly after him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - -<p>Suddenly a third figure shot from the group of skaters,—the fastest -skater of them all, and the one boy in the world whom Jack Smalley -loved,—his own cousin, Nelson Smalley.</p> - -<p>He, too, had turned his eyes and seen in what fatal direction the chair -with the delicate, golden-haired invalid in it was tending. He did not -speak a word: he had but one thought,—to reach Ralph Rosenburgh in -time to save him. He skated on, with the swiftness of light. And Jack -Smalley saw him coming, nearing him, passing him, on toward the thin -ice. Now, indeed, he shrieked at the top of his voice,—</p> - -<p>"Nell, Nell, come back. The ice out there is thin. Come back—come -back. Don't you hear?"</p> - -<p>"I hear," floated backward on the wind from the flying figure; "I hear, -but don't you see Rosenburgh? I must save him."</p> - -<p>Then Jack himself skated after, making what speed he might. But he -seemed to himself slow as a snail; and already Rosenburgh was very near -the treacherous ice, and Nelson was almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> up with him, flying like -the wind. He heard Nelson's voice:</p> - -<p>"Stop, Rosenburgh, stop. The ice beyond you is just a crust. Stop, you -will be drowned."</p> - -<p>And then he heard a plash, and looked. It was Nelson, who had gone on, -and gone under, unable to arrest, in time, his own headlong speed. And -then, while he himself was shrieking madly for help, he saw Rosenburgh, -prince's feathers and all, just throw himself out of his chair, and -down into the cold, seething water where Nelson Smalley had gone under.</p> - -<p>The ice grew thin suddenly, just where the saw had cut it squarely -away, so the chair stood still upon the solid ice, and by that -Rosenburgh held with one hand, while with the other he grasped the long -hair of Nelson Smalley, who was rising for the first time. Excitement -was giving him unnatural strength, but for how long could he hold on?</p> - -<p>Now, at last, the skaters had perceived the real state of the case, and -such a wail as one might hear afterwards through his dreams for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> ever, -went up to the bending sky. Hurry, all who can. Run, iron-gray man, as -you never ran before, or how shall you drive home to that boy's waiting -mother?</p> - -<p>How was it done? How is it ever done? Who can ever tell in such a -crisis? I do not know how long they were in reaching the thin ice, for -at such times moments seem hours, and seconds are bits of eternity. -But Rosenburgh held on, and the iron-gray man threw himself flat upon -the cracking ice, with the boys holding fast to him, and drew them -both out, and then Rosenburgh turned limp and white on his hands, and -whether he was dead or not he could not tell.</p> - -<p>There were enough others to care for Smalley, and already the older -ones had begun trying to restore him, and some of the younger were -running in various directions for wiser aid. So the iron-gray man just -lifted his own young master in his arms, and got him straight into the -pony wagon, and drove Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed home as they had -never been driven before.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> - -<p>At the gate he met Dr. Simms coming out, and told his story in a -few words. It was almost an hour before the blue eyes opened again, -and the mother felt sure that her boy was still hers to have and to -hold, to love and to cherish. Indeed, it was many days before she -felt altogether safe and sure about him. She was constantly expecting -some after consequences from his exposure,—some fever, or cough, or -terrible nervous prostration. But, strangely enough, he seemed to be -none the worse; and one day, after a careful examination of him, Dr. -Simms said to her,—</p> - -<p>"I venture to tell you, now, what I have thought all along. This has -been the very best thing for him that could possibly have happened. The -severe shock was exactly what he needed, though certainly it was what I -should not have dared to take the responsibility of subjecting him to. -He is going to be the better and stronger for it."</p> - -<p>"And the brave, splendid fellow who was risking his own life to save -him?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Is all right too. Duckings are good for boys, not a doubt of it. Trust -me, this cold bath will go far to make a man of yours."</p> - -<p>And the doctor was right. The languid pulses which that awful peril had -quickened never throbbed so languidly again. It was Ralph Rosenburgh's -awakening to a new life. Somehow the shyness in him passed away with -the weakness, and he became a general favorite.</p> - -<p>The boys no longer envied him his ponies, when one or other of them was -always asked to share his drives; and their cure was completed when he -grew strong enough to take part in all their sports, when Pease-blossom -and Mustard-seed were left to "eat their heads off" in their stall, and -Ralph Rosenburgh and his chosen and dearest friend, Nelson Smalley, -scaled rocks and climbed hills with the best of them.</p> - -<p>This strong friendship would have cost Jack Smalley some envious pangs, -perhaps, if the awful terror of that January afternoon had not made him -afraid of the evil in his own soul.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> - -<h2>MY LOST SISTER: A CONFESSION.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>I have a confession to make. When I went home from my -grandmother's,—being set down at the home-door by the stage-driver, -in whose care I had been placed,—and found my little sister in my -mother's arms, a quick growing hate of her struck its black roots in my -heart. I know that this seems unnatural. In most houses the baby is the -very light and joy of them,—the little idol to whom, from the least to -the greatest, the whole family do willing homage.</p> - -<p>But remember that I had grown to be ten years old, with no rival near -the throne, accustomed to be the first object with my father and -mother, petted, indulged, as much "the baby" as if I had worn white -long clothes. It was not strange that it should come hard to be deposed -from my throne of babyhood in one moment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> - -<p>When I went into the house, Nurse Sikes met me with a smile which -struck me like a blow.</p> - -<p>"Somebody's got her nose broke, I guess," she said, with a tantalizing -laugh.</p> - -<p>Before this, no one had spoken to me about the new-comer, and there, I -think, was where the wrong began; but the woman's meaning flashed into -my mind in a moment, and I tossed my head scornfully, without speaking. -Nurse Sikes was probably not an ill-natured woman,—she could not have -been, since no face was so welcome as hers in the sick rooms of all the -neighborhood,—but she was a very injudicious one. I suppose my idle, -vain contempt and indignation amused her, and so she went on provoking -me.</p> - -<p>"Ho, ho, Miss Fine Airs! doesn't want to see her baby sister, don't -she? Well, to tell the truth, I don't think you'll be much missed. Papa -and Mamma are pretty well wrapped up in Miss Baby. <i>She's</i> a novelty, -you know, and I guess she'll be taken care of, even if you don't -trouble yourself."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> - -<p>I would not for worlds have let her see the passion of grief and rage -which shook me. I went out of her sight, and fled, not to my own room, -which opened from my mother's, but to a remote spare chamber, and there -I bore my pain alone.</p> - -<p>To cry would have infinitely relieved me, but my evil pride restrained -me from that. They should not see my eyes red, and know how I felt; -I would die first, I said, bitterly, to myself, I, who had cried out -every sorrow of my life, hitherto, on my mother's tender bosom. After a -while I heard them calling me,—</p> - -<p>"Annie! Annie! Annie! Why, the child came in half an hour ago. Where is -she?"</p> - -<p>Then I knew I must go down. So I looked at myself in the glass, and saw -a face which, indeed, no tears stained, but which was disfigured by -pride and passion; and thinking to myself,—'No one will notice how <i>I</i> -look, now,' I went to my mother's room.</p> - -<p>"Come here, my darling," her gentle voice said, "come and look at -baby."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> - -<p>Baby! Could she not say a fond word to me, after I had been away from -home two weeks, without bringing in baby! I moved reluctantly toward -her.</p> - -<p>"Baby is twelve days old," she went on, wistfully, seeing my sullen -mien. "I wouldn't let any one tell you, for I thought it would be such -a surprise."</p> - -<p>"A surprise, indeed!" I echoed her word with a scorn in my voice, which -must have pained that gentle heart sorely.</p> - -<p>"Isn't she sweet?" and, still trying to win my love for her new -treasure, mamma uncovered the little, dimpled, rosy face, and held it -toward me.</p> - -<p>"I suppose so; I don't think I care for babies," I said, ungraciously.</p> - -<p>"But you do care for mamma, and you haven't so much as kissed <i>me</i> yet, -my darling."</p> - -<p>Perhaps if, even then, she could have put her arms around me, and held -me fast against her loving heart, as she used to when I was grieved or -naughty, it might have driven away the evil spirit, and made me her own -child again; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> she could not, for there, in her lap, was baby. So I -took her kiss passively, returned it coldly, and then went away.</p> - -<p>It seems so incredible to my grown-up self, looking back upon it, that -I could have gone on hating my baby sister more and more, that I can -scarcely expect you to believe it; and I think I would hardly write out -this, my confession, did I not hope it might lead some other, tempted -as I was, to examine her heart in time, and root out from it the evil -weed of jealousy, which bears always such bitter fruit.</p> - -<p>From the first, little Lilias, or Lily, as they all called her, was a -singularly lovely child. As a baby, she cried very little, and never in -anger. Nothing but real pain ever made the red lips quiver, or filled -the violet eyes with tears. She never could see any face more grave -than usual without trying, in her baby fashion, to brighten it. I can -remember, oh, how distinctly, times when my father would come home, -worn and tired, and she would, quite untold, go through her little -<i>rôle</i> of accomplishments till she won a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> smile from him, clapping her -fairy hands, nodding her gleaming, golden head, showing her two small -teeth,—all the little winning wiles she had.</p> - -<p>She was a very frail, delicate child, always, and she did not walk -nearly as early as other children. But she talked very soon indeed. She -was scarcely ten months old, when she learned to call us all by our -names; and, strangely enough, mine was the first name she spoke. "Nan! -Nan! Nan!" she would call me, half the day, like a little silver-voiced -parrot.</p> - -<p>She was very fond of me, in a certain way. I never tended her unless I -was obliged, and my mother, noticing with deep grief my spirit toward -my little sister, waited for the evil feeling to wear itself out, and -seldom called on me to amuse the child, or to give up for her sake any -whim or fancy of my own. Lily was not used, therefore, to have me hold -or play with her.</p> - -<p>Perhaps she thought I <i>could</i> not, but it seemed to afford her infinite -satisfaction just to have me in her sight. It may be she felt, in some -vague<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> way, that I was nearer babyhood than the rest, and so more of -her kind. At any rate, she always seemed perfectly happy and content -when she could watch me, at any of my pursuits; and when I left the -room, the little silvery voice would call after me,—</p> - -<p>"Nan! Nan! Nan!"</p> - -<p>She was a full year and a half old before she began to walk, and then -she was so small and delicate that she looked as you might fancy a baby -out of fairy land would look, flitting round on her tiniest of feet, -her yellow hair glinting goldenly in every chance sunbeam, and her -wistful eyes blue as a blue flower.</p> - -<p>How could I help loving her? Ay, how could I?</p> - -<p>I fancy I must have loved her a little, even then, only I had grown -so in the habit of regarding her as an interloper, a rival, an alien, -who was taking from me all which had formerly been mine, that I never -owned, even in the silence of my own heart, to any softening toward her.</p> - -<p>Father and mother were good to me beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> my deserts, and beyond my -poor words to describe. I have known, since, with what infinite love -and grief they sorrowed over me, while waiting for this evil growth in -my heart to be uprooted, as they felt sure it would be, some time. They -had the wisdom to know that reproof would be vain, and simply to love -me and be silent.</p> - -<p>But if they loved <i>me</i>, and were to me most patient and kind, they were -devoted to little Lily, as was natural. She was so frail and so fair, -so needed their constant watchfulness, that it is not strange she had -it.</p> - -<p>One day, when she was two years old and I was twelve, I sat in a corner -of the sitting-room, putting a dissected map together, while a lady was -calling upon my mother. She looked earnestly and long at Lily; but that -was not uncommon; the child's dainty beauty was a pleasant thing to -watch. At last, after she had risen to go, she said, as if she couldn't -help saying it,—</p> - -<p>"Take good care of that little one, Mrs. Allen. She looks to me like -one of the children the angels love."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> - -<p>I saw the quick dew suffuse my mother's eyes, as she made some answer -which I failed to hear, and then went to the door with her guest.</p> - -<p>Am I to tell all the sad and bitter truth? I understood, as well as -they did, that they thought our Lily so frail we should have hard work -to make her flourish in the cold soil of the earth; and for one moment -a feeling of evil triumph swelled my heart. When she was gone, I should -be <i>all</i> to my father and mother, as I used to be before she came. They -would love me, when they had no one else to love.</p> - -<p>I felt a guilty flush mounting to my cheeks, and I swept my map into -its box hastily, and got up to leave the room. As I went out of the -door Lily's voice followed me, sweetly shrill,—"Nan! Nan! Nan!" and, -for the very first time in my life, a conviction smote me that there -would be a sense of loss when that voice could never follow me again, -with its soft calling, through all the years.</p> - -<p>The next summer was a strange, warm, oppressive summer,—the summer of -'56. With its July<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> heats our Lily began to droop. Such care as she -had, such nursing, such love! But she had been always like a blossom -from heaven, sprung up by mistake in the rough soil of this world, and -she needed for her healing the wind which blows for ever through the -leaves of the tree of life.</p> - -<p>She soon grew so weak that she could not run about any more, but would -lie all day, except when, for a change, my mother held her in her arms, -in a little rose-curtained crib, out from which the blue, wistful eyes -followed all our movements, with a sweet, loving, lingering look, which -I cannot describe. On me, in especial, that long gaze used to rest; and -never could I leave the room without that sweet, small voice calling -after me plaintively.</p> - -<p>There came a day, at last, when the doctor sat half an hour by Lily's -side, watching her with grave, silent face, and then went into another -room alone with my mother. He came out first, and went away, and when -she followed him, her eyes were very red. I knew afterwards, what I -suspected the moment I saw her face, that he had been telling her that -she must make up her mind to part with her little darling.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> - -<p>My heart was not quite stone, after all, for it grew strangely soft and -strangely afraid then. She was going home to God, this little Lily of -heaven; and would she tell Him that I had hated, all through, the baby -sister He had given me? I went away by myself and prayed. I had said -my prayers night and morning, all my life, but this was quite another -thing, this cry of the child's heart becoming conscious of its guilt -and woe, to the pitying Father.</p> - -<p>At last, I went to my mother. Lily was asleep, and mamma sat by her -side, pale as death, but with face that made no complaint. I knelt down -beside her.</p> - -<p>"O mother!" I cried, "I have been so wicked,—and now I cannot undo -it! Oh, if I could! Oh, if I could only die,—I who am not fit to -live,—and let you keep Lily!"</p> - -<p>She bent over me, and drew me into her arms, against her bosom.</p> - -<p>"If you are not fit to live, my darling, you are not fit to die," she -said gently. "I can better part with Lily, for she is pure yet as when -God gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> her to me. I have seen your sin and your suffering, and I -have known your repentance would come."</p> - -<p>"Oh, it has, it has! Mother, how can I bear it? <i>Will</i> she go home to -God, and tell Him I have hated her?"</p> - -<p>"Do you think she could tell <i>Him</i> any thing which He does not know? -But Lily has never found out what hate means. She has always loved you, -and she does not know but that all the world loves her. The pain which -your sin has caused has not rested on Lily,—thank God for that."</p> - -<p>"But I might have made her happier,—I might have been good to -her,—and now, perhaps I shall never have any little sister any more in -all the world."</p> - -<p>Just then the child awoke, and put out her frail little hands, with a -low, sweet call I was destined to listen for in vain through all the -empty, after years. I ran to her, and took her in my arms. She saw the -tears upon my face, and touched them with her mites of fingers.</p> - -<p>"Naughty Nan," she said, in fond reproach, "naughty Nan, to cry,—make -Lily cry too."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> - -<p>And then I wiped away my tears, and tried to be cheerful; but, oh, how -heavy my heart was! and, mourn as I would, I could not bring back the -dead months and days wherein I might have loved my little sister, and -had hated her instead.</p> - -<p>What else?</p> - -<p>Nothing, but that, with the fading summer flowers, she, too, faded and -died. In her case was wrought no miracle of healing. "We all do fade -as the leaf;" but she had never been a strong, green leaf, tossed by -summer winds, freshened by summer rains, gay in summer sunshine. Just -a pale, sweet day-lily, that lived her little life, and died with the -sunset. And the first words she ever spoke, were the last words, also. -She opened her tender eyes after a long silence, during which she had -scarcely seemed to breathe, and they rested on me.</p> - -<p>"Nan! Nan! Nan!" she cried, as if it were a call to follow her into the -strange, new life, the strange, new world, whither, a moment after, she -was gone.</p> - -<p>If there has been any good in my life since then,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> if I have striven at -all to be tender and gentle and unselfish, let me offer such struggles -as a tribute to her memory, as one lays flowers upon an altar or a -grave. Whither she has gone, I pray God to guide my feet also, in His -own good time and way; and I shall know that I have reached the place -whither my longings tend, when I hear, soft falling through the eternal -air, her low, sweet call,—</p> - -<p>"Nan! Nan! Nan! Welcome, Nan!"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p> - -<h2>WHAT CAME TO OLIVE HAYGARTH.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p class="bold">A CHRISTMAS STORY.</p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>It was the afternoon of the 24th of December, a dull, gray afternoon, -with a sky frowning over it which was all one cloud, but from which -neither rain nor snow fell. A certain insinuating breath of cold was -in the air, more penetrating than the crisp, keen wind of the sharpest -January day.</p> - -<p>Olive Haygarth shivered as she walked along the bleakest side of -Harrison Avenue, down town. She was making her way to Dock Square, to -carry home to a clothing store some vests which she and her mother had -just completed.</p> - -<p>After a while she turned and walked across into Washington Street, for -an impulse came over her to see all the bright Christmas things in the -shop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> windows, and the gay, glad people, getting ready to keep holiday.</p> - -<p>She had meant, when she set out on her walk, to avoid them, for -she knew that her mood was bitter enough already. She had left no -brightness behind her at home. There were but two of them, herself and -her mother, and they were poor people, with only their needles between -them and want.</p> - -<p>They had never known actual suffering, however, for Mrs. Haygarth had -worked in a tailor's shop in her youth, and had taught Olive so much -of the intricacies of the business as sufficed to make her a good -workwoman.</p> - -<p>Accordingly they did their sewing so well as to command constant -employment and fair prices. But after all it was ceaseless drudging, -just to keep body and soul together. What was the use of it all? Not -enjoyment enough in any one day to pay for living,—why not as well lie -down and die at once?</p> - -<p>She walked on sullenly, thinking of these things. An elegant carriage -stopped just in front<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> of her, and a girl no older than herself got -out, trailing her rich silk across the sidewalk, and went into a -fashionable jeweller's.</p> - -<p>Olive stopped, and looking in at the window, ostensibly at the vases -and bronzes, watched the girl with her dainty, high-bred air. She noted -every separate item of her loveliness,—the delicate coloring, the hair -so tastefully arranged, the pure, regular features. Then she looked -at the lustrous silk, the soft furs, the bonnet, which was a pink and -white miracle of blonde and rosebuds. How much of the beauty was the -girl's very self, and how much did she owe to this splendid setting? -Olive had seen cheeks and lips as bright and hair as shining when she -tied on her own unbecoming dark straw bonnet before her own dingy -looking-glass.</p> - -<p>She went on with renewed bitterness, asking herself, over and over -again, Why? Why? Why? Did not the Bible say that God was no respecter -of persons? But why did He make some, like that girl in there, to -feed on the roses and lie in the lilies of life,—to wear silks, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> -furs, and jewels, and laces, and then make <i>her</i> to work buttonholes -in Butler & Co.'s vests? Was there any God at all? or, if there was, -did He not make some people and forget them altogether, while He was -heaping good things on others whom He liked better? She could not -understand it. And then to be told to <i>love</i> God after all; and that He -pitied her as a father pitied his children! Why! that girl in the silk -dress could love God, easily,—that command must have been meant for -her.</p> - -<p>Going on she caught a glimpse of an illumination in the window of a -print shop.</p> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">Peace on Earth and Good-Will toward Men</span>" was the legend set -forth by the brilliantly colored letters.</p> - -<p>What a mockery those words seemed to be! There had never been peace or -good-will in their house, even in the old days when they were tolerably -prosperous, before her father went away.</p> - -<p>She walked very slowly now, for she was thinking of that old time. She -had loved her father more than she had ever loved any one else.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> To her -he had always been kind; he had never found fault with her, and had -smoothed all the rough places out of her life. Her mother had been neat -and smart and <i>capable</i>, as the New England phrase is. Higher praise -than this Mrs. Haygarth did not covet. But like many capable women, she -had acquired a habit of small faultfinding, a perpetual dropping, which -would have worn even a stone, and George Haygarth was no stone.</p> - -<p>The woman loved her husband, doubtless, in some fashion of her own, -but to save her life she could not have kept from "nagging" him. She -fretted if he brought mud upon his shoes over her clean floor, if he -spent money on any pleasure for himself, any extra indulgence for -Olive; above all, if he ever took a fancy to keep holiday.</p> - -<p>Just five years ago things had come to a climax. Olive was thirteen -years old then, and he had brought her home for Christmas some -ornaments,—a pin and earrings, not very expensive, but in Mrs. -Haygarth's eyes useless and unnecessary. She assailed him bitterly, -and for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> marvel he heard her out in dumb silence. When she was all -through, he only said,—</p> - -<p>"I think I can spare the eight dollars they cost me, since I am not -likely to give the girl any thing again for some time. It will be too -far to send Christmas gifts from Colorado."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Haygarth's temper was up, and she answered him with an evil -sneer,—</p> - -<p>"Colorado, indeed! Colorado is peopled with wide-awake men. It's no -place for you out there."</p> - -<p>He made no reply, only got up and went out; and, going by Olive, he -stooped and kissed her. How well she remembered that kiss!</p> - -<p>Through the week afterward he went to his work as usual, but he spent -scarcely any time at home, and when there made little talk. All his -wife's accustomed flings and innuendoes fell on his ears apparently -unheeded. The night before New Year's he was busy a long time in his -own room. When he came out he handed Mrs. Haygarth a folded paper.</p> - -<p>"There," he said, "is the receipt for the next<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> year's house rent, and -before that time is out I shall send you the money, if I am prospered, -to pay for another year. I have taken from the savings-bank enough to -carry me to Colorado and keep me a little while after I get there; -and the bank book, with the rest of the five hundred dollars, I have -transferred to you. If I have any luck you shall never want,—you and -Olive. You'll be better off without me. I think I've always been an -aggravation to you, Martha,—only an aggravation."</p> - -<p>He went back again into his room, and came out with a valise packed -full.</p> - -<p>"I think I'll go away now," he said. "The train starts in an hour, and -there is no need of my troubling you any longer."</p> - -<p>Then he had taken Olive into his arms, and she had felt some sudden -kisses on her cheek, some hot tears on her face; but he had said -nothing to her, only the one sentence, gasped out like a groan,— -"Father's little one! father's little one!"</p> - -<p>Olive shivered and then grew hot again, as she remembered it; and -remembered how wistfully he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> had looked afterwards at his wife, reading -no encouragement in her sharp, contemptuous face.</p> - -<p>"I guess you'll see Colorado about as much as I shall," said Martha -Haygarth, sneeringly. "Your courage may last fifty miles."</p> - -<p>He did not answer. He just shut the door behind him and went out into -the night,—and she had never seen him since, never heard his voice -since that last cry,—"Father's little one!"</p> - -<p>She felt the thick-coming tears blinding her eyes, but she brushed them -resolutely away, and looked up at the Old South clock just before her.</p> - -<p>Almost five. The sun had set nearly half an hour ago, and the night -was falling fast. How long a time she had spent in walking the short -distance since she came into Washington Street! How late home she -should be! She quickened her steps almost to a run, went to the -clothing store, where she had to wait a little while for her work to -be looked over and paid for, and heard the clocks strike six just as -she reached the corner of Essex Street, on her homeward way. The dense, -hurrying crowd jostled and pressed her, and she turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> the corner. She -would find more room on the Avenue, she thought.</p> - -<p>She had not noticed that two young men were following her closely. -They would have been gentlemen if they had obeyed the laws of God and -man. As it was, there was about them the look which nothing expresses -so well as the word "fast." Their very features had become coarse -and lowered in tone by the lives they led; and yet they were the -descendants of men whose names were honored in the State, and made -glorious by traditions of true Christian knighthood.</p> - -<p>On the other side of the way, alike unnoticed by Olive and her -pursuers, a man walked on steadily, never losing sight of them for a -moment. At last, as she came into a quiet portion of the street, the -two young men drew near her. They were simply what I have said, "fast." -They perhaps meant no real harm, and thought it would be good fun to -frighten her.</p> - -<p>"'Where are you going, my pretty maid?'" said one, the bolder and -handsomer of the two.</p> - -<p>"'My face is my fortune, sir, she said,'" <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>responded the other, in a -voice which the wine he had taken for dinner made a little thick and -unsteady.</p> - -<p>"You ought not to be out alone," the first began again. "You are quite -too young and too pretty."</p> - -<p>"That she is," a loud, stern voice answered, "when there are such vile -hounds as you ready to insult an unprotected girl."</p> - -<p>Surely it was a voice Olive knew, only stronger and more resolute than -she had ever heard it before.</p> - -<p>She turned suddenly, and the gas light struck full on her flushed, -frightened, pretty face, which the drooping hair shaded. The man, who -had crossed the street to come to her rescue, looked at her a moment, -and then, as if involuntarily, came to his lips the old, fond words, -the last she had ever heard him speak,—</p> - -<p>"Father's little one!"</p> - -<p>He opened his arms, and she, poor tired girl crept into their shelter. -The two young men stood by waiting, enough of the nobility of the old -blood in them to keep them from running away, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> their nerves -tingled with shame. George Haygarth spoke to them with quiet, manly -dignity.</p> - -<p>"When I saw you following this girl I had no idea she was <i>my</i> girl, -whom I had not seen for five years. It was enough for me that she was -a woman. To my thinking it's a poor manhood that insults women instead -of protecting them. I meant to look out for her, and, be she who she -might, you should not have harmed her."</p> - -<p>"We never meant her any real harm," the elder of the two said humbly; -"but we have learned our lesson, and I think we shall neither of us -forget it. Young lady, we beg your pardon."</p> - -<p>Then they lifted their hats and went away; and George Haygarth drew his -daughter's hand through his arm and walked on, telling his story as he -walked.</p> - -<p>He had been unsuccessful at first. For more than eighteen months he -had scarcely been able to keep himself alive. Fever had wasted him, -plans had failed him, hope had deserted him. The very first money he -could possibly spare he had sent home, with a long loving letter to the -absent, over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> whom his heart yearned. But money and letter had both -come back to him after a while, from the dead-letter office.</p> - -<p>"Yes," Olive said, "we were too poor to keep on there after the year -for which you paid was out, and we have moved two or three times since -then. The postman did not know where to find us, and after the first -year we gave up asking for letters at the office."</p> - -<p>Her father's hand clasped hers tighter, in sympathy, and then he told -the rest of his story.</p> - -<p>He had never been very prosperous, never seen any such golden chances -as the mining legends picture, but he had come home better off than he -ever should have been if he had stayed in the East.</p> - -<p>For a whole week he had been in Boston searching for them everywhere, -and no knowing how much longer he might have had to wait but for this -accident.</p> - -<p>"Don't say accident, father," Olive answered, softly. "It was God's -way of bringing us together. I begin to see now what it means when -the Bible says, 'He is touched by our infirmities, and pities<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> our -necessities.' And yet, only this afternoon I was losing all my faith, -and thinking that if He cared for all the rest of the world. He had -forgotten me. Here we are,—the next house is home."</p> - -<p>"Your mother—how will she receive me, Olive?"</p> - -<p>Olive's heart seemed to stand still. Her mother had been so bitter -through all these years; had said such cruel things about this man, -whom she accused of deserting his family and leaving them to starve, of -caring only for himself. She did not speak,—she did not know what to -say.</p> - -<p>"You must go in and break it to her," George Haygarth said, as they -climbed the stairs of the humble tenement house, the third story of -which the mother and daughter occupied. "I will stay outside and wait. -It won't be coming home at all if Martha doesn't bid me welcome."</p> - -<p>Olive went in, trembling.</p> - -<p>"Here is the money, mother."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Haygarth reached out her hand for it and looked at it.</p> - -<p>"Yes, it's all right; but I thought you were never coming home. What -kept you?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I looked into the windows a good deal as I went down, and then I had -to wait at the store, and I've been thinking, mother. It will be five -years next week since father went away. What if we could see him again?"</p> - -<p>She paused, expecting to hear some of the old bitter words about her -father; but, instead, her mother's voice fell softly upon her ear.</p> - -<p>"<i>I've</i> been thinking too, Olive, and I believe he is dead. I don't -think I used to be patient enough with him, and perhaps I wore his love -out. But he <i>did</i> care for <i>you</i>, and seems to me nothing short of -death could have kept him away so long."</p> - -<p>"But if you <i>could</i> see him, mother?" Olive persisted, with trembling -voice.</p> - -<p>Some new thought pierced Martha Haygarth's brain. A strange thrill -shook her. She looked an instant into Olive's eyes. Then, without a -word, she sprang to the door and threw it open. Olive heard a low, -passionate cry.</p> - -<p>"George! George! if I was cross I <i>did</i> love you!" and Olive saw a -figure come out of the shadow and take her mother close in its arms. -And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> then she hid her eyes, and said a little prayer, she never knew -what.</p> - -<p>So, after all, God had not forgotten them. Just when their want was -sorest their help had come. And they needed all they had suffered, -perhaps, to teach her mother what love was worth, and what forbearance -signified.</p> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">Peace on Earth and Good-Will toward Men!</span>"</p> - -<p>From the very sky the words seemed to drop down to her, like an angelic -blessing; and now to their home the reign of peace had come, and she -understood what the benediction meant.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i143.jpg" alt="UNCLE JACK" /></div> - -<p class="bold">UNCLE JACK.—<span class="smcap">Page 143.</span></p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<h2>UNCLE JACK.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>"What young bears most boys are!" said my Uncle Jack, watching his -oldest hope pushing his sister in the swing so vigorously that she -almost fell out, and then pulling one side of the rope at a time, -making her fairly dizzy with swaying from side to side while she -alternately screamed and entreated.</p> - -<p>"Just about the same, all of them," Uncle Jack went on. "Talk about -boyish chivalry, I never found it, especially toward a boy's own kith -and kin. There may be some Highland Marys with juvenile adorers, but -nine times out of ten a boy would rather frighten a girl than kiss her. -My John here's just a specimen. Come here, sir," raising his voice. "Do -you want to hear a story about the days when I was just such another -cub as yourself?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> - -<p>This suggestion brought John and his sister both in from the swing. -When Uncle Jack began to "spin a yarn," as he often called it, all the -family were sure to want to be present at its unravelling.</p> - -<p>"You see," he began, "my sister Nelly wasn't my sister at all; but it -was all the same, as far as my feeling for her went. When I was only -three years old my mother's best friend died, and left Nelly, a little, -wailing, two-months-old baby, to my mother's care. Her father had been -killed before she was born, in a railroad accident, so there was no -one but my mother to see to her; and she brought the little thing home -and adopted her, thankfully enough, for though she had four good stout -boys, of whom I was the youngest, there was never a girl in the family -till Nelly came.</p> - -<p>"We all loved her, as she grew older. She was a pretty little blossom -as you would want to see, with her black eyes, and the crisp, black -hair falling about her rosy cheeks. She had a funny little rose-bud of -a mouth, too, and the daintiest little figure,—well-made all through, -and no mistake about it.</p> - -<p>"I think I loved her, if any thing, better than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> the rest did, -considering that she was nearer my age, and so we were more continually -together, but, bless you, there wasn't any chivalry in it. It didn't -keep me from painting her doll's face black, or hiding its shoes, or -from listening when she was talking with her girl cronies, and then -bursting out among them, and yelling their choicest secret to the four -winds.</p> - -<p>"I would have knocked any boy down, from the time I was big enough to -use my fists, who had said a saucy word to Nelly; but I said plenty of -them myself. I believe I liked to tease her for the sake of hearing her -beg me not to; just as I've seen you tease your sister a hundred times, -Master John.</p> - -<p>"You would think she would have hated me: but that's one curious thing -about girls and women; they don't always hate where you would naturally -expect them to; and Nelly cared a good deal more about me than I -deserved. She seemed to be proud of me, because I was a great, strong, -roystering fellow, and she never bore malice for any of the tricks I -served her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I have wondered many a time since how I could have had the heart to -torment her, for she never once tried to revenge herself on me, nor -can I recollect her ever being angry with me. When I got myself into -disgrace with parents or teachers, it was always her gentle voice -which pleaded for me, and hard enough folks found it to say no to her, -whether it was the dark eyes and bright cheeks, or a little winning, -coaxing way she had.</p> - -<p>"When I was fourteen and Nelly was eleven we went one day to a -huckleberry picnic. We had great fun all the afternoon, and stayed a -good deal later than we meant to, so that it was almost dark when we -started to go home. We had two miles to walk, and the first half of -the distance our way lay with the rest of the company. I had got well -stirred up by the general merriment, and wasn't half satisfied with the -frolic ending there.</p> - -<p>"Nelly, I remembered afterwards, was very quiet, and seemed tired. She -was a delicate little thing, any way, and got worn out with fatigue or -excitement a good deal sooner than most of her mates. Finally our road -turned off away from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> rest, and led through a long pine wood. As -we went on under the thick trees it grew darker and darker, and Nelly -cuddled up closer to my side.</p> - -<p>"You'd have thought that at fourteen I was old enough for chivalry, and -that sort of thing, if I was ever going to be; but not a bit of it,—I -was just a great, strong, rollicking boy, with some heart, to be sure, -but liking fun better than any thing, and headstrong and inconsiderate -to an extent which I am ashamed to remember. Full still of unexhausted -animal spirits, and, as I said, not half satisfied with the frolic I -had had, I began, in default of other amusement, to tease Nelly.</p> - -<p>"I told her a ghastly story or two, and then I would rush away from her -among the thick trees, as if in pursuit of something, and come back -again to her side, in a few minutes. I wanted her to scream after me, -but she didn't. She was so still that I actually thought she didn't -care; and after a while I grew vexed because I couldn't vex her, and -make her implore me to stay with her, and confess her dependence upon -me.</p> - -<p>"At last, when we were about a third of a mile<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> from home, a path led -through the woods, branching off from the main path on which we were, -to the farm where my greatest crony lived. I thought of something I -wanted to say to him. Here was a chance, to tease Nelly well,—let her -see whether she was just as comfortable without me as with me.</p> - -<p>"You look at me as if you didn't believe I could have been such a -brute; but I was, and what is more, I did not at all realize at the -time that I was doing any harm. That Nelly would have a little scare, -and hurry home somewhat faster than usual, was the most I apprehended; -so I said, with a sort of boyish swagger,—</p> - -<p>"'It just occurs to me that there is something I want to say to Hal -Somers, and we are so near home now that you won't be afraid, so I'll -just branch off there. Tell mother I had supper enough at the picnic, -and she needn't wait for me.'</p> - -<p>"It was too dark to look at Nelly, or perhaps her white face, sad and -frightened as I know it must have been, would have turned me from my -purpose. She did not speak one word, and I struck off at a tearing pace -through the woods.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p> - -<p>"By the time I had reached Hal Somers's place, I began to get sobered -down a little, and to feel somewhat uncomfortable about what I had -done. I had to wait a few minutes before I could see him, but I did my -errand briefly, and it was not more than an hour after I had left Nelly -before I myself was at home. I found mother in the porch, looking out -anxiously.</p> - -<p>"'I'm so glad you've come, children,' she cried, when she heard my -footsteps, and then, as I drew nearer, 'Why, Jack, where is Nelly?'"</p> - -<p>"'Here, I suppose,' I answered, trying to face the music boldly. 'I -left her about an hour ago in the woods, where the path branches off -to go to Hal Somers's, and she had nothing to do but to come straight -home.'</p> - -<p>"'You left Nelly in the woods, an hour ago!' my mother cried, in a tone -which made my heart stand still, and then turn over with a great leap. -And then she sprang by me like some wild creature, and called through -the darkness to my father to come with his lantern, quick, quick, for -Nelly had been alone in the dark woods for an hour.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Instantly, as it seemed to me, my father and my oldest brother were -following mother along the woodland path, and I stole after them, -feeling like a second Cain. It was but a very few minutes before we -came up to Nelly, for there she was, just where I left her. She had -sunk to the ground, and was half sitting there, her back leaning -against a tree beside the path. The light from the lantern flashed on -her face, a face white and set as death, but with the wide-open eyes -glaring fearfully into the dark beyond.</p> - -<p>"It was my mother who touched her first; and felt to see whether her -heart had stopped beating.</p> - -<p>"'Is she dead?' my father asked huskily.</p> - -<p>"'I don't know. It seems to me I can feel the very faintest throb, but -I cannot tell until we get her home. If she isn't dead, I am afraid she -is worse,—frightened out of her senses, for ever.'</p> - -<p>"Then father and William made preparations to carry her. I asked, -timidly, if I could help. I think none of them had noticed before that -I was there.</p> - -<p>"'You!' my father said, with such concentrated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> scorn and wrath in his -voice as I cannot describe; and then mother said, more mildly, but so -sadly it was worse than any anger,—</p> - -<p>"'No, I trusted her to you once. I supposed you loved her.'</p> - -<p>"So I saw them move off, carrying her between them, and I followed -after like an outcast, until it occurred to me that, at least, I could -call a physician. So I flew by them like the wind, and off on the road -to town. By some singular good fortune, if we ought not always to say -Providence and never fortune, before I had gone forty rods I met Dr. -Greene, who was coming in our direction to visit a patient. So I had -him with me on the door-stone when they brought Nelly in.</p> - -<p>"I did not dare to go into the room where they carried her; but I -waited outside in an agony which punished me already for my sin. At -last my mother had pity on me and looked out.</p> - -<p>"'She is not dead, Jack,' she said, 'but she is still insensible, and -until she is restored to consciousness there is no telling what the -result will be.'</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Then an awful terror came over me, which I cannot put into words. What -if she died, or what if she never had her reason again? Who in that -house would ever bear to look at me? When Cain had murdered his brother -he had to go forth alone,—what was left for me, another Cain, but to -go also alone into the world?</p> - -<p>"We lived nine miles away from a seaport town from which whaling -vessels were continually starting, and it came into my mind that I -might ship on board one for a three years' cruise; and, by the time it -was over, the folks at home might have learned to forgive me for being -in the world. So off through the night I hurried.</p> - -<p>"How strangely our ways seem made ready for us, often, in the great -moments, big with fate, of our lives! I found a whaler which was to -sail in the early morning, a captain disappointed in one of his green -hands, whose place I could have, and before I had been half an hour in -the town my bargain was made, I had been fitted out with necessaries, -and I went into a tavern to write a note to my mother.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> - -<p>"A strange, incoherent note it was; but it told her where I was gone -and why, and begged her, whatever came, to forgive her boy, who loved -her, and who might never see her again.</p> - -<p>"Never mind about the long, long days, and weeks, and months which -followed,—the empty hours of solemn nights and gusty days, during -which I was face to face with my own soul.</p> - -<p>"Of course before a week had gone by I was sorry enough for the rash -step I had taken. It seemed to me I could not live for three years -and not know what had become of Nelly. I would have gone barefoot to -the ends of the earth to find out about her, but I could not walk the -sea. I was growing so wild with grief and anxiety that I sometimes -think I should have walked overboard some night, and so ended all my -pain for this world, if Providence had not raised me up a friend in my -need—only a common sailor, and a man whose strange history I never -knew, but a gentleman and a scholar, in whose locker were Milton, and -Shakespeare, and Don Quixote.</p> - -<p>"I had studied pretty well at school; and was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> rather forward than -otherwise, for a boy of fourteen; and I have sometimes thought no -course of study in any school would have been so much to me as was the -entire absence of frivolous and worthless literature, and the constant -companionship of these great minds. Besides these, I read daily in my -pocket Testament; and I owed a great deal also to the instructions and -explanations of the friend who was, as it has always seemed to me, -God's especial gift to my needs.</p> - -<p>"Our voyage appeared destined, at first, to be a highly successful one; -but just as we were nearly ready to return, we encountered a storm -which strewed the sea with wrecks. We saw our vessel go down, but we -were fortunate enough to escape in our boats; my friend and I, and two -or three more, were with the second mate in his boat, and we were soon -separated from the others. We made land on a fruitful island, peopled -by savages who were not unfriendly; but it was many months before, at -last, we got away in an East Indiaman, and while we were on the island -my friend had died suddenly, leaving untold the story of his life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I will not enter into the particulars of my return home,—how from -port to port and ship to ship I made my way, until, at length, after -five years of absence, I sighted the well-known landmarks of the old -town from whence I embarked.</p> - -<p>"How familiar it all looked to me! I knew every field through which the -homeward road led, and I walked the nine miles between the town and my -father's farm in the night, as I had done before. It was three o'clock -of a September morning when I reached the old place, and I had nearly -two hours to wait before there were any signs of life about it. For -now, after all these years, I had not the courage to summon them from -their rest. How I passed those waiting hours, divided betwixt hope and -fear, you can guess. I lived over in them all the torturing anxieties -of the last five years. Was Nelly dead or alive? Should I ever see my -mother again? What had changed, while the old house among the trees had -stood so still?</p> - -<p>"At last I heard a sound. A door opened, and my mother, who of old -always used to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> the first to move, looked out. Her hair was white, -and her thin cheeks were pale; but I knew the kind eyes that looked -forth to meet the morning, and should have known them despite any -amount of change. I sprang forward to greet her.</p> - -<p>"'Mother,' I said. She knew my voice and turned toward me trembling.</p> - -<p>"'O Jack, Jack! I thought you were dead long ago. O my boy, my own boy!'</p> - -<p>"And her arms were round my neck, her tender lips were kissing me; and -so she drew me in, into peace, shelter, home.</p> - -<p>"'And Nelly?' I asked, half afraid to call the name.</p> - -<p>"'Nelly is well. Oh, if you had but waited to see. She was ill for -awhile, but no serious harm came to her; and, instead, it was my own -boy who went away to break my heart.'</p> - -<p>"'And has come back to heal it,' I cried, growing bold and merry with -my relief and joy.</p> - -<p>"By this time the rest heard us, and came to the scene,—father, -brothers, and last of all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> Nelly; such a beautiful Nelly of sweet -sixteen, ten times fairer and brighter than my brightest memories of -her, and all ready to forgive me, and make much of me.</p> - -<p>"<i>Then</i> was when the chivalry began. <i>Then</i> I was ready enough to fetch -and carry for Miss Nelly of the dark eyes and the bright cheeks."</p> - -<p>"Oh," said John, laughing, "then when a fellow is nineteen he can be -chivalrous to his own sister?"</p> - -<p>"Very likely he can," Uncle Jack answered, "but my experience doesn't -prove it; for I began to be glad, very soon indeed, that Nelly was -only my adopted sister, after all. It was a good while before I got my -courage up to ask her whether she would trust herself to me on the long -home stretch through life. Be sure that I promised her, if she would, -that I'd never leave her in any dark places."</p> - -<p>"And what did she say?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! I mustn't tell her secrets. Go and ask her. There she comes, with -her first grandchild in her arms. Her cheeks are not bright now, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> -says, but somehow they look to me just as they used to look; and I know -her eyes are as dark and deep as ever; and though I call her 'mother,' -with the rest of you, when you are all round, there is never a night -that I don't say to her, before she goes to sleep, 'God bless you, Nelly!'"</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> - -<h2>NOBODY'S CHILD.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>The summer sun was warm in the five-acre lot, and the east porch was -cool and pleasant, so the owner of the lot lingered in the porch and -talked awhile with his wife. He had married her only the April before, -and to live with her and love her had not yet grown to be an old -story. It would be her fault if it ever did grow to be one; for he was -a tender, kindly man, this Marcus Grant, with a gentle and clinging -nature, and a womanly need of loving.</p> - -<p>His wife, though she was young and pretty, with bright eyes, and bright -lips, and soft, waving hair, was harder than he, and colder, and more -selfish. But she had given him all the heart she had, and in these -early days she cared very much indeed about pleasing him, and keeping -him satisfied with her; or, rather, making<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> him continue to admire her, -for quiet satisfaction on his part would not have been enough.</p> - -<p>He had thrown himself down on the door-stone, and his head was leaning -against her lap, as she sat on her low chair in the porch, and ran her -fingers in and out of his thick chestnut hair, thinking to herself -what a fortunate woman she was to be the wife of this manly, handsome -fellow, whom so many girls wanted, and the mistress of his well-filled, -comfortable house.</p> - -<p>From this east porch where they sat they could see down the long line -of dusty road that led to the church and the few houses clustered round -it, which passed for a village. The farmhouse stood on the top of a -high hill; and up this hill they now saw a woman toiling slowly. The -summer sun burned fiercely down on her, the dust rose with every step -in a choking cloud about her, but still she struggled on.</p> - -<p>Little events are full of interest in country solitudes, and both Grant -and his wife watched the wanderer with curiosity.</p> - -<p>"Well, I never saw her before, that's certain,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> the husband said, -after a long look as she drew nearer.</p> - -<p>"Nor I," returned his wife. "But see, Mark, she has a baby in her arms. -She's trying to keep the sun off it with that shawl; and, sure as you -live, she is turning in here."</p> - -<p>"Why, so she is;" and Grant rose to his feet.</p> - -<p>"May I sit down in the shade and rest?" asked the stranger, drawing -nigh. She spoke in a clear, silvery voice, which betrayed some of -her secrets, since it was the voice of a lady, and also it was the -utterance of despair, for its hopeless monotone was unvarying.</p> - -<p>"Certainly," and Mrs. Grant rose and offered her own low chair, for -clearly this was no common tramp.</p> - -<p>"And might I trouble you for a glass of water?"</p> - -<p>"I'll go for some fresh," Grant said, full of hospitable intent.</p> - -<p>But before he got back with the water he heard his wife calling him, -and hurrying forward at the sound, he found her holding the stranger's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> -head, on her shoulder, and the baby, who was just opening sleepy eyes, -in her arms.</p> - -<p>"Quick, Mark, do something. I think she is dying. She must be -sun-struck."</p> - -<p>And so it proved. No one ever knew how far she had toiled in that -intense heat, with the baby in her arms,—no one ever knew any thing -more about her, for when the sun set, which had scorched and withered -her life, she, too, was gone to unknown shores. She spoke only once -after she asked for the glass of water, and that was just before she -died. The baby, in another room, uttered a cry, and she tried to turn -her head toward the sound.</p> - -<p>"It is your baby," Mrs. Grant said, kindly, "but she is all right. What -do you call her?"</p> - -<p>The strangest change came over the dying face: it may have been only -a foreshadowing of death, but it seemed more like a mortal agony of -renunciation and of despair.</p> - -<p>"Nothing," she said, as evenly and with as little change of inflection -as if she were already a ghost; "nothing: she is nobody's child."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> - -<p>But in half an hour after that she was dead, and Mrs. Grant, who was -very literal in her ideas, always thought that the stranger had not -known what she said; but, she used to add, the child <i>was</i> nobody's -child, for all they should ever know about it.</p> - -<p>After the mother was buried, she began to think it was time to dispose -of this child, which was nobody's. She was not without heart, and -she had worked diligently to fashion small garments enough to make -the little creature comfortable; but now, she thought, her duty was -done, and she wondered Mark said nothing about taking the baby to the -alms-house.</p> - -<p>At last, one evening, she herself proposed it. Her husband looked at -her in mild surprise. He supposed all women loved babies by instinct, -and he took it for granted that of course his wife wanted this one, -only she probably thought he wouldn't like it round.</p> - -<p>"Why, did you think I wouldn't let you keep it?" he asked quietly. -"I think God has sent it to us, and we've really no right to turn it -over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> to any one else, to say nothing of the pleasure it is to have the -little bundle."</p> - -<p>As I said, Mrs. Grant was still in a state of mind not to be satisfied -without her husband's admiration. She would not have fallen short of -his ideal of her for any thing; she would, at least, <i>seem</i> all that he -desired her to <i>be</i>. She was quick enough to understand that he <i>would</i> -think less of her if he saw her unwilling to keep the baby, so she -smiled on him with what cheerfulness she could summon, and treated the -matter as settled.</p> - -<p>Thus the child, which was nobody's, grew up in the Grant household. -She had been six months old, apparently, when she came there, and by -midwinter she began to totter round on her little feet, and to say -short words.</p> - -<p>But no one ever taught her to say papa or mamma, those lovely first -words of childhood. What had nobody's child to do with such names?</p> - -<p>It might have seemed strange to most people that Julia Grant did -not love this little thing, so thrown upon her mercy in its tender -babyhood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> But, despite theories, all women are not fond of children. -Every woman is, perhaps, fond, in a blind, instinctive way, of her own; -but the more heavenly love which takes all children in its arms and -blesses them is not by any means universal.</p> - -<p>The most powerful trait in Mrs. Grant's character was a silent, -unobtrusive selfishness. The whole world revolved, to her thought, -about <i>her</i>. Rains fell, dews dropped earthward, winds blew and suns -shone for Julia Grant. She had consented with secret reluctance to -keep the child, and from that moment a root of bitterness and jealousy -had sprung up in her heart. If her husband had thought much of <i>her</i> -comfort, she used to say to herself, he would not have wanted to put -all this care upon her.</p> - -<p>She was quite ready, therefore, to be jealous, and to feel as if -something was taken from her every time he tossed the little one in -his arms, or called it a pet name; and after a while—not at once, for -he was naturally the most unsuspicious of men—some instinct revealed -this to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> him, and made him, lover of peace as he was, very chary of -manifesting in his wife's presence any especial tenderness for the -little stranger within his gates.</p> - -<p>But summer and winter came and went, and with their sun and shade -nobody's child grew on toward girlhood. She had a great deal of beauty, -of a shadowy, delicate kind. She was seldom ill, but she was a very -frail-looking child. The quick, changeful color in her cheeks, the -depth of feeling in her dark eyes, the tremulous curves about her -mouth, all indicated an organization of extreme sensitiveness; a nature -to which love would be as the very breath of life, but which was too -shrinking and timid ever to put forth any claims for it, or make any -advances.</p> - -<p>For ten years she was the only little one in the Grant household. -Their affairs prospered, they grew richer every year, as if nobody's -child had brought a blessing with her; but it was a constant source of -bitterness to Mrs. Grant that they were laying up for strangers, or -perhaps for this waif, whom no one else claimed, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> who seemed likely -to remain in their house for ever, like some noiseless, unwelcome -shadow.</p> - -<p>But at last, when the child had been for ten years her unwelcome -housemate, to Mrs. Grant herself was given a little baby girl, God's -messenger of love, as I think every child must be, to every mother. -Never had baby a warmer welcome. The preparations made for her were -worthy of a little queen, and she opened her eyes on a world of love -and of summer.</p> - -<p>But perhaps no one, not even her mother, lavished upon her such a -passion of devotion as the poor little waif, nobody's child, who had -never in her life before had any one whom she dared to caress. Perhaps -her devotion to baby touched Mrs. Grant's heart; at any rate she -saw that she could trust the little one to her without fear, and so -nobody's child became a self-constituted but most faithful nurse and -body-guard to this other child, whom loving hearts were so proud and -glad to own.</p> - -<p>And little Rose—for so they named the summer baby—clung to her young -nurse with a fond<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> tenacity, very exacting and wearing, indeed, but -unutterably sweet to the shy girl whom no one else loved. She began to -feel that she was of some use,—even she had her own name and place in -the world; and this reminds me that I have not yet told you her name. -She had been christened Annette soon after she came under the Grant -roof, but little Rose called her "Nanty," and this odd title was the -very first word that small person ever spoke. She was a lovely baby, -one of the rosy, fat, dimpled, laughing kind, and so thoroughly healthy -that she seldom cried, except when "Nanty" disappeared for a moment -from her sight. The touch of her baby fingers seemed to make Marcus -Grant and his wife both young again. Day by day some line of care faded -out of their faces, which time had begun to harden. The mother smiled, -as she had never smiled before, on her baby; and here, at last, was an -object on which the father's great, loving heart could lavish itself, -unblamed, and unquestioned.</p> - -<p>Rose was a year and a half old, when one cold<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> winter night her father -and mother were persuaded to go to a house warming, a mile away. Mrs. -Grant was seldom willing to leave her baby, but this gay company was to -assemble at the new house of one of her best friends, and she took a -fancy to be present.</p> - -<p>"'Nanty' will be just as careful of Rose, to do her justice, as I -should," she said; "and I think it's only neighborly to go."</p> - -<p>Her husband, always sociable in his nature, assented readily enough; -and eight o'clock saw them well tucked in under the buffalo robes of -their sleigh, and started for the scene of festivities.</p> - -<p>"Nanty," for her part, was well content. Rose was already asleep, her -little cheek, pink as the heart of one of her namesake flowers, resting -on one dimpled hand, while the other was tossed above her head, as we -have all seen babies sleep. The maid-of-all-work went off early to her -bed in the next chamber, and the man, who had a family of his own not -far away, took his departure, and then "Nanty" raked up the fire, and -crept softly into bed beside little Rose.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was nearly midnight when she woke, roused from her slumber by -a light, a vivid, red light, brighter than day. In one moment she -realized her position. The house was on fire, and the flames were -already far advanced.</p> - -<p>She sprang to the door and opened it, but it was only to be met and -driven back by a sheet of fire. There was no hope of escape that way. -Rose was her only thought. If she could save the child, she did not -care for herself.</p> - -<p>She opened the chamber window. The leap seemed desperate to her timid -gaze, but the snow underneath the window might break the fall. Then -she thought of something better. She caught the blankets from the bed, -and rolled Rose in them hurriedly, then dragged off the feather-bed, -by an effort of uttermost strength, and forced it through the window; -and then, reaching out as far as she could, she dropped Rose, closely -wrapped in the blankets, upon the bed, and sprang herself from another -window, lest she might fall upon the child.</p> - -<p>For her there was no bed underneath, and no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> wrapping of soft woollens. -Heavily she fell to the ground, and a violent shock, followed by deadly -pain, told her that she had broken her arm. She thanked God, in that -breathless moment, that it was not her leg, for somehow she must move -Rose to a place of safety, out of reach, at least, of falling timbers. -How she did it she never could have told, but in thirty seconds Rose -and the bed were out of the yard and across the street, and then she -sank down beside her charge, utterly unconscious.</p> - -<p>Mr. and Mrs. Grant were driving home after the festival when they -caught the gleam of a wild, strange light in the direction of their own -home.</p> - -<p>"The house is on fire!" Mrs. Grant cried, with white lips.</p> - -<p>"Rose!" the father answered hoarsely, and whipped his horse into a run. -A quarter of a mile away from home they met the maid.</p> - -<p>"Master, mistress," she screamed after them, "the house is on fire, and -I'm going for help."</p> - -<p>They did not stop for questions. Had "Nanty" also forsaken little Rose?</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> - -<p>But they found "Nanty" at her post, though at first they thought she -was dead. The mother pulled away the blankets from the little bundle -beside her, and Baby Rose rubbed her chubby hands into her sleepy eyes.</p> - -<p>"Where is I?" she said, "and what for you make morning so soon?"</p> - -<p>"O Mark, Mark! she's all right," the mother cried, in a passion of joy. -"'Nanty' has saved her;" and then she bent over the little girl in her -thin night-gown, and took her by the arm.</p> - -<p>"Nanty, Nanty!"</p> - -<p>She had seized the broken arm, and the pain roused the fainting girl.</p> - -<p>"Yes'm," she said, starting up. "I'm so sorry to be good for nothing -just now, when you want me so much, but I broke my arm jumping out."</p> - -<p>Afterwards, when the family had found a new shelter, the whole story -came out. The maid, Judith, had read herself to sleep, and her candle -had tipped over and set the bed on fire. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> flames had aroused her to -a terror which utterly swept away whatever presence of mind she might -have had under other circumstances, and without one thought for Rose -or "Nanty" she had hurried off to call the neighbors to the scene of -action.</p> - -<p>One might have feared that the fright and exposure would prove fatal to -one so frail and delicate as "Nanty" had always been; but by the time -her arm was well healed she was stronger than ever before, drawing new -life, as it seemed, from the love and care lavished on her so freely; -for now even Mrs. Grant's heart had opened and taken her in.</p> - -<p>One day Marcus Grant said to his wife,—</p> - -<p>"But for 'Nanty' we should have had no child at all. It seems hard that -she, who saved our darling, should be nobody's child herself."</p> - -<p>"You think we ought to adopt her, and make her ours legally?" his wife -answered, smiling cheerfully. "I have been thinking the same thing -myself. We will do it when you please,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> for I believe God sent her to -us, to be our own, just as much as ever He sent Rose."</p> - -<p>So it came about, before another spring, that "Nanty" was no longer -nobody's child. Father, mother, and little sister all belonged to her, -and she had name and place in life, and a happy home where love smiled -for ever.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> - -<h2>MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>For a year the great house rising on the summit of Prospect Hill had -been an object of interest and observation, and a chief subject for -talk to the quiet country neighborhood surrounding it. Hillsdale was -an old town—a still, steady-going farming place—where the young men -ploughed the unwilling fields, and coaxed reluctant crops out of the -hard-hearted New England soil, as fathers and grandfathers had done -before them. But in all the generations since the town was settled, no -one had ever thought of building on Prospect Hill. It had been used as -pasture ground, until now, when a man from Boston had bought it, and -had had a road made to its top, and a house built on its very brow.</p> - -<p>This house was a wonder of architectural beauty.</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"With its battlements high in the hush of the air,</div> -<div class="i3">And the turrets thereon."</div> -</div></div></div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p> -<p>It was built of a kind of mixed stone; so that its variegated coloring -had an air of brightness and gayety very unusual. The farmers about -were exercised in mind over the amount of ox-flesh and patience -required to drag stone enough for the great building up the high hill; -but that did not trouble the architect, who gave his orders composedly, -and went on with his business, quite unheeding comment. The house, -itself, puzzled the neighbors, with its superb, arched dining-hall, -its lovely, frescoed drawing-room, its wide passages, its little -music-room, and its great library all lined with carven oak. Then, why -there should be so many chambers, unless, indeed, Mr. Shaftsbury had a -very large family.</p> - -<p>But it was when the furniture began to come in that wonder reached -its height. Such plenishings had never been seen before in Hillsdale. -The carpet on the drawing-room must have been woven in some loom -of unheard-of size; for it seemed to be all in one piece, with a -medallion in the centre, a border round the edge, and all over its soft -velvet—into which your feet sank<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> as into woodland moss—the daintiest -flowers that ever grew. Marble statues gleamed in front of the great -mirrors; and pictures of lovely landscapes, and radiant sunsets, and -handsome men, and fair women, hung upon the walls. In the music-room -were placed a grand piano, a harp and a guitar. The shelves which ran -round the library on all sides, half way from floor to ceiling, were -filled with substantially bound books; and above them were busts of -great men by whom immortal words had been written. It was a dream of -beauty all through,—and when it was finished, and a troop of servants, -men and women, came to make all things ready, expectation reached its -height.</p> - -<p>A presidential progress could hardly have excited more interest than -did the arrival of a quiet, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in gray, -with iron-gray hair and beard, at the little railroad station, where -a carriage had been sent down from Prospect Hill to meet him. This, -of course, was Mr. Shaftsbury. He was accompanied, in spite of the -many chambers, by a family of only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> two,—a lady much younger than -himself, dressed with elegant simplicity, with a face full of all -womanly sweetness, and a boy, about twelve or thirteen, apparently,—a -high-bred little fellow in his appearance, but somewhat pale and -delicate, and in need of the bracing air of Prospect Hill.</p> - -<p>They drove home in the sunset,—this little family of three,—and -looked for the first time on their new abode. Mr. Shaftsbury had -selected the location, and bought the land, somewhat more than a -year before; and then had put the whole matter into the hands of a -competent architect, while he took his family to Europe, so that the -new residence had as entirely the charm of novelty for him as for the -others.</p> - -<p>For a month after that he was to be seen busily superintending matters -about his place in the forenoon, while his wife and boy sauntered -along, never far away from him, or driving with them in the pleasant -May afternoons,—always these three only, and always together.</p> - -<p>The first of June, the summer term of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>district school began. It -was an intense surprise to the scholars to find, first of all in his -place, young Shaftsbury, from the hill. "Robert Shaftsbury, thirteen -years old," he replied to the teacher, who asked his name and age. He -studied quietly till recess, and even then lingered in his seat, with -evident shyness, though he watched the others with a look of interest -on his face. They stood apart, and talked of him among themselves, -instead of rushing out at once to play, as was their wont.</p> - -<p>At last, after a good deal of wonderment and talk, one boy, bolder or -more reckless than the rest, marched up to him.</p> - -<p>"I say, Velvet Jacket, how came you here?" was his salutation. "Seems -to me you're too much of a gentleman for our folks."</p> - -<p>A slight flush warmed young Shaftsbury's pale cheeks; but he answered, -with frankness as absolute as his courtesy was perfect:—</p> - -<p>"I have been taught at home, up to now, but my father wants me to be -with other boys of my own age; and he says a true gentleman belongs -everywhere."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p> - -<p>The boys all heard what he said; and, in spite of their boyish -rudeness, it inspired them with a certain respect. That was the -beginning of the title which they gave him, among themselves, of -"little gentleman,"—<i>only</i> among themselves, at first; though -afterwards, when they grew more familiar with him, they used to address -him by it, more often than by his name.</p> - -<p>If there had been a philosophical observer to take note of it, it would -have been curious to watch how unconsciously the boys were influenced -by my little gentleman,—how their manners grew more gentle,—how -they avoided coarse or unclean or profane words in his presence, as -if he had been a woman. He led his classes, easily, in their studies. -The teacher had never to reprove him for carelessness in his duties, -or for broken rules. His father had said, "A true gentleman belongs -everywhere;" and he was quietly proving it.</p> - -<p>The scholars liked him,—they could not help it, for his manner was -as courteous as his nature was unselfish and kindly; and yet in -their <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>feeling for him there was a little strain of envy,—a slight -disposition to blame him for the luxury and elegance to which he was -born; and, because of his very courtesy, to underrate his courage and -the real manliness of his character.</p> - -<p>But there was one in whose eyes he was, from first to last, a hero. -Jamie Strong was yet more delicate than young Shaftsbury. He had -something the matter with one of his ankles, and could not join in the -rough sports of the others. He was the only son of his mother, and she -was a widow. Her husband and her other three children had all died of -typhoid fever, and been, one after another, carried out of the little, -lonesome cottage at the foot of the hill, where the sun seldom came, -and now Jamie was the last.</p> - -<p>He would never be strong enough to do hard work. Sowing, ploughing, -mowing, harvesting,—he could never manage any of these; so for -his weak limbs his quick brain must make up; and Widow Strong had -determined that he should be a scholar,—a minister, if it pleased the -Lord to call him to that; if not a teacher.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> - -<p>So she quietly struggled on to keep him at school, and to earn money to -provide for future years of academy and college. She sewed, she washed, -she picked berries,—she did any thing by which she could add a dollar -to her hoard.</p> - -<p>Jamie understood and shared her ambition, and studied with might and -main. He was used to harshness and rudeness from stronger boys, and he -had grown shy and shrunk into himself. To him the coming of my little -gentleman was as grace from heaven. Here was one who never mocked at -his feebleness, or his poverty,—who was always kind, always friendly, -and who did many a little thing to make him happy. Young Shaftsbury on -his part was quick to perceive the tender and loyal admiration of the -other; and there grew between them the tie of an interest which had -never been put into words.</p> - -<p>It had been a damp and strange summer, intensely warm, even in that -hilly region. It had rained continually, but the rains, which kept -the fields green and made vegetation so unusually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> lush and ripe, had -seemed scarcely to cool at all the fervid heat of the air. Wiseacres -predicted much sickness. Indeed, several cases of slow fever were in -the town already.</p> - -<p>One day my little gentleman looked about in vain for his friend Jamie, -and finally asked for him anxiously, and found that the boy was ill of -typhoid fever. At recess he heard the boys talking of it.</p> - -<p>"He'll never get well," one said. "His father died just that way, and -his three brothers. You see it's damp, down in that hollow, and the sun -hardly ever touches the house. I heard Dr. Simonds say it was ten to -one against anybody who was sick there."</p> - -<p>When school was over Robert Shaftsbury hurried home. He found his -mother sitting, dressed all in white, in the music-room, playing a -symphony on the piano, while his father sat a little distance off, -listening with half-closed eyes. He waited until the piece was over, -and then he told his story and preferred his request.</p> - -<p>The doctor had said it was ten to one against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> any one who was sick -in that little damp house in the hollow; and he wanted Jamie brought -up the hill to their own home. He watched the faces of his father and -mother as he spoke; and it seemed to him that a refusal was hovering -upon their lips, and he said, earnestly,—</p> - -<p>"Don't speak, just yet. Remember that he is his mother's only son, as -I am yours. If I lay sick where there was no hope for me, and some one -else might, perhaps, save me by taking me in, would you think they -ought to try it, or to let me die?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Shaftsbury looked into his wife's eyes.</p> - -<p>"Robert is right," she said, with the sudden, sweet smile which always -seemed to make the day brighter when it came to her lips. "If the poor -boy can be helped by being brought here, we must bring him."</p> - -<p>"I will go and see," Mr. Shaftsbury answered, at once.</p> - -<p>"And I, too, papa," said my little gentleman.</p> - -<p>"Not you, I think. I fear contagion for you."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I think there is no danger for me, living on this bright hill-top, in -these great, airy rooms,—but even if there were, I am sure you would -let me go if you knew how much Jamie loves me."</p> - -<p>"Come, then," his father said, quietly. He had been, all his son's -life, preaching to him of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion. He -dared not interfere with almost his first opportunity for any real -exercise of them. So the two went down the hill together.</p> - -<p>It chanced that they met Dr. Simonds coming away from the house, and -proposed to him the question of the removal. It would not do, the -doctor declared at once,—the disease had made too much progress. To -remove him now would be more dangerous than to leave him where he was.</p> - -<p>"Then I must go and see him," Robert said, resolutely. "You know he has -only his mother, and I must spend all the time I can spare from school -with him."</p> - -<p>"But I will send an excellent nurse, my son.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> Do you not see that I -cannot have you expose yourself?"</p> - -<p>"Send the nurse, too, please, papa; but do not keep me from going. He -will not care for the nurse, and he does care very much for me. I do -not believe in the danger, and I know how glad he will be to see me."</p> - -<p>Mr. Shaftsbury hesitated. This boy was as the apple of his eye. Must -he indeed begin so soon to look danger in the face, for the sake of -others? But dared he withhold him, when the boy felt that honor and -duty called? It ended by his walking in with him quietly.</p> - -<p>It was something to see how Jamie's face brightened. He had been very -dull and stupid all day, his mother said, and some of the time his mind -had been wandering. But now a glad, eager light came into his eyes, and -a smile curved his parched lips. He put out his hot hands.</p> - -<p>"Oh! is it you, my little gentleman?" he said: "I had rather see you -than any thing else in the world."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, then, I will come every day as soon as I am through school," -Robert Shaftsbury answered.</p> - -<p>"Do you know what you have done?" his father asked, when, at last, they -stood outside the house together.</p> - -<p>"Yes, papa. I have promised that poor, sick, helpless little fellow -all the comfort I can give him. I have promised to do by him as I -should want him to do by me if I were Jamie Strong, and he was Robert -Shaftsbury."</p> - -<p>Mr. Shaftsbury was silenced. This, indeed, was the rule of living he -had taught. Should he venture to interfere with its observance?</p> - -<p>So my little gentleman had his way. He took every precaution which his -mother's anxiety suggested, such as going home to lunch before he went -to the little cottage where the sick boy lay and longed for him. But -he went regularly. And no matter how wild Jamie might be, his presence -would bring calmness. The dim eyes would kindle; the poor, parched lips -would smile; and Mrs. Strong said the visit did Jamie more good than -his medicines.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> - -<p>At school the boys looked upon my little gentleman with a sort -of wondering reverence. They all knew of his daily visits to the -fever-haunted place, which they themselves shunned, and they marvelled -at his courage. This was the boy they had fancied to be lacking in -manliness, because he was slight and fair,—because he was carefully -dressed and tenderly nurtured! They said nothing; but in a hundred -subtile ways they showed their changed estimate.</p> - -<p>The days went on, and with them Jamie Strong's life went toward its -end. The doom of his house had come upon him; and love and prayers -and watching were all, it seemed, of none avail. One night the fever -reached its crisis, and the doctor, who watched him through it, knew -that the end was near. Jamie knew it, also. When the morning dawned he -whispered faintly to his mother,—</p> - -<p>"I shall never see another morning; but oh, if I can only live till -night, and see my little gentleman!"</p> - -<p>She proposed to send for him; but that was not what the boy wished.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No," he said, feebly, "I want to see him coming in, at the old time, -with some flowers in his hand, 'and make a sunshine in a shady place.' -Somebody said that, mother, I forget who; I forget every thing now; but -that's what <i>he</i> does; he makes a sunshine in this shady place."</p> - -<p>A dozen times that day it seemed as if the breath coming so faintly -must be his last; but he clung to life with a strange, silent tenacity. -At last, just a few moments before it was time for the accustomed -visit, he said,—</p> - -<p>"Kiss me good-by, mother. I want to save the rest of my strength for -him."</p> - -<p>She kissed him, with her bitter tears falling fast. He put up a hand so -thin that you could almost see through it, and brushed the tears away.</p> - -<p>"Don't cry," he said; "it hurts me. Life here was hard, and up above -Christ says it will be all made easy."</p> - -<p>Then he was silent, and presently Robert came with a great bunch of -white lilies in his hand.</p> - -<p>"The lilies of heaven," murmured Jamie, in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> low, strange tone. Then -into his eyes broke once more the light which never failed to respond -to Robert's coming, and a wan smile fluttered over his lips, as a soul -might flutter before it flies away.</p> - -<p>"I am going now," he said. "I waited to say good-by, my little -gentleman. Do you think they are all gentlemen up there?"</p> - -<p>With this question his life went out, and voices we could not hear made -answer.</p> - -<p>This was the beginning of Robert Shaftsbury's career. No harm came -to him through his presence in the fever-tainted house,—but he had -learned a lesson there. The one thing for which he has striven in life -is to be a gentleman; and his interpretation of that much-abused phrase -he finds in the Book which tells us to do unto others as we would that -they should do unto us.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/i191.jpg" alt="RUTHY'S COUNTRY" /></div> - -<p class="bold">RUTHY'S COUNTRY.—<span class="smcap">Page 191.</span></p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<h2>RUTHY'S COUNTRY.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>It was such a strange, sad, old face to be on such a young, slight -form, that you could not help looking at it again and again. Otherwise -there was nothing remarkable about her. She was just a girl sweeping a -crossing, in a bustling, dirty street, on a muddy, sloppy March day.</p> - -<p>She was thinly clothed, but not more so than others of her class; -and there was nothing in particular to make me notice her except -this queer, expressive, melancholy, unyouthful countenance. She wore -a worsted hood which left the whole face visible. You could see the -forehead, broad and low, and lined with puzzled thinking; the dusky, -tumbled hair; the wishful, pathetic mouth with its drooping corners; -and the great, strange, olive-colored eyes, which looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> as if they -had asked for something they could never find for such a weary while -that now they would never ask again,—eyes dark with despair, and yet -with a suggestion of something else in them which set you questioning.</p> - -<p>Patiently she swept on. Sometimes she had to spring aside from the -rapid passage of cart or carriage, sometimes she made clean the way -of some dainty foot passenger, who rewarded her with a penny; but all -the time the hopeless, unchildlike visage never betrayed the slightest -gleam of interest. I was dabbling in art a little, just then; and -I stood in the window of a picture store and watched her, thinking -that her strange, impassive face ought to fit, somewhere, in the -illustrations I was making for a book of ballads, but not knowing quite -how to use it.</p> - -<p>All at once, as I watched, I saw a singular change pass over her. She -held her broom motionless, her lips parted, a light as if at midnight -the sun should rise, lighted the darkness of her eyes, her whole -expression kindled with something,—interest, surprise, expectation,—I -hardly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> knew what, but something that transformed it as by a spell. I -stepped to the door then, and followed her eyes up the street.</p> - -<p>It takes ten times as long to tell this as it was in happening. It -all came in an instant,—the change in her face, my going out to look -for its cause, and the sight which, following her eyes, I saw,—a -carriage coming swiftly down street, an elegant open barouche, in -which sat a lady dressed in furs and velvet, and a wonderfully -beautiful, golden-haired child. It was at the child that my little -crossing-sweeper was looking, with a gaze which seemed to me to say,—</p> - -<p>"So this, then, is childhood? <i>This</i> is what we ought to be when we are -young; and how beautiful it is!"</p> - -<p>She looked so intently that she forgot she was standing in the way, -until the coachman shouted out to her, while he tried with all his -strength to pull up his horses. She had looked one moment too long. -Somehow the pole knocked her down, and the horses stepped over or on -her, which I could not see; but in another moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> they were drawn up a -rod farther on, the lady was getting out of her carriage, and I myself -was in the heart of the crowd which gathered at once, as usual. "Her -arm is broken," one cried. "She has fainted," said another.</p> - -<p>"Where is her home; can any one tell?" asked the lady in the furs and -the velvet, standing now beside her.</p> - -<p>A ragged little newsboy stepped from the ranks and pulled at some -ghost of a cap. "Please, ma'am, I know," he said. "It's down here in -Moonstone Court, with old Sally."</p> - -<p>"Hey for Sally, in our alley," sang another little limb of evil, vexed -that he had not been the one who knew the local habitation aforesaid.</p> - -<p>Newsboy No. 1 was elevated to the coachman's box, and was desired to -show the way. The lady got into the carriage herself, and received -the injured and swooning girl, whom there were strong arms enough to -lift,—the golden-haired child looked on with the compassion of an -angel in her angelic face,—newsboy No. 2 hung on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> behind dexterously, -making sure that his offence would pass unnoticed in the general -<i>mêlée</i>, and the carriage rolled away toward Moonstone Court. Presently -the golden-haired child spoke.</p> - -<p>"What if they haven't any good place for her there, mamma?"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Brierly, for that was the lady's name, bent forward and addressed -newsboy No. 1, on the box.</p> - -<p>"Is the old Sally you spoke of the girl's mother?"</p> - -<p>"No, ma'am. She ain't no relation to her. I've heard folks say, Ruthy's -father and mother died, and old Sally took her in to beg for her; to be -a sufferin' orphin, you know; and lately Ruthy won't beg any more, and -they say the old un do beat her awful."</p> - -<p>"O mamma!" It was all the pitiful, childish lips said; but the blue -eyes full of tears finished the prayer.</p> - -<p>"Don't be afraid, Gracie," the lady answered, smiling; "she shall not -go there." Then she turned to newsboy No. 1. "Here is some money<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> for -you. You can tell old Sally that the girl got hurt, and has been taken -to the hospital. You had better go and let her know at once."</p> - -<p>So newsboy No. 1 got down from his unwonted elevation, pulled again -at the phantom of a cap, and, looking curiously at the fresh, crisp -currency in his hand, walked away. Newsboy No. 2, correctly divining -that nothing was to be gained by remaining, while, by following his -comrade he might perhaps come in for a treat, let go his hold on the -carriage, and went after the other.</p> - -<p>"Now, James," Mrs. Brierly said to the coachman, "you may drive to the -Children's Hospital, on Rutland Street."</p> - -<p>"We shall go right by home, shan't we, mamma?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, dear."</p> - -<p>"I suppose we couldn't be a hospital, could we?"</p> - -<p>"Not very conveniently, I think. It is better to help keep up a -hospital outside than to turn our own house into one."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes'm," Gracie said, thoughtfully, "only this once, when we did the -hurting, I didn't know but it would be nice if we did the curing."</p> - -<p>Just then, before Mrs. Brierly answered, the swooning girl revived, -and opened for an instant her curious, olive-colored eyes. There was -something in their look, perhaps, which went farther than Gracie's -argument. At any rate, the lady said,—</p> - -<p>"After all, James, you may as well leave us at home, and go at once for -Dr. Cheever."</p> - -<p>In five minutes more the carriage had stopped before a substantial, -prosperous-looking house, the coachman had carried the poor, suffering -little waif upstairs in his arms, and Mrs. Brierly had summoned Mrs. -Morris, the good, motherly woman who had been Gracie's nurse, to her -councils.</p> - -<p>When Dr. Cheever came, he found his patient in clean, pure clothes, in -a fresh, lovely room, waiting for him with a piteous, silent patience -which it was pathetic to see. She suffered cruelly from her hurt, a -compound fracture of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> the wrist, but she was not used to making moans -or receiving sympathy; and it would have seemed to her a sort of -sacrilege to cry out with human pain in this paradise to which she had -been brought. One could only guess at her suffering by her compressed -lips, with the white pallor round them, and the dark rings about her -eyes.</p> - -<p>Dr. Cheever listened to the account of the accident, while he dressed -the poor hurt wrist with a gentleness which soothed the pain his touch -caused. When he had done all he could, he followed Mrs. Brierly from -the room.</p> - -<p>"This will be an affair of several weeks," he said. "Would it not have -been better to take the girl to one of the hospitals?"</p> - -<p>"I thought so, at first; but, as Gracie said, we did the hurting, and -it seemed right we should do the healing. Besides, the child's face -interested me strangely, and I think it will not be a bad thing for us -to have a little experience of this sort."</p> - -<p>Meantime Ruthy lay and looked about her, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> we have all fancied -ourselves looking when, the death sleep over, we shall open our eyes -to a new morning in some one of the Father's "many mansions." To a -denizen of Moonstone Court this peaceful spot in which Ruthy found -herself might well seem no unworthy heaven. The walls were tinted a -soft, delicate gray, with blue borderings. On the drab carpet blue -forget-me-nots blossomed. Blue ribbons tied back the white muslin -curtains, and all the little china articles for use or ornament were -blue and gilt.</p> - -<p>Only one picture was in the room, and that hung over the mantel, -directly opposite the pure white bed where Ruthy lay. It was a -landscape by Gifford,—one of those glorified pictures of his which -paint nature as only a poet sees her. Soft meadows sloped away into -dreamy distance on one side, and, on the other, into the green -enchantment of a wood a winding path beguiled you. In the centre, with -her raised foot upon a stile by which she was about to cross into the -peaceful meadows, a young girl stood with <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>morning in her eyes. Just -as she raised her foot she had paused and turned her head to look over -her shoulder, as if she heard a voice calling her, and was hesitating -whether to go on her appointed way or back into the green wood's -enchantment. There was a wonderful suggestion for a story in the girl's -face, her attitude, her questioning eyes. But if Ruthy felt this at -all, it was very vaguely and unconsciously; yet the picture revealed to -her a new world. Somewhere, then, meadows bloomed like these meadows, -and woods were green, and light flickered through tender leaves, and -over all the great, glorious blue sky arched and smiled. Somewhere! -That must be country,—outside of the pavements and the tall, frowning -houses. Oh, if she <i>could</i> go! Oh, but she <i>would</i> go! Let her wrist -but get well, and then! She had never had these dreams before. The -vision of the country, the true country, had never dawned on her till -now. And yet she must have seen pictures of it in the windows of print -shops; but her eyes had not been anointed, or Gifford had not painted -the pictures.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> - -<p>All through the quiet weeks in which her sore hurt was healing, she -watched that painted landscape, and her longing to find it grew and -grew. But she never said a word about it. Indeed, she seldom spoke at -all except to answer some question.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Brierly became strangely interested in her in spite of this -silence, which piqued and disappointed Gracie. The child could not -understand what the mother guessed at,—the sense of isolation which -tormented Ruthy. She was among them, but not of them, the girl felt. -She had been injured by an accident for which these people in some -wise held themselves responsible, and so they were good to her, and -gave her this glimpse of heaven. But they were of the chosen people, -and she a Gentile, an outcast at their gates. If she could but go away -from every thing she had ever known, and follow that winding path into -the still wood, she should be happy. Who knew what she might not find -there,—love, may be, and friends, and home,—perhaps, even, the father -and mother who, as old Sally said, were dead? Who knew?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p> - -<p>One day Mrs. Brierly came in to sit with her. Ruthy could sit up now, -and she was in a low rocking-chair, still facing the picture. The lady -saw the direction of her eyes, and said, gently,—</p> - -<p>"I think you must like pictures very much, Ruthy?"</p> - -<p>The olive-colored eyes gleamed, and a flickering flush came and went in -the thin cheeks, but the girl answered shyly and guardedly, as her wont -was.</p> - -<p>"I don't know, ma'am; I have never seen any. I like this one. It is the -country; isn't it?"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Brierly smiled.</p> - -<p>"Yes; it is the country as Gifford, the man who made the picture, saw -it. Country means ploughed fields and potatoes to some people, and -paradise to others. I think <i>you</i> could find Gifford's country, Ruthy."</p> - -<p>The girl's heart gave a great, sudden bound. That was just what she -meant to do; but she was silent. Soon Mrs. Brierly asked,—</p> - -<p>"Do you remember your father and mother, Ruthy? I think they must have -been very different people from old Sally."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, ma'am, I remember my mother. Father died so long ago I have -forgotten all about him, and mother and I grew poorer and poorer, until -one day I woke up, as it seemed, from a long dream, with my hair all -gone, and very weak; and the neighbors said mother and I had both had -a fever, and she was dead. Then Sally took me and sent me out to beg, -until I wouldn't beg any more; and since then I've sold matches and -swept crossings, and done any thing else I could. My wrist is getting -so I can use it now, and I must go to work again. I am very thankful -to you, ma'am. I would have my wrist broke twenty times to come once -into this house and lie in this white bed, and see that picture. But -to-morrow I shall be well enough to put on my own clothes again and go -to work, and I will, please, ma'am."</p> - -<p>"These are your own clothes that you have on, Ruthy, your very own. And -here are more changes for you in this drawer, and here in the closet -are your shawl and hat. You must not go away yet, till you are much -stronger; but when you do go, all these things are your own."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> - -<p>"My very own!" It was a sort of glad cry which came from the girl's -quivering lips. Her eyes filled, and the flickering color came into her -cheeks. Mrs. Brierly got up and went away. She had never heard Ruthy -speak so many words before, and she began to feel that she should get -to the girl's heart in time, but she would not let her excite herself -any more, now. And Ruthy sat and looked at the picture, and thought.</p> - -<p>The next morning rose bright and clear,—a summer morning, which had -slipped away from its kindred and stolen on in advance to brighten the -last week in April. Nurse Morris went first into Ruthy's room, and -found the little white bed empty, and the room empty also. She called -the maid who had been sweeping down the steps and washing the sidewalk, -and asked if she had seen any one go out. No one, the girl said, but -she had left the door unfastened while she just chatted a bit with -Katy, next door, and some one might have gone, and she not know it.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Morris went next to Mrs. Brierly with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> tale, and Mrs. Briefly -came in dressing-gown and slippers to look at the empty room. The -hat and shawl she had put in the closet for Ruthy were gone, but the -changes of clothes in the drawer were untouched; and upon them lay a -piece of paper on which the girl had printed laboriously, in great -capital letters,—</p> - -<blockquote><p>"I AM GOING TO FIND THE COUNTRY. I DID NOT TELL, FOR FEAR I WOULD -NOT BE LET TO GO. GOD BLESS YOU, MA'AM, I'M VERY THANKFUL."</p></blockquote> - -<p>It seemed useless to try to follow her on her unknown road. No one -could guess in what direction she had gone. Tender-hearted little -Gracie cried over her departure; Mrs. Brierly felt very anxious and -uneasy, but they could only wait. And it was three days before any -news came. It was brought, at last, by an odd messenger. A market-man -stopped with his wagon before the house, and, ringing the bell, asked -to see the mistress, and was shown upstairs.</p> - -<p>"Did a young girl, sort of delicate lookin', leave you lately, ma'am?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, on Tuesday morning. Can you tell me any thing of her?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, I get up nigh about in the middle of the night to get -things ready for market, and Wednesday morning I found a girl lying in -a dead faint on my barn floor. I called my wife, and we brought her -to, and wife asked her where she came from. 'Mrs. Brierly's, No. 775 -Tremont Street,' she answered, straight enough; and then she went off -again, and the next time we brought her to there was no more sense to -be got out of her. She just kept saying over something about finding -the country, and 'it ain't there.'</p> - -<p>"I had to come off to market, but we carried her into the house, and -in the middle of the forenoon wife see the doctor goin' by, and she -jest called to him. He said it was brain fever; and she don't get any -better; and wife said I'd better stop at 775, and if there was a Mrs. -Brierly here, why, I could let her know. We live at Highville, about -fifteen miles from Boston; and if you ask for Job Smith's you'll find -my house."</p> - -<p>So poor little Ruthy had walked all those <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>lonesome miles to find the -country that Gifford saw, and had found, instead, pain and weariness, -and who knew what more?</p> - -<p>That day Mrs. Brierly drove out there, and took Nurse Morris with her; -Ruthy recognized neither of them, and at length Mrs. Brierly drove -sadly away, leaving Nurse Morris behind to care for the sick child, as -busy Mrs. Job Smith, with all her kindliness, was unable to do.</p> - -<p>And after a while the fever wore itself out, and Ruthy, a white wraith -of a girl, was carried back into the chamber of peace, where the -country Gifford saw was hanging on the wall. But the days went by, and -the spring came slowly up that way, and the young summer followed, -and Ruthy was still a pale, white wraith, and grew no rosier and no -stronger.</p> - -<p>"Do get well, Ruthy," loving little Gracie used to say, "and we'll take -you to find the country." But Ruthy would shake her head with a slow, -mournful motion, and answer,—</p> - -<p>"No use, Miss Gracie, it is in the picture, but it ain't anywhere -else."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p> - -<p>And by and by they began to know that Ruthy would never go where -pleasant paths led through the wood's green enchantment, or peaceful -meadows smiled in the summer sunshine. Sorrow and privation and -weariness had done their work too well, and the little heart, that -beat so much too fast now, would stop beating soon. But Ruthy was very -happy. The unrest that had possessed her before she went to find the -country was all over. She had tried her experiment, and found out, as -she thought, that the true country was not to be reached by earthly -winding ways, and she was content to watch it as Gifford painted it, -and dream her silent dreams, which no one knew, as she watched.</p> - -<p>One night when Gracie bade her good-night and danced away, she looked -after her with the old, wistful wonder in her eyes, and then looked up -at Mrs. Brierly.</p> - -<p>"How beautiful God can make children, ma'am. I think they'll <i>all</i> be -so, in the true country." Then reaching forward she took Mrs. Brierly's -hand and touched it for the first time with her humble, grateful lips.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, ma'am," she said, "you are so dear and good."</p> - -<p>The next morning, when they found her lying still, she was whiter -than ever. She would never speak again to tell her disappointment or -her joy, but a wonderful smile, a smile of triumph, was frozen on her -young, wistful mouth, and Mrs. Brierly, looking at her, stooped to kiss -Gracie's tears away, and said,—</p> - -<p>"Do not cry, my darling,—I think, at last, Ruthy has found the true -country."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> - -<h2>JOB GOLDING'S CHRISTMAS.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>It was very strange, thought old Job Golding, that he couldn't -be master of his own mind. He had lived a great many years, and -neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing -him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his -life were breaking up. He was through with his day's work,—he had -dined comfortably,—he sat in an easy-chair, in a luxurious room -whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the December -afternoon,—for the 24th of December it was. He was all ready to enjoy -himself. How singular that this state of things should remind him of a -coming time when his life work would be all done,—even as his day's -work was all done now,—when he would be ready to sit down in the -afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. How curiously -the old days came trooping in slow procession before him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> - -<p>His dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but -how vivid was his memory of her now! He could see her moving round the -house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once -or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, -with her face growing whiter every day. He began to understand, as he -looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when -her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into God's -haven. She had had enough to eat and to drink, but he saw now that he -had left her heart to starve. He seemed to see her white, still face, -as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin -lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never -again plead vainly, closed for ever.</p> - -<p>He recalled how passionately the three-days-old baby cried in another -room, just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the -funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. -She <i>was</i> a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he -remembered. She wanted—missed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>without knowing what the lack was—the -love which her mother would have given her, and protested against fate -with all the might of her lungs. But, as soon as she grew old enough to -understand how useless it was, <i>she</i> had grown quiet, too; just like -her mother. He recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still -girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. -Did she have tastes, he wondered—wants, longings? She never told him.</p> - -<p>But suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that -had made her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he -thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his -wishes. He remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking,—</p> - -<p>"Father, do you know any thing against Harry Church?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," he had answered wrathfully; "I know that he is as poor as Job -was when he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife."</p> - -<p>"Any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, that's enough," he had thundered; "and I'll tell you, besides, -that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. My doors -will never open to you again, never."</p> - -<p>He met with a will as strong as his own that time. She <i>did</i> marry -Harry Church, and went away with him from her father's house. She had -written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters -all back unopened. He wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in -them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. He wondered why he -had opposed the marriage so much. Harry Church had been a clerk in his -store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only—poor. In that word lay -the head and front of his offending. He, Job Golding, was rich,—had -been rich all his lifetime,—but what special thing had riches done for -him? He was an old man now, and all alone. "All alone;" he kept saying -that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity.</p> - -<p>And all this time a message was on its way to him.</p> - -<p>He heard a ring at the door, but he went on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> with his thoughts, and did -not trouble himself about it. Meantime, two persons had been admitted -into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. -Her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child -stood there,—a dainty, delicate creature,—her golden curls drooping -softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet -lips. The housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as -she saw that little face.</p> - -<p>"Miss Amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "It is as much as -my place is worth to let her come in here."</p> - -<p>"You are Mrs. Osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at -her.</p> - -<p>"Hear the blessed lamb! Who in this world told you there <i>was</i> a Mrs. -Osgood?"</p> - -<p>"Mamma. You loved mamma, didn't you? She said you were always so kind -to her."</p> - -<p>"Loved your ma? Well, I <i>did</i> love her. The old house has never been -the same since she went out of it."</p> - -<p>"Then you'll let me go up alone and see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> grandpa? That is what mamma -said I was to do."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Osgood hesitated a moment, then love and memory triumphed over -fear, and she said,—</p> - -<p>"Yes, you shall. Heaven forbid I should hinder you! Go right upstairs -and open the first door."</p> - -<p>The man who had come with her sat down in the hall to wait, and the -little figure, with its gleaming, golden hair, tripped on alone.</p> - -<p>She opened the door softly, and went in. She did not speak; perhaps -the stern-looking old man sitting there awed her to silence. She -just stepped up to him and handed him a letter. He took it, scarcely -noticing, so busy was he with his thoughts, at the hand of what strange -messenger. He looked at the outside. It was his daughter's writing. -Ten years ago he had sent her last letter back unopened; but this -one,—what influence apart from himself moved him to read it? It was -not long, but it commenced with "Dear father." He had never been a dear -father to her, he thought.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> - -<p>She had waited all these silent years, she told him, because she was -determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for -him to know that she did not write from any need of his help. They had -passed these ten years in the West, and Heaven had prospered them. Her -husband was a rich man, now; and she wanted from her father only his -love,—wanted only that death should not come between them, and either -of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the -other.</p> - -<p>"Let <i>her</i> lips speak to you from the grave," she wrote; "her lips, -which you must have loved once, and which never grew old or lost their -youth's brightness,—let them plead with you to be reconciled to her -child. Surely, you will not turn away from the messenger I send,—your -own grandchild."</p> - -<p>The messenger,—he had forgotten about her. He turned and she was -standing there, like a spirit, on his hearthstone, with her white face -and her gleaming golden hair. He looked at her, and saw her father's -broad, full brow and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>thoughtful eyes, and below them the sweetness of -her mother's smile. His grandchild—his! His heart throbbed chokingly. -He grew hungry to clasp her,—to feel her soft arms clinging round his -neck, her tender lips kissing away the furrows of his hard life from -his face. But he feared to startle her. He tried to speak gently,—he, -to whom gentleness was so new and strange.</p> - -<p>"Come here, little girl," he said; and she went up to him fearlessly. -"Can you tell me how old you are, and what your name is?"</p> - -<p>"I am eight, grandpapa, and my name is Amy."</p> - -<p>Another Amy! He felt the great sobs rising up from his heart, but he -choked them back.</p> - -<p>"What have they told you about me?" he asked her anxiously. Could it be -possible, he wondered, that they had not taught her to hate him?</p> - -<p>"They always told me that you were far away toward where the sun rose; -and if I were good they would fetch me to see you some day. And every -night I say in my prayers, 'God bless papa and mamma, and God bless -grandpapa.'"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why <i>didn't</i> they fetch you; what made them let you come alone?"</p> - -<p>"Mamma said she would surprise you with your big grandchild. They are -waiting at the hotel, and John is down-stairs. They want you to come -back with me. Will you, grandpapa?"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Osgood looked on in wonder, as her master came downstairs and put -on his overcoat,—came down holding the child's hand in his, her golden -hair floating beside him. Was that old Job Golding?</p> - -<p>He stepped into the carriage in which careful Mistress Amy had sent her -messenger. The horses did not go fast enough. He would have been in a -fever of impatience, but the child's hand in his quieted him. Through -it all he was wondering vaguely what it meant,—whether he were his own -old self, or some one else.</p> - -<p>At last they were there, and the child led him in,—up the long hotel -stairs, across hall and corridor,—until, at length, she opened a door -and said cheerily,—</p> - -<p>"Mamma, here's grandpapa."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - -<p>His head swam. He was fain to sit down, and there were his own Amy's -arms about his neck. Why had he never known what he lost, in losing the -sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? He held her -fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:—</p> - -<p>"Father, are we reconciled at last?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven -me."</p> - -<p>"There need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "You went -according to your own light. It is enough that God has brought us -together again in peace. I thought that no one could resist my little -Amy, least of all her grandpapa."</p> - -<p>He looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight -glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. He -put out his arms and drew her into them, close—where no child, not -even his own, had ever nestled before. Oh, how much he had missed in -life! he thought. He felt her clinging hold round his neck,—her kisses -dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> heaven, and he—<i>was</i> -it himself, or another soul in his place?</p> - -<p>"Here, father," Amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy -married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing -woman, "here are Harry and the boys waiting to speak to you."</p> - -<p>He shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. Old feuds, old things, -were over now, and all was become new. Then he looked at the -boys,—six-years-old Hal, three-years-old Geordie,—brave, merry little -fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be -to him quite like this girl in his arms,—his first-found grandchild.</p> - -<p>He sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their -household love, and felt as if a new life had come. He did not go away -until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three -pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they -must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. When, at length, he went, he -told them that they must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> all come home to him on the morrow,—there -must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was -waiting for them.</p> - -<p>"To-morrow is Christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully.</p> - -<p>"All the better. If Christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to -be. Come round to dinner,—three o'clock sharp,—and bring all the -boxes with you. That will give you time to pack up, and Mrs. Osgood -time to get your rooms ready."</p> - -<p>"Boxes and boys,—won't they be too much for you, father?"</p> - -<p>"When they are I'll tell you,"—with a last touch of the old gruffness.</p> - -<p>Then he went out on the street, and began looking for Christmas -gifts. It was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and -anxiously. It was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it -would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. So he -perambulated the streets like a bewildered Santa Claus,—and went home, -at last, laden with books and toys and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> jewels and bon-bons,—with -a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of -sweets and confections.</p> - -<p>He called Mrs. Osgood to help him put them away, and when they were -all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old -sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,—</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Osgood, I hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. My -daughter, Mrs. Church, is coming home with her husband and children, -and I want the best Christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table -at a quarter-past three."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Osgood had always loved Miss Amy, in the old days, and had been -hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which -had come now. So her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a -master-piece,—a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told -the story afterwards.</p> - -<p>Amy, and Amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the -little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and -her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,—what -a jubilant party they were! And among them all Job Golding saw, or -fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, -he had seen the grave-sod piled,—a face sad and wistful no longer, but -bright with a strange glory. No one else saw <i>her</i>, he knew, for the -gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; -and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, -which only his ear caught,—the Christmas anthem,—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Peace on earth and good will toward men."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> - -<h2>MY COMFORTER.</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>I got up and hung a shawl over the canary's cage to keep him quiet. He -had been singing all day, till it seemed to me I could not bear it any -longer. That morning the doctor had told me that my mother would never -be any better. She was liable, he said, to die at any time. At the -longest, it was only a question of days or weeks. And my mother was all -I had in the world.</p> - -<p>My father had been dead a year. In his lifetime we had lived in a -pleasant country home. He had been employed in the county bank, and we -had lived most comfortably, and even with some pretensions to elegance. -I had been sent to school, and learned a little French, a little music, -and something of art. I had, too, a great deal of skill in fancy work, -and had been used to find in that and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> my painting my amusements. -Indeed, we all had what are called elegant tastes,—tastes which suited -a much larger income than ours, and we indulged them. This was unwise, -perhaps. People said so, at any rate, when my father died suddenly, and -left us with no property and no dependence save our home.</p> - -<p>It was to escape alike their censure and their pity, as much as because -I fancied I could find more openings for employment, that I persuaded -mother to join me in selling our little place, and remove to New York. -She was willing enough to do this. I think that it was a relief to -her to go away from all the familiar sights and sounds which kept so -constantly before her the memory of the dead husband who had made her -life among them so blessed. She fancied, perhaps, that when she was -among unfamiliar things the first bitterness of her grief would wear -away. But with her, as it proved, change of place was only change of -pain. She was not made of the stuff to which forgetfulness is possible.</p> - -<p>Our home and furniture brought us a little over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> three thousand -dollars, and with this sum we went to New York. In spite of my mourning -for my father I had the elasticity of youth, and I did not make this -removal, enter into this wide, strange, new life, without my share of -the high hopes and brilliant anticipations of youth.</p> - -<p>We went first to a hotel, and then looked up a boarding-place in a -quiet, unpretentious street, suited to our means. We expected to use -two or three hundred dollars before we got well established; and then -I hoped to earn enough to keep us, with the help of the interest of -the three thousand we should still have remaining, without encroaching -upon the principal. I might have succeeded, perhaps,—for I was not -long in procuring fancy work from two fashionable trimming stores,—if, -when we had been there a little while, my mother's health had not begun -seriously to decline. I think she made an effort to live on, after all -the joy of her life was dead, for my sake; but she failed, and by and -by she grew weary and gave up the struggle.</p> - -<p>Of course her illness brought upon us new <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>expenses. I would have for -her the best medical advice, however she might protest against it as -useless; and there were various little comforts and luxuries that I -could not and would not deny myself the pleasure of procuring for her. -So we were gradually going behindhand all the time. This had troubled -me a little; but now that the doctor had spoken my mother's doom, the -matter of dollars and cents faded into utter insignificance. There -would be more than enough to take care of her to the last, and after -that I could not bring myself to think. I would have shuddered at the -thought of self-destruction, but I believe the prayer was in my mind, -every moment in the day, that God would let me care for her till the -end, and then lie down and die beside her. So I carried back the work -I had from Richmond's and La Pierre's, and spent all my time with -her,—my darling.</p> - -<p>Often when I tried to talk with her, the thought how soon she would be -past all hearing would rise up and choke me, and I would turn away to -hide the sudden rush of tears. It was on Wednesday<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> the doctor had told -me what I must expect; and up to Saturday night I had kept it from her, -trying my poor best to wear a cheerful face. That night I sat beside -her in the twilight. She was on the lounge, bolstered up with pillows, -and I on a low hassock, which brought my face on a level with hers. We -had been silent a long time, since the last ray of sunset touched our -western windows, and now the dusk had fallen so that we could see each -other no longer. At last out of the shadows came her voice, clear and -sweet,—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Beyond the sowing and the reaping,</div> -<div>Beyond the watching and the weeping,</div> -<div>Beyond the waking and the sleeping,</div> -<div class="i4">I shall be soon."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Then she put out her hand and touched my wet face.</p> - -<p>"Do not grieve, my darling," she said,—oh, how tenderly,—"because I -am going home. The only pang I feel is for you, and it will not be long -before you come."</p> - -<p>"It may be years," I said, bitterly. "I am young and strong. Oh, I wish -I wasn't,—if God<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> would only take me too, and not make me stay in this -great, empty world without you!"</p> - -<p>"I think, darling, He will send you a comforter."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I am not so bad that I do not want His Spirit. I do believe; I do -try to follow the dear Lord; but I want a human comforter,—something -to see and feel,—tender lips, gentle fingers. The flesh is so weak."</p> - -<p>"And I meant a human comforter. I believe He will send you one in His -own time and way,—when you learn, perhaps, to forget yourself in -helping some one still more desolate."</p> - -<p>"As if that could be. O, mother, when you are gone there won't be in -the whole wide world such a lonesome, aching heart as mine."</p> - -<p>"People always say that, dear; always think there is no sorrow like -their sorrow, until God teaches them better, either by making their own -burden heavier, or by showing them how to help some one else. God grant -it may be this last with you, Bessie."</p> - -<p>"But is there no hope, mother?" I said, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> a wild longing for a -little of the comfort a doubt would give.</p> - -<p>"I think none. Dr. West told you so Wednesday, did he not? and you have -been trying to keep it from me,—as if I could not read it in your -face, every time you looked at me."</p> - -<p>All reserve broke down then. I was in her arms, sobbing and crying on -her bosom; I that so soon would have no mother's bosom for my refuge -any more for ever.</p> - -<p>The doctor had said her life was a question of days or weeks. She lived -four weeks after he told me that, and then one night she talked with -me a long, long time. At last she said she was tired, and would go to -sleep. Then she kissed me, as she always did, and turned her gentle -face toward the wall. She awoke again in another world than ours. But -by the calm blessedness of the smile on the dead face I knew that her -soul had departed in peace. It was a smile that made her young and fair -again, as the mother I remembered away back in my childhood.</p> - -<p>Oh, what a desolate funeral that was! I had no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> friends near enough to -give them any claim to be sent for, and I wanted no one. I made all the -arrangements myself, and the third day I buried my dead. I remember the -minister, after the funeral rites were over, stopped a moment beside -the grave to speak a few words of sympathy to me, sole mourner. But I -was deaf with sorrow. I made no answer, and presently he turned away. -I don't know how long I stood there. After a while my driver came up, -touching his hat, respectfully, and asked,—</p> - -<p>"Would ye plaise to start soon, miss?" and mechanically I went toward -the carriage, and he put me in and shut the door. So I went back to the -desolate room where she had died.</p> - -<p>Some one had been in during my absence and made it all bright and tidy, -but I would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as -when I went away. The days which followed were sad and evil. My soul -rose in revolt. I asked why I, of all others, should be so set apart by -sorrow,—left so lonely and so desolate. For a whole week I had been -thus mutinous. I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> seen in my God no Father, but an Avenger. All -the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. I passed through the -very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil -did battle for my soul; until at last I slept, one night, and dreamed -of mother, for the first time since she died. In the dream she seemed -beside me, but not as of old. A spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a -blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her -voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "I think, darling, the Father -will send you a comforter."</p> - -<p>I woke refreshed, as I had not been before by any slumber. The voice of -my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to. -I began to have faith. I remembered <i>how</i> she had thought my comforter -was to come. But when and where should I find some one more desolate -than myself to help? At any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe, -an idler in the vineyard. I must go to work.</p> - -<p>I put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. If I could get my old -work from the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>trimming stores, I could earn enough now to take care of -myself, and keep what money I had left as surety against the proverbial -rainy day. I made my way first to Richmond's. As I went in I noticed a -little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. One sees such -objects of charity often enough in New York. I doubt if this one would -have attracted me but for her singular beauty. She had the fairest skin -I ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. It -was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness. -I noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while I stood a -few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop -a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. I followed the universal -example as I went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush -crimsoned the sensitive little face.</p> - -<p>I made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out, -and down the street to La Pierre's. When I came back, half an hour -later, the child was still sitting there; and I looked at her again, -wondering anew at her delicate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> beauty. Then a thrill of compassion -warmed my heart for the poor little waif. It was a cold day in the -autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon -the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself, -even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her -occupation. I went up to her and spoke to her.</p> - -<p>"What is your name?"</p> - -<p>"Jennie Green."</p> - -<p>"Whose little girl are you?"</p> - -<p>"Nobody's, ma'am."</p> - -<p>Oh, perhaps I should not have understood the wail of sadness in those -words if I, too, had not been nobody's girl.</p> - -<p>"Have you no friends?" I asked, putting my question in a new form.</p> - -<p>"No, ma'am. Mother died last spring, and I've had no friends since."</p> - -<p>"But you live somewhere?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took -me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she -takes the money I get to pay for my keeping."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you like to live with her?" I pursued, getting strangely interested.</p> - -<p>A quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,—</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, no!"</p> - -<p>A sudden impulse moved me. I beckoned to a policeman who stood near by -watching us.</p> - -<p>"Do you know any thing of this child?" I inquired.</p> - -<p>"Not much. She seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. A woman brings -her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back -after her toward night. I've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes."</p> - -<p>"That woman is no relation to her," I said, "only a person in the -house, that kept her when her mother died,—to make money out of her, -I suppose. Would it be against any law if I took her home with me, -without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her? -Could that woman claim her again?"</p> - -<p>The policeman whistled, by which token proving himself Yankee born, and -considered a moment. Then he answered, deliberately,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, it ain't agin no law, as I knows of. I don't think the woman would -dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb -you. All I'm thinking on is,—you're young, miss,—would your folks -like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?"</p> - -<p>"I have no folks," I said, with the old sadness rising up and choking -me. "Will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?"</p> - -<p>I had given my direction without at all consulting the child. When he -was gone for the hack I went up to her and asked her if she would go -home with me, and have it for her home.</p> - -<p>"Do you mean me to leave Mrs. McGuire?" she cried, with wide eyes.</p> - -<p>"Yes, if you want to."</p> - -<p>"And not—not come out for money any more?"</p> - -<p>"Not, please God, while I have strength to work for us both."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I do want to go, I do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. And then -she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and -stood there waiting.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "It's almost -time for Mrs. McGuire." Just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk, -and I carried my poor little foundling home.</p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p>Yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and I lived -over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. I laid my head -on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation -which swept over me. And as I lay there crying I heard gentle -footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,—</p> - -<p>"Oh, can't I comfort you, Miss Bessie? Can't I do any thing for you, -now you've made my life all new and bright?"</p> - -<p>And I opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed, -bright-haired girl, and realized that God indeed had sent me my -comforter,—a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when I -forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p> - -<p>I should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring -the child home, had I been less utterly alone in the world. But I have -never regretted it. I found that her parents had brought her up in -the fear of God, and all the rude and rough associations, which had -worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled -her innate purity. My care and tenderness have made of her all I hoped. -Dr. West's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a -crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. She helps -me at my tasks, and for her sake I have recalled my old pencil craft, -and here I foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and -some day I fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by -a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,—the child who was my -comforter.</p> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<p class="center">Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/ad1.jpg" alt="Bed Time Stories" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/ad2.jpg" alt="WHAT KATY DID" /></div> - -<hr /> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's More Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BED-TIME STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 60581-h.htm or 60581-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/5/8/60581/ - -Produced by Sonya Schermann, Martin Pettit and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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