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diff --git a/old/69800-0.txt b/old/69800-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 22ae726..0000000 --- a/old/69800-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8073 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Christmas stories, by Mary Jane Holmes - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Christmas stories - -Author: Mary Jane Holmes - -Release Date: January 14, 2023 [eBook #69800] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTMAS STORIES *** - - - - - - POPULAR NOVELS. - - BY - - _MRS. MARY J. HOLMES_. - - - TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. - ENGLISH ORPHANS. - HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. - ’LENA RIVERS. - MEADOW BROOK. - DORA DEANE. - COUSIN MAUDE. - MARIAN GREY. - EDITH LYLE. - DAISY THORNTON. - CHATEAU D’OR. - QUEENIE HETHERTON (_New_). - DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. - HUGH WORTHINGTON. - CAMERON PRIDE. - ROSE MATHER. - ETHELYN’S MISTAKE. - MILBANK. - EDNA BROWNING. - WEST LAWN. - MILDRED. - FORREST HOUSE. - MADELINE. - CHRISTMAS STORIES. - - “Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books - are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the - sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention - to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.” - - - All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each. Sold - everywhere, and sent _free_ by mail on receipt of price, - - BY - - G. W. CARLETON & Co., Publishers, - New York. - -[Illustration: Eng^d. by Geo E. Perine, N. York] - - - - - CHRISTMAS STORIES. - - BY - - MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, - - AUTHOR OF - - TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.—DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.—MILBANK.—ENGLISH - ORPHANS.—’LENA RIVERS.—ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.—HUGH - WORTHINGTON.—MADELINE.—WEST LAWN—MARIAN GREY.—EDNA BROWNING, ETC. - - _WITH A STEEL PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR._ - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK. - - _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers._ - - LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. - - MDCCCLXXXV. - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1884, - BY DANIEL HOLMES, - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. - - - Stereotyped by - SAMUEL STODDER, - 42 DEY STREET, N. Y. - - - - - TO - - MISS MARY W. JEWETT, - - (OF CLARKSON, N. Y.) - - WHO HAS BEEN SO LONG IDENTIFIED - - WITH THE - - PARISH OF ST. LUKE’S, - - AND WHO IS - - ALMOST AS MUCH A PART OF THE CHRISTMAS FESTIVAL AS THE CHRISTMAS-TREE - ITSELF, - - I DEDICATE THESE STORIES, - - SOME OF WHICH HAVE IN THEM MORE OF FACT THAN OF FICTION. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - Page - I. ALICE AND ADELAIDE. 9 - II. RED-BIRD. 121 - III. RUTH AND RENA. 172 - IV. BENNY’S CHRISTMAS. 207 - V. THE CHRISTMAS FONT. 236 - VI. ADAM FLOYD. 271 - VII. JOHN LOGAN. 325 - VIII. THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU. 342 - - - - - ALICE AND ADELAIDE. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - CHRISTMAS EVE. - - -It was Christmas eve, and the parlors of No. 46 Shelby Street were -ablaze with light; rare flowers, in vases rarer still, filled the rooms -with a sweet perfume, bringing back, as it were, the summer glory which -had faded in the autumn light, and died in the chill December’s breath. -Costly pictures adorned the walls; carpets, which seemed to the eye like -a mossy bed inlaid with roses, covered the floors, while over all, the -gas-light fell, making a scene of brilliant beauty such as was seldom -witnessed in the quiet city of ——, where our story opens. - -It was the night of Alice Warren’s first presentation to society, as a -young lady, and in her luxurious dressing-room she stood before her -mirror, bending her graceful head, while her mother placed among her -flowing curls a golden arrow, and then pronounced the toilet complete. -Alice Warren was very beautiful with her fair young face, her waving -hair, and lustrous eyes of blue, which shone with more than their wonted -brightness, as, smoothing down the folds of her dress, she glanced again -at the mirror opposite, and then turned toward her mother just as a -movement in the hall without attracted the attention of both. It was a -slow, uncertain step, and darting forward, Alice cried: - -“It is father—come to see how I look on my eighteenth birthnight!” - -“Not to _see_ you, my child,” the father answered; and in the tones of -his voice there was a note of sorrow, as if the struggle of nineteen -long years were not yet fully over. - -To Hugo Warren the world was one dark, dreary night, and the gold so -many coveted would have been freely given, could he but once have looked -upon the face of his only child, who, bounding to his side, parted the -white hair from his forehead, and laying his hand upon her head, asked -him “to _feel_ if she were not beautiful.” - -Very tenderly and caressingly the father’s hand moved over the shining -hair, the glowing cheek, and rounded arms of the graceful little figure -which stood before him, then dashing a tear away, the blind man said: - -“My Alice must be beautiful if she is, as they tell me, like her -mother,” and the sightless eyes turned instinctively toward the mother, -who, coming to his side, replied: - -“Alice is like me as I was when you last saw my face—but I have changed -since then—there are lines of silver in my hair, and lines of time upon -my face.” - -The blind man shook his head. The picture of the fond girl-wife, who, in -his hour of bitter agony had whispered in his ear, “I will be sunlight, -moonlight, starlight—everything to you, my husband,” had never changed -to him—for faithfully and well that promise had been kept, and it was -better perhaps, that he could not see the shadows on her face—shadows -which foretold a darker hour than any he had ever known—an hour when the -sunlight of her love would set forever. But no such forebodings were -around him now. He held his wife and daughter both in his arms, and -holding them thus, forgot for a moment that he was blind. - -“Did you invite Adelaide?” Alice asked at last; and Mr. Warren replied: - -“Yes, but it is doubtful whether she will come. She is very proud, her -father says, and does not wish to put herself in a position to be -slighted.” - -“Oh, father!” Alice cried, “Adelaide Huntington does not know me. I -could not slight her because she is poor, and if she comes I will treat -her like a royal princess,” and Alice’s face flushed with pleasure as -she thought how attentive she would be to the daughter of her father’s -“confidential clerk and authorized agent.” - -Meanwhile, in a distant part of the city, in a dwelling far more humble -than that of Hugo Warren, another family group was assembled, father, -mother, daughter—all, save old Aunt Peggy, who, thankful for a home -which saved her from the almshouse, performed willingly a menial’s part, -bearing patiently the whims of the mother, and the caprices of the -daughter, the latter of whom proved a most tyrannical and exacting -mistress. Tall, dignified, and rather aristocratic in her bearing, -Adelaide Huntington was called handsome by many, and admired by those -who failed to see the treachery hidden in her large, dark eyes, or the -constant effort she made to seem what she was not. To be noticed by -those whose position in life was far above her own, was her aim, and -when the envied Alice Warren extended to her family an invitation to be -present at her birthday party, her delight was unbounded. - -She would go, of course, she said, “and her father would go with her, -and she must have a new dress, too, even if it took every cent they -had.” - -The dress was purchased, and though it was only a simple white muslin, -it well became the queenly form of the haughty Adelaide, who, when her -toilet was completed, asked her father if “he did not think she would -overshadow the diminutive Alice?” - -“I don’t see why there should be this difference between us,” she -continued, as her father made no answer. “Here I must be poor all my -life, while she will be rich, unless Mr. Warren chances to fail——” - -“Which he will do before three days are passed,” dropped involuntarily -from the lips of Mr. Huntington. - -Then with a wild, startled look he grasped his daughter’s arm, -exclaiming: - -“Forget what I just said—breathe not a word of it to any one, for Heaven -knows I would help it if I could. But it is too late—too late.” - -It was in vain that Adelaide and her mother sought an explanation of -these strange words. Mr. Huntington would give none, and in unbroken -silence he accompanied his daughter to the house of Mr. Warren. - -Very cordially Alice welcomed the young girl striving in various ways to -relieve her from the embarrassment she would naturally feel at finding -herself among so many strangers. And Adelaide _was_ ill at ease, for the -spirit of jealous envy in her heart whispered to her of slight and -insult where none were intended; whispered, too, that her muslin dress -which, at home with her mother and Aunt Peggy to admire, had been so -beautiful, was nothing, compared with the soft, flowing robes of Alice -Warren, whose polite attentions she construed into a kind of patronizing -pity exceedingly annoying to one of her proud nature. Then, as she -remembered her father’s words, she thought, “_We may be equals yet._ I -wonder what he meant? I mean to ask him again,” and passing through the -crowded apartments she came to the little ante-room, where all the -evening her father had been sitting—a hard, dark look upon his face, and -his eyes bent on the floor, as if for him that festive scene possessed -no interest. - -“Father,” she said, but he made her no reply; he did not even know that -she was standing at his side. - -Far back through the “past” his thoughts were straying, to the Christmas -Eve when penniless, friendless and alone he had come to the city, asking -employment from one whose hair was not as white then as it was now, and -whose eyes were not quenched in darkness, but looked kindly down upon -him, as the wealthy merchant said: - -“I will give you work as long as you do well.” - -Hugo Warren was older than William Huntington, and his station in life -had always been different, but over the mountain side the same Sunday -bell had once called them both to the house of God—the same tall tree on -the river bank bore on its bark their names—the same blue sky had bent -above their childhood’s home, and for this reason he had given the poor -young man a helping hand, aiding him step by step, until now, he was the -confidential clerk—the one trusted above all others—for when the -blindness first came upon him the helpless man had put his hand on -William’s head, saying, as he did so: - -“I trust _you_, with my all, and as you hope for Heaven, do not be false -to the trust.” - -How those words, spoken years before, rang in William Huntington’s ears, -as he sat thinking of the past, until the great drops of perspiration -gathered thickly around his lips and dropped upon the floor. He had -betrayed his trust—nay, more, he had ruined the man who had been so kind -to him, and before three days were passed his sin would find him out. -Heavy bank notes must be paid, and there was nothing with which to pay -them. The gambling table had been his ruin. Gradually he had gone down, -meaning always to replace what he had taken, and oftentimes doing so; -but fortune had deserted him at last, and rather than meet the glance of -those sightless eyes, when the truth should be known, he had resolved to -go away. The next day would be a holiday, and before the Christmas sun -set, he would be an outcast—a wanderer on the earth. Of all this he was -thinking when Adelaide came to his side. - -The sound of her voice aroused him at last, and starting up, he -exclaimed: - -“It is time we were at home. The atmosphere of these rooms is stifling. -Get your things at once.” - -Rather unwillingly Adelaide obeyed, and ten minutes later she was saying -good night to Alice and her mother, both of whom expressed their -surprise that she should go so soon, as did Mr. Warren also. - -“I meant to have talked with you more,” he said, as he stood in the hall -with Mr. Huntington, who, grasping his hand, looked earnestly into the -face which for all time to come would haunt him as the face of one whom -he had greatly wronged. - -A few hours later, and all was still in the house where mirth and -revelry had so lately reigned. Flushed with excitement and the flattery -her youthful beauty had called forth, Alice Warren had sought her -pillow, and in the world of dreamland was living over again the -incidents of the evening. The blind man, too, was sleeping, and in his -dreams he saw again the forms of those he loved, but he did not see the -cloud hovering near, nor the crouching figure which, across the way, was -looking toward his window and bidding him farewell. - -Mr. Huntington had accompanied Adelaide to his door, and then, making -some trivial excuse, had left her, and gone from his home forever, -leaving his wife to watch and wait for him as she had often done before. -Slowly the December night waned, and just as the morning was -breaking—the morn of the bright Christmas day—a train sped on its way to -the westward, bearing among its passengers one who fled from justice, -leaving to his wife and daughter grief and shame, and to the blind man -_darkness, ruin, and death_. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. - - -The third day came and passed, and as the twilight shadows fell upon the -city, Alice and her mother pushed back the heavy curtain which shaded -the window of their pleasant sitting-room, and looked anxiously down the -street for one who seldom tarried long. An hour went by, and another -still, and then he came, but far more helpless than when he left them in -the morning. The blind eyes were red with tears—the stately form was -bent with grief—the strong man was crushed with the blow which had -fallen so suddenly upon him. He was ruined—hopelessly, irretrievably -ruined, and in all the world there was nothing he could call his, save -the loved ones who soothed him now, as one had done before, when a -mighty sorrow overshadowed him. - -As well as he could he told them of the fraud which for many years had -been imposed upon him and how he had trusted and been betrayed by one -whom he would not suffer the officers to follow. - -“It will do no good,” he said “to have him brought back to a felon’s -cell, and I will save the wife and daughter from more disgrace,” and so -William Huntington was suffered to go at large, while in the home he had -desolated there was sorrow and mourning and bitter tears shed; the blind -man groping often through the familiar rooms which would soon be his no -longer; and the daughter stifling her own grief to soothe her father’s -sorrow, and minister to her mother’s wants. - -As has before been hinted, Mrs. Warren was far from being strong, and -the news of the failure burst upon her with an overwhelming power, -prostrating her at once, so that before two weeks were gone her husband -forgot everything, save the prayer that the wife of his bosom, the light -of his eyes, the mother of his child, might live. - -But she who had been reared in the lap of luxury, was never to know the -pinching wants of poverty—never to know what it was to be hungry, and -cold, and poor. All this was reserved for the gentle Alice, who, younger -and stronger, too, could bear the trial better. And so, as day after day -went by, the blind man felt what he could not see—felt the death shadows -come creeping on—felt how the pallor was deepening on his wife’s -cheek—knew that she was going from him fast—knew, alas, that she must -die, and one bright, beautiful morning, when the thoughtless passers-by, -pointing to the house, said, one to another, “He has lost everything,” -he, from the depths of his aching heart, unconsciously made answer, -“Lost everything—lost everything!” while Alice bowed her head in -anguish, half wishing she, too, were blind, so she could not see the -still, white face which lay upon the pillow. - -Suddenly the deep stillness of the room was broken by the sound of -footsteps in the hall below, and, lifting up her head, Alice said, “Who -is it, father?” but Mr. Warren did not answer. He knew who it was and -why they had come, and going out to meet them, he stood upon the stairs, -tall and erect, like some giant oak which the lightning stroke had -smitten, but not destroyed. - -“I know your errand,” he said; “I expected you, but come with me and -then surely you will leave me alone a little longer,” and turning, he -led the way, followed by the men, who never forgot that picture of the -pale, dead wife, the frightened, weeping child, and the blind man -standing by with outstretched arm as if to shield them from harm. - -The sheriff was a man of kindly feelings, and lifting his hat -reverentially, he said: - -“We did not know of this, or we would not have come,” and motioning to -his companion, he left the room, walking with subdued footsteps down the -stairs, and out into the open air; and when the sun went down not an -article had been disturbed in Hugo Warren’s home, for sheriff, -creditors, lawyers—all stood back in awe of the mighty potentate who had -entered before them, and levied upon its choicest treasure—the -white-haired blind man’s wife. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - THE BROWN HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW. - - -Nearly a year has passed by since we left the blind man weeping over his -unburied dead, and our story leads us now to the handsome rural town of -Oakland, which is nestled among the New England hills, and owes much of -its prosperity and rapid growth to the untiring energy of its wealthiest -citizen—its one “aristocrat,” as the villagers persisted in calling -Richard Howland, the gentleman from Boston, who came to Oakland a few -years ago, giving to business a new impetus, and infusing new life into -its quiet, matter-of-fact people, who respected him as few men have ever -been respected, and looked upon him as the founder of their good -fortune. He it was who built the factory, bought the mills and owned the -largest store and shoe shop in the town, furnishing employment to -hundreds of the poor, many of whom had moved into the village, and -rented of him the comfortable tenements which he had erected for that -purpose. - -Richard Howland’s home was very beautiful, overlooking, as it did, the -town and the surrounding country, and the passers-by often stopped to -admire its winding walks, its fountains, its grassy plats, graceful -evergreens, and wealth of flowers, the latter of which were the especial -pride of the stately Miss Elinor, the maiden sister, who was mistress of -the house, for Richard Howland had no wife, and on the night when we -first introduce him to our readers, he was seated in his pleasant -sitting-room, with his sister at his side, and every possible comfort -and luxury around him. The chill December wind which howled among the -naked branches of the maples, or sighed through the drooping cedar -boughs, could not find entrance there. The blinds were closely shut—the -heavy curtains swept the floor—the fire burned brightly in the grate, -casting fantastic shadows on the wall, and with his favorite paper in -his hand, he almost forgot that in the world without there were such -evils as poverty or pain. Neither did he see the fragile form toiling -through the darkness up the street, and pausing at his gate. But he -heard the ringing of the door-bell, and his ear caught the sound of some -one in the hall, asking to see him. - -“I wish I could be alone for one evening,” he said, and with a slight -frown of impatience upon his brow, he awaited the approach of his -visitor. - -It was a delicate young girl, and her dress of black showed that sorrow -had thus early come to her. - -“Are you Mr. Howland?” she asked, and her eyes of blue timidly sought -the face of the young man, who involuntarily arose and offered her a -seat. - -Her errand was soon told. She had come to rent his cheapest tenement—the -brown house in the hollow, which she had heard was vacant, and she -wished him to furnish her with work—she could make both shirts and vests -tolerably well, and she would try hard to pay the rent! - -The stranger paused, and Miss Elinor, who had been watching her with -mingled feelings of curiosity and interest, saw that the long eyelashes -were moist with tears. Mr. Howland saw it, too, and wondering that one -so young and timid should come to him alone, he said: - -“Little girl, have you no friends—no one on whom to depend, save -yourself?” - -The tears on the eyelashes now dropped upon the cheek, for the _little -girl_, as Mr. Howland had called her, mistook his meaning and fancied he -was thinking of security, and payment, and all those dreadful words -whose definition she was fast learning to understand. - -“I have a father,” she said, and before she had time for more, the -plain-spoken Miss Elinor asked: - -“Why didn’t he come himself, and not send you, who seem so much a -child?” - -There was reproach in the question, and the young girl felt it keenly, -and turning toward Miss Elinor, she answered: - -“My father could not find the way—he never even saw my face—he couldn’t -see my mother when she died. Oh! he’s blind, he’s blind,” and the voice, -which at first had merely trembled, was choked with bitter sobs. - -The hearts of both brother and sister were touched, and the brown house -in the hollow, nay, any house which Richard Howland had to rent, was at -the girl’s command. But he was a man of few words, and so he merely told -her she could have both tenement and work, while his sister thought how -she would make her brother’s new tenants her especial care. - -Miss Elinor was naturally of a rather inquisitive turn of mind and she -tried very skillfully to learn something of the stranger’s history. But -the young girl evaded all her questioning, and after a few moments arose -to go. Mr. Howland accompanied her to the door, which he held open until -she passed down the walk and out into the street. Then the door was -closed, and Alice Warren was alone again in the cold, dark night, but -she scarcely heeded it, for her heart was lighter than it had been for -many weeks. The gentleman whom she had so much dreaded to meet had -spoken kindly to her; the lady too, had whispered “poor child” when she -told her of her father, while better far than all, she had procured a -shelter for her father, the payment for which would come within their -slender means. - -Not time, but the joy or sorrow it brings, changes people most, and the -Alice Warren of to-day is scarce the same we saw one year ago. Then, -petted, caressed and glowing with youthful beauty, she presented a -striking contrast to the pale-faced girl, who, on the wintry night of -which we write, traversed street after street, until she came to the -humble dwelling which for the last few days had been her home. Every -cent of his large fortune had Mr. Warren given up, choosing rather to -starve and know he had a right to do so, than to feed on what was not -his own. His handsome house and furniture had all been sold, and with a -mere pittance, which would not last them long, they had gone into the -country, where Alice hoped to earn a livelihood by teaching. But she was -“too small, too childish, too timid,” the people said, ever to succeed, -and so at last she resorted to her needle, which in her days of -prosperity, she had fortunately learned to use. - -As time passed on a kind-hearted woman, who visited in their -neighborhood, became interested in them and urged their removal to -Oakland, her native town, whither they finally went, stopping with her -for a few days until further arrangements could be made. - -Hearing that the brown house in the hollow, as it was called, was -vacant, Alice had applied for it, with what success we have seen, and -returning home, she told her father the result of her application, and -how small a sum they would have to pay for it, and how neatly she could -fit it up, and how in the long winter evenings he should sit in his -arm-chair before the cheerful fire, and listening to her as she talked, -the blind man thanked God that the wife-love he had lost forever was in -a measure made up to him in the love of his only child. - -Two weeks went by, and then, in the shoe shop and store the workmen said -to each other, “to-morrow is Christmas,” wondering if Mr. Howland would -present each of the families in his employ with a turkey, as he was wont -to do. - -He had always done it before, they said, he would surely do so now. - -Nor were they disappointed, for when the day’s labor was over, each man -was given his usual gift, and when all had been served, there was one -turkey left, for which no owner came. - -“We shall need it ourselves perhaps,” Mr. Howland thought, as he -remembered the numerous city friends expected on the morrow; and, as he -was not ashamed to carry it himself, he placed it in a covered basked -and started for home, turning involuntarily down the street which would -take him through the hollow. He did not often go that way for though it -was quite as near, it was not a pleasant portion of the town. But he was -going that way now, and as he came near the brown house, from whose -windows a cheerful light was shining, he thought of his new tenants, and -half decided to call; then, remembering that one of his clerks had told -him of a young lady who had inquired for him that afternoon, expressing -much regret at his absence and saying she should call at his house early -in the evening, he concluded to go on. Still the light shining out upon -the snow, seemed beckoning him to come, and turning back he stood before -the window, from which the curtain was drawn aside, revealing a picture, -at which he paused a moment to gaze. The blind man sat in his old -arm-chair, and the flickering flame of the blazing fire shone on his -frosty locks and lighted up his grief-worn face, on which there was a -pitiful expression, most touching to behold. The sightless eyes were -cast downward as if they would see the fair young head and wealth of -soft brown tresses resting on his knee. - -Alice was crying. All day long she had tried to repress her tears, and -when, as she sat in the gathering twilight with her father, he said, -“_She_ was with us one year ago,” they burst forth, and laying her head -upon his lap she sobbed bitterly. - -There were words of love spoken of the lost one, and as Mr. Howland drew -near, Mr. Warren said: - -“It is well, perhaps, that she died before she knew what it was to be so -poor.” - -The words “to be so poor” caught Mr. Howland’s ear, and glancing around -the humble apartment he fancied he knew why Alice wept. Just then she -lifted up her head and he saw the tears on her cheek. Mr. Howland was -unused to tears—they affected him strangely—and as the sight of them on -Alice Warren’s eyelashes, when she told him her father was blind, had -once brought down the rent of the house by half, so now the sight of -them upon her cheek as she sat at her father’s feet brought himself into -her presence and the turkey from his basket. Depositing his gift upon -the table and apologizing for his abruptness, he took the chair which -Alice offered him, and in a short space of time forgot the young lady -who had so nearly prevented him from being where he was—forgot -everything save the blue of Alice’s eyes and the mournful sweetness of -her voice as she answered the few questions he addressed to her. He saw -at once that both father and daughter were educated and refined, but he -did not question them of the past, for he felt instinctively that it -would be to them an unpleasant subject, so he conversed upon indifferent -topics, and Alice, as she listened to him, could scarcely believe he was -the man whom she had heretofore associated with her wages of Saturday -night, he seemed so familiar and friendly. - -“You will come to see us again,” Mr. Warren said to his visitor, when -the latter arose to go, and smiling down on Alice, who stood with her -arm across her father’s neck, Mr. Howland answered: - -“Yes, I shall come again.” - -Then he bade them good night, and as the door closed after him, Mr. -Warren said: - -“It seems darker now that he is gone,” but to Alice, the room was -lighter far for that brief visit. - -Mr. Howland, too, felt better for the call. He had done some good, he -hoped, and the picture of the two as he had left them was pleasant to -remember, and as he drew near his home, and saw in imagination his own -large easy-chair before the fire, he tried to fancy how it would seem to -be a blind man, sitting there, with a brown-haired maiden’s arm around -his neck. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - THE WHITE HOUSE ON THE HILL. - - -“Miss Huntington, brother,” Miss Elinor said, and Mr. Howland bowed low -to the lady thus presented to him by his sister on his arrival home. - -She had been waiting for him nearly an hour, and she now returned his -greeting with an air more befitting a queen than Adelaide Huntington—for -she it was; and by some singular co-incidence she had come to rent a -house of Mr. Howland just as Alice Warren had done but two or three -weeks before. The failure which had ruined Mr. Warren had not affected -Mrs. Huntington further than the mortification and grief she naturally -felt at the disgrace and desertion of her husband, from whom she had -never heard since he left her so suddenly on the night of the -party—neither had she ever met with Mr. Warren, although she had written -him a note, assuring him that in no way had she been concerned in the -fraud. Still her position in the city was not particularly agreeable, -and after a time she had removed to Springfield, Mass., where she took -in plain sewing—for without her husband’s salary it was necessary that -she should do something for the maintenance of her family. Springfield, -however, was quite too large for one of Adelaide’s proud, ambitious -nature. “She would rather live in a smaller place,” she said, “where she -could be _somebody_. She had been trampled down long enough, and in a -country village she would be as good as any one.” - -Hearing by chance of Oakland and its democratic people, she had -persuaded her mother into removing thither, giving her numerous -directions as to the manner in which she was to demean herself. - -“With a little management,” she said, “no one need to know that we have -_worked_ for a living—we have only left the city because we prefer the -country,” and old Peggy, who still served in the capacity of servant, -was charged repeatedly “never to say a word concerning their former -position in society.” - -In short, Adelaide intended to create quite a sensation in Oakland, and -she commenced by assuming a most haughty and consequential manner toward -both Mr. Howland and his sister. - -“She had come as _ma’s_ delegate,” she said, to rent the white house on -the hill, which they had heard was vacant. Possibly if they liked the -country, they should eventually purchase, but it was doubtful—people who -have always lived a city life were seldom contented elsewhere. Still, -she should try to be happy, though of course she should miss the -advantages which a larger place afforded. - -All this and much more she said to Mr. Howland, who, hardly knowing -whether she were renting a house of him or he were renting one of her, -managed at last to say: - -“Your mother is a widow, I presume?” - -Instantly the dark eyes sought the floor, and Adelaide’s voice was very -low in its tone as she answered: - -“I lost my father nearly a year since.” - -“I wonder she don’t dress in mourning, but that’s a way some folks -have,” Miss Elinor thought, while her brother proceeded to say that Mrs. -Huntington could have the white house on the hill, after which Adelaide -arose to go, casually asking if the right or left hand street would -bring her to the hotel, where she was obliged to spend the night, as no -train, after that hour, went up to Springfield. - -For a moment Mr. Howland waited, thinking his sister would invite the -stranger to stop with them, but this Miss Elinor had no idea of doing; -she did not fancy the young lady’s airs, and she simply answered: - -“The right hand street—you can’t mistake it;” frowning slightly when her -brother said: - -“I will accompany you, Miss Huntington.” - -“I dislike very much to trouble you. Still I hardly know the way alone,” -and Adelaide’s dark eyes flashed brightly upon him as she accepted his -offer. - -Mr. Howland was not a lady’s man, but he could be very agreeable when he -tried, and so Adelaide now found him, mentally resolving to give her -mother and old Aunt Peggy a double charge not to betray their real -circumstances. Mr. Howland evidently thought her a person of -consequence, and who could tell what might come of her acquaintance with -him? Stranger things had happened, and she thought that if she ever -should go to that handsome house as its mistress, her first act would be -to send that stiff old maid away. - -With such fancies as these filling her mind, Adelaide went back next day -to Springfield, reported her success, and so accelerated her mother’s -movements that scarcely a week elapsed ere they had moved into the white -house on the hill, a handsome little cottage, which looked still more -cozy and inviting after Adelaide’s hands had fitted it up with tasteful -care. It was a rule with Mrs. Huntington to buy the best, if possible, -and as her husband had always been lavish with his money, her furniture -was superior to that of her neighbors, many of whom really stood in awe -of the genteel widow, as she was thought to be, and her stylish, -aristocratic daughter. They were supposed to be quite wealthy, or at -least in very easy circumstances, and more than one young girl looked -enviously at Adelaide, as day after day she swept through the streets, -sometimes “walking for exercise,” she said, and again going out to shop; -always at Mr. Howland’s store, where she annoyed the clerks excessively -by examining article after article, inquiring its price, wondering if it -would become her, or suit ma, and finally concluding not to take it “for -fear every shoemaker’s daughter in town would buy something like it, and -that she couldn’t endure.” - -Regularly each week she went to Springfield, to take music lessons, she -said, and lest something should occur making it necessary for her to -stay all night, Aunt Peggy usually accompanied her to the depot, always -carrying a well-filled satchel, and frequently a large bundle, whose -many wrappings of paper told no tales, and were supposed by the -credulous to cover the dressing-gown, which Adelaide deemed necessary to -the making of her morning toilet. - -“It was very annoying,” she said, “to carry so much luggage, but the -friends with whom she stopped were so particular that she felt obliged -to change her dress, even though she merely stayed to dinner.” - -And so the villagers, looking at the roll of music she invariably -carried in her hands, believed the tale, though a few of the nearest -neighbors wondered when the young lady practiced, for it was not often -that they heard the sound of the old-fashioned instrument which occupied -a corner of the sitting-room. Finally, however, they decided that it -must be at night, for a light was always seen in Mrs. Huntington’s -windows until after the clock struck twelve. As weeks went by, most of -those whom Adelaide considered _somebodies_, called, and among them Mr. -Howland. By the merest chance she learned that he was coming and though -she pretended that she was surprised to see him, and said she was just -going out, she was most becomingly dressed in her nicely-fitting merino, -which, in the evening, did not show the wear of four years. The little -sitting-room, too, with its furniture so arranged as to make the best of -everything, seemed homelike and cheerful, causing Mr. Howland to feel -very much at ease, and also very much pleased with the dark-eyed girl he -had come to see. She was very agreeable, he thought, much more so in -fact than any one he had met in Oakland, and at a late hour, for one of -his early habits, he bade her good night, promising to call again soon, -and hear the new song she was going to learn the next time she went to -Springfield. - -In dignified silence his sister awaited his return, and when to her -greeting, “Where have you been?” he replied, “Been to call on Miss -Adelaide,” the depth of the three winkles between her eyebrows was -perceptibly increased, while a contemptuous Pshaw! escaped her lips. -Miss Elinor was not easily deceived. From the first she had insisted -that Adelaide “was putting on airs,” and if there was one thing more -than another which that straightforward, matter-of-fact lady disliked, -it was pretention. She had not yet been to see Mrs. Huntington, and now, -when her brother, after dwelling at length upon the pleasant evening he -had spent, urged her to make the lady’s acquaintance, she replied rather -sharply, that she always wished to know something of the people with -whom she associated. For her part, she didn’t like Miss Adelaide, and if -her brother had the least regard for her feelings, he wouldn’t call -there quite as often as he did. - -“Quite as often,” Mr. Howland repeated, in much surprise. “What do you -mean? I’ve only been there once,” and then in a spirit which men will -sometimes manifest when opposed, particularly if in that opposition a -lady is involved, he added, “but I intend to go again—and very soon, -too.” - -“Undoubtedly,” was his sister’s answer, and taking a light, the -indignant woman walked from the room, thinking to herself that, if ever -_that_ girl came there to live—she’d no idea she would—but if she did, -she—Miss Elinor Howland would make the house a little too uncomfortable -for them - - - - - CHAPTER V. - CALLS. - - -The next morning Miss Elinor felt better, and as time passed on and her -brother did not again visit his new tenants, she began to feel a little -more amiably disposed toward the strangers, and at last decided to call, -intending to go next to the brown house in the hollow, where she was a -frequent visitor. She accordingly started one afternoon for the white -house on the hill, where she was most cordially received. With the -ladylike manners of Mrs. Huntington she could find no fault, but she did -not like the expression of Adelaide’s eyes, nor the sneering manner in -which she spoke of the country and country people; neither did she fail -to see the basket which the young lady pushed hastily under the lounge -as Aunt Peggy ushered her into the sitting-room. On the table there were -scissors, needles and thread, but not a vestige of sewing was visible, -though on the carpet were shreds of cloth, and from beneath the lounge -peeped something which looked vastly like the wristband of a man’s -shirt. - -“Pride and poverty! I’ll venture to say they sew for a living,” Miss -Elinor thought, and making her call as brief as possible, she arose to -go. - -It was in vain that Adelaide urged her to stay longer, telling her “it -was such a treat to see some one who seemed like their former -acquaintances.” - -With a toss of her head Miss Elinor declined, saying she was going to -visit a poor family in the hollow, a blind man and his daughter, and in -adjusting her furs she failed to see how both Adelaide and her mother -started at her words. Soon recovering her composure, the former asked, -who they were, and if they had always lived in Oakland? - -“Their name is Warren,” said Miss Elinor, “and they came, I believe, -from some city in western New York, but I know nothing definite -concerning them, as they always shrink from speaking of their former -condition. Alice, though, is a sweet little creature—so kind to her old -father, and so refined, withal.” - -Mechanically bidding her visitor good afternoon, Adelaide went to her -mother’s side, exclaiming: - -“Who thought those Warrens would toss up in Oakland! Of course, when -they know that we are here, they’ll tell all about father and everything -else. What shall we do?” - -“We are not to blame for your father’s misdeeds,” Mrs. Huntington -answered; and Adelaide replied: - -“I know it, but people think you are a widow with a competence -sufficient to support us genteelly—they don’t suspect how late we sit up -nights, sewing, to make ends meet. Mercy! I hope the peeking old maid -didn’t see that,” she exclaimed, as her own eye fell upon the wristband. -Then, after a moment, she continued, “I know what I’ll do. I’ll go to -Alice this very night, and tell her how sorry we are for what has -happened, and I’ll ask her to say nothing about father’s having cheated -them and run away. She’s a pretty good sort of a girl, I guess, if I did -once to think her so proud.” - -The plan seemed a feasible one, and that evening as Alice Warren sat -bending over a vest, which she must finish that night, she was startled -by the abrupt entrance of Adelaide Huntington, who, seizing both her -hands, said, with well-feigned distress: - -“My poor Alice! I never expected to find you thus.” - -In his arm-chair Mr. Warren was sleeping, but when the stranger’s shadow -fell upon him, he awoke, and stretching out his arms, he said: - -“Who is it, Alice?—who stands between me and the fire?” - -“It is I,” answered Adelaide, coming to his side, “the daughter of him -who ruined you. I have just learned that you were living here in the -same village with ourselves, and, at my mother’s request, I have come to -tell you how bitterly we have wept over my father’s sin, and to ask you -not to hate us for a deed of which we knew nothing until it was all -over.” - -Then seating herself in a chair she continued to speak hurriedly, -telling them some truth and some falsehood—telling them how, for a few -months they had lived with a distant relative, a wealthy man, who gave -them money now for their support—telling them how her father’s disgrace -had affected her mother, and begging of them not to speak of it in -Oakland, where it was not known. - -“I don’t know why it is,” she said, “but people have the impression that -mother is a widow; and though it is wrong to deceive them, I cannot tell -them my father ran away to escape a convict’s cell. It would kill my -mother outright, and if you will keep silent, we shall be forever -grateful.” - -There was no reason why Mr. Warren should speak of his former clerk, and -he answered Adelaide that neither himself nor Alice had any wish to -injure her by talking of the past. Thus relieved of her fears, Adelaide -grew very amiable and sympathetic, saying she did not suppose they were -so poor, and pitying Alice, who must miss so much her pictures, her -flowers, her birds and her music. - -“Come up and try my piano. You may practice on it any time,” she said, -when at last she arose to go. - -“I never played much. I was not fond of it,” was Alice’s answer, while -her father rejoined quickly: - -“Then you keep a piano. I did not know you had one.” - -“Oh, yes, father bought it for me at auction, three years ago, and as he -was not owing any one then, our furniture was not disturbed.” - -The blind man sighed, while Alice dropped a tear on the vest she was -making, as she thought of the difference between herself and Adelaide, -who paused as she reached the door, and asked if she knew Mr. Howland. - -“I sew for his store,” said Alice, and Adelaide continued: - -“Isn’t he a splendid man?” - -Alice did not know whether he was splendid or not—she had never observed -his looks particularly, she said; but she knew he was very kind, and she -liked nothing better than to have him come there evenings, as he often -did. - -“Come here often!” exclaimed Adelaide, her voice indicating the pang -with which a feeling of jealousy had been brought to life. - -Before Alice could reply there was a footstep outside, and the blind -man, whose quick ear caught the sound, said joyfully: - -“He’s coming now.” - -“I wish I had gone home before,” was the first thought of Adelaide, who -did not care to be seen there by Mr. Howland. It might lead to some -inquiries which she would rather should not be made. Still, there was -now no escape, and trusting much to the promise of the Warrens, she -stepped back from the door just as Mr. Howland opened it. He seemed -greatly surprised at finding her there, and still more surprised when he -learned that they were old acquaintances. - -“It is kind in her not to desert them in their poverty,” he thought, and -his manner was still more considerate toward Adelaide, who, after -standing a few moments, made another attempt to go. - -“Wait, Miss Huntington,” said he. “It was both raining and snowing when -I came in, and you will need an umbrella.” - -This was just what Adelaide wanted, and taking a seat she waited -patiently until Mr. Howland signified his readiness to go. Then, bidding -Alice good night, she whispered to her softly: - -“You never will say a word of father, will you?” - -“Certainly not,” was Alice’s reply, and in another moment Adelaide was -in the street walking arm in arm with Mr. Howland, who began to speak of -the Warrens and their extreme poverty. - -“It is evident they have seen better days,” he said, “but they never -seem willing to speak of the past. Did he meet with a reverse of -fortune?” - -For a moment Adelaide was silent, while she revolved the propriety of -saying what she finally did say, and which was— - -“Ye-es—they met with reverses, but as they are unwilling to talk about -it, I, too, had better say nothing of a matter which cannot now be -helped.” - -“Of course not, if it would be to their detriment,” said Mr. Howland, a -painful suspicion entering his mind. - -Hitherto he had regarded Mr. Warren as the soul of integrity, but -Adelaide’s manner, even more than her words, implied that there was -something wrong, and hardly knowing what he said, he continued: - -“Was it anything dishonorable?” - -“If you please, I would rather say nothing about it,” answered Adelaide. -“I don’t wish to do them harm, and I dare say they regret it more than -any one else.” - -Mentally pronouncing her a very prudent, considerate girl, Mr. Howland -walked on in silence, feeling the while that something had been taken -from him. He had become greatly interested in the helpless old blind -man, and in his writing-desk at home was a receipt in full for the first -quarter’s rent, which would become due in a few days. But Mr. Howland -was a man of stern integrity, hating anything like fraud and deceit, and -if Mr. Warren had been guilty of either, he was not worthy of respect. -Alice, too, though she might not have been in fault, did not seem quite -the same, and now as he thought of her, there was less of beauty in the -deep blue of her eyes and the wavy tresses of her hair. - - * * * * * - -“Will you go in? It is a long time since you were here,” said Adelaide, -when at last they reached her mother’s door. - -Her invitation was accepted, and the clock struck nine before Mr. -Howland rose to leave. Accompanying him to the door, Adelaide said, -jingly: - -“I trust you will forget our conversation concerning those Warrens. You -know I didn’t really tell you anything.” - -Mr. Howland bowed and walked away, wishing in his heart that she had -_not_ told him anything, or at least had not created in his mind a -suspicion against people he had hitherto liked so much. So absorbed was -he in his meditations that he did not at first observe the slender -figure which, wrapping its thin shawl close around it, came slowly -toward him, but when the girl reached him and the cold wind blew the -brown curls over her white face, he knew it was Alice Warren, and his -first impulse was to offer her his arm and shield her from the storm. -But Adelaide’s dark insinuations were ringing in his ears, and so Alice -went on alone, while the rain and the sleet beat upon her head and the -cold penetrated through her half worn shoes, chilling her weary feet, -and sending a shiver through her frame. But she did not heed it, or even -think of the driving storm, so eager was she to be at home, where she -could count the contents of the little box and see if with the money -received there was not enough to pay the quarter’s rent. - -But the blind man, listening to the storm, knew how cold his darling -would be, and groping in the darkness, he added fresh fuel to the fire, -and then swept up the hearth, placing her chair a little nearer to his -own, so that it would seem pleasant to her when she came. Poor, helpless -man! He could not see—nay, he had never seen his child, but he could -fancy just how bright and beautiful she would look sitting at his side, -with the fire he had made shining on her hair, and when at last she -came, he clasped her little red hands between his own, rubbing, kissing, -and pitying them until he felt that they were warm. Then, seated in his -chair, he listened while she counted the silver coin, dropping it piece -by piece into his palm and bidding him guess its value by its size. It -was all counted at last, and very joyfully Alice said to her father: - -“There is enough to pay our rent, and we have been comfortable, too, -thanks to Miss Elinor, who has saved us many a shilling by her timely -acts of charity.” - -Miss Elinor had been to them a ministering angel, and however much she -might be disliked at the white house on the hill, she was loved and -honored at the brown house in the hollow, and that night when Alice -Warren sought her pillow, she breathed a prayer for the kind woman who -was to befriend her in more ways than one. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - PAY-DAY. - - -Miss Elinor sat alone in her pleasant parlor, bending over her bit of -embroidery, and setting her needle into the dainty fabric in a manner -plainly indicating a mind ill at ease. And for a lady of her -temperament, Miss Elinor was a good deal disturbed. During the past week -her brother had spent four evenings at the white house on the hill, and -though she had unreservedly given him her opinion of the young lady -Adelaide, he persisted in saying she was the most agreeable and -intelligent girl in Oakland. It was in vain that she told him of the -wristband, saying she had no doubt they sewed secretly for a living. - -He only smiled incredulously, telling her, however, that he should like -Adelaide all the better if he found she was skillful in shirt-making. - -In short, Miss Elinor began to have some wellfounded fears that she -should yet have an opportunity of making the house uncomfortable, both -to herself and the wife her brother might bring there and it was this -reflection which made her so nervous, that pleasant March afternoon. - -“I would rather he married little Alice Warren—blind father and all,” -she thought, just as the door opened softly, and “little Alice Warren” -stood within the room. - -She had been to the store to see Mr. Howland, she said, and as he was -not there she had come to the house, hoping to find him, for she would -rather give the money into his hand and know there was no mistake. - -“What money, child?” asked Miss Elinor, and Alice replied that “it was -pay-day,” at the same time opening the little box and showing the pieces -of money she had saved from her earnings. - -Miss Elinor did not know of the receipt lying in her brother’s -writing-desk, but she resolved that not a penny should be taken from -that box, and bidding Alice be seated on a little stool at her feet, she -told her to wait until her brother came. Then when she saw how languid -and tired Alice seemed, she put her head upon her lap, smoothing the -long brown curls until the weary girl fell asleep, dreaming that it was -her mother’s hand which thus so tenderly caressed her hair. - -For half an hour she slumbered on, and then Mr. Howland came, treading -carefully and speaking low, as his sister, pointing to the sleeping -girl, bade him not to wake her. - -“Look at her, though. Isn’t she pretty?” she whispered, and Mr. Howland, -gazing upon the fair, childish face, felt that he had seldom seen a more -beautiful picture. - -In a few words Miss Elinor told why she was there, adding, in -conclusion: - -“But you won’t take it, of course. You are rich enough without it, and -it will do them so much good.” - -“I never intended to take it,” Mr. Howland replied, and going to his -library, he soon returned with the receipt, which he laid within the -box. - -Just then a new idea presented itself to the mind of Miss Elinor. They -would change the silver, she said, into a bill, which they could roll up -with the receipt and put in Alice’s pocket while she slept. This plan -met with her brother’s approval, and when at last Alice awoke, the box -was empty, while Mr. Howland, to whom she told her errand, blushing -deeply to think he had found her sleeping, replied indifferently: - -“Yes, I found it there, and I like your promptness.” - -At that moment Miss Elinor left the room, and when she returned, she -bore a basket of delicacies for the blind man, who, even then, was -standing in the open door at home and listening anxiously for the -footsteps which did not often linger so long. He heard them at last, and -though they were far down the street, he knew they were Alice’s, and -closing the door he passed his hands carefully over the tea-table, which -he himself had arranged, feeling almost a childish joy as he thought how -surprised Alice would be. - -“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, when at last she came bounding in, “how -could you fix it so nicely? and only think, Miss Elinor has sent you so -many good things—here’s turkey, and cranberry sauce, and pie, and -cheese, and jelly-cake, and white sugar—and everything. I mean, for -once, to eat just as much as I want,” and the delighted girl arranged -the tempting viands upon the table, telling her father, the while, how -pleased Mr. Howland was at her promptness. - -“He gave you a receipt, I suppose?” Mr. Warren said, and Alice replied: - -“Why, no, I never thought of a receipt. I’m so sorry,” and in her -confusion she hit her hand against the hissing teapot she had just -placed upon the table. - -The slight burn which she received, made her handkerchief necessary, -and, in feeling for it, she touched the little roll which Miss Elinor -had put in her pocket. Drawing it forth, and examining its contents, she -experienced, for an instant, sensations similar to those which -Benjamin’s brothers may be supposed to have felt when the silver cup was -found in their possession. - -“What does it mean?” she exclaimed, reading aloud the receipt and -examining the bill, which amounted exactly to the quarter’s rent. - -The blind man knew what it meant, and, bowing his white head upon his -bosom, he silently thanked God who had raised them up friends in their -sore need. Upon Alice the surprise produced a novel effect, moving her -first to laughter and then to tears, and, notwithstanding her intention -of “eating as much as she liked,” she forgot to taste many of the -delicacies spread out so temptingly before her. In her estimation they -were almost rich again, and never, perhaps, came sleep to her more -sweetly than on that night, when she knew that the contents of the -little box was theirs to do with as they pleased. - -Several evenings after this they were surprised by a call from Mr. -Howland, who had not visited them before since the night he had found -Adelaide Huntington there. Thoughts of Alice, however, as she lay -sleeping on his sister’s lap, had haunted him. She was innocent of -wrong, he was sure, and he had come to see her. It was hard, too, to -believe there was aught of evil in that old man with the snow white hair -and truthful looking face, and, after receiving their thanks for his -generosity, he resolved to question them a little of the past, so he -commenced by asking Alice if she had been intimately acquainted with -Adelaide Huntington. - -Remembering her promise, Alice seemed much embarrassed, and answered -hastily: - -“We were never intimate,” while at the same time she glanced toward her -father, whose voice trembled slightly as he rejoined: - -“I had business transactions with Adelaide’s father, but our families -seldom met.” - -The next moment he was talking of something else—his manner plainly -indicating that any further allusion to the Huntingtons was not desired. - -“There is something wrong, or they would not be so unwilling to talk of -their former life,” Mr. Howland thought, and, with his suspicions -strengthened, he soon took his leave, stopping by the way to call on -Adelaide, whose eyes beamed a joyous welcome as he entered the parlor, -in which she received his frequent calls. - -Her mother was in the way in the sitting-room, she thought, and whenever -she had reason for expecting him, she made a fire in the parlor, -shutting up the stove and turning down the lamp until the ringing of the -bell announced his arrival; then, while old Peggy hobbled to the door, -she opened the draught and turned up the lamp, so that by the time Mr. -Howland was ushered in, everything looked cheerful and inviting. By this -means, too, she escaped another annoyance, that of being urged to play; -for, if Mr. Howland did not see the piano, he was not as likely to ask -her to sing, and she had already nearly exhausted her powers of -invention in excuses for her indifferent playing and the style of her -music. - -Ma insisted upon her taking old pieces, she said, but by and by, when -she had a new piano, she should do differently. - -Fortunately for her, Mr. Howland was not a musical man and was thus more -easily deceived. On the evening of which we are speaking, after -listening a while to her sprightly remarks, he suddenly changed the -conversation by saying he had been to see Mr. Warren. - -“And he told me,” said he, “that he once did business with your father.” - -Turning her face away to hide its startled expression, Adelaide asked -hastily: - -“What else did he tell you?” - -“Nothing,” returned Mr. Howland. “He would not talk of the past.” - -“I should not suppose he would,” quietly rejoined Adelaide—then, after a -moment, coming to his side, she continued, “Mr. Howland, I wish you -would promise never to mention that subject again, either to me or those -Warrens. It can do no good, and a knowledge of the truth might injure -some people in your estimation. Promise me, will you?” - -Her hand was laid imploringly upon his arm, her handsome, dark eyes -looked beseechingly into his, and as most men under similar -circumstances would have done, he promised, while Adelaide mentally -congratulated herself upon the fact that his business never took him to -the city where she had formerly lived, and where the name of Huntington -had scarcely yet ceased to be a by-word in the street. Mr. Howland was -much pleased with her, she knew, and if they could manage to keep up -appearances a little longer, he might be secured. One thing, however, -troubled her. Pay-day was near at hand, but alas for the wherewithal to -pay. - -It was not in her mother’s purse, nor yet in any other purse whence they -could procure it. Still Adelaide trusted much to her inventive genius, -and when she bade Mr. Howland good night, chatting gayly as she -accompanied him to the door, he little dreamed how her mind was -distracted with ways and means by which to dupe him still more -effectually. - - * * * * * - -Three weeks passed away, and then, as Miss Elinor sat one evening with -her brother, she asked him if Mrs. Huntington’s rent were not that day -due. - -“Possibly, though I have not given it a thought,” Mr. Howland answered, -his voice indicating that he neither deemed it essential for himself to -be particular, or his sister to be troubled, about Mrs. Huntington’s -rent. - -As far as dollars and cents were concerned, Miss Elinor was not -troubled, though she did think it doubtful whether Adelaide would be as -prompt as Alice had been. But when, as if to verify a proverb not -necessary to be repeated here, Adelaide came to the door almost before -her brother had ceased speaking, she began to think her suspicions -groundless, and her manner was quite conciliatory toward the young lady, -who, after throwing back her veil of dotted lace and fidgeting a while -in her chair, managed to say: - -“It is very humiliating to me, Mr. Howland, to tell you what ma says I -must. She fully expected that the agent who does her business would have -sent her money ere this, but as he has not, she cannot pay you to-day. -Shall we pack up our things at once?” she continued, playfully, as she -saw the expression on Mr. Howland’s face. - -“Perhaps you had better,” he answered in the same strain, continuing in -a more sober tone. “Tell your mother not to be concerned about the rent. -It does not matter if it is not paid until the end of the year.” - -Adelaide drew a relieved breath, while Miss Elinor dropped her -embroidery and involuntarily gave vent to a contemptuous “Umph!” - -The sound caught Adelaide’s ear, and thinking to herself, “Stingy old -thing—afraid they will lose it, I dare say,” she made her call as brief -as possible. - -Nodding to her civily as she arose to go, Miss Elinor turned to her -brother, saying: - -“You know, Richard, you are to go with me to-night to call on Jenny -Hayes.” - -But Richard did not know it, and as his distressed sister saw him going -down the walk with Adelaide Huntington on his arm, she muttered: - -“I’d like to see the man who could make such a fool of me as that girl -has made of him!” - -A wish not likely to be verified, considering that she had already lived -forty-five years without seeing the man. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. - - -Very rapidly the spring passed away, and the soft, sunny skies of June -had more than once tempted the blind man and his daughter into the open -fields, or the woods which lay beyond. Their favorite resort, however, -was a retired spot on the bank of the river, where, shut out from human -eyes, they could speak together of the past, the present, and what the -future might bring. Here, one pleasant afternoon, they came, and while -Mr. Warren talked of his childhood and his early home, Alice sat sewing -at his feet, until growing somewhat weary, she arose and began to search -for wild flowers upon the mossy bank. Suddenly espying some beautiful -pond lilies floating upon the surface of the water, she exclaimed: - -“Oh, father, father, these must be white lilies just like those you used -to gather when a boy.” - -“Where, where?” the blind man asked, and his face shone with the intense -longing he felt to hold once more within his hand the fair blossoms so -interwoven with memories of his boyhood. - -“They are here on the river,” Alice replied, “and I can get them, too, -by going out upon that tree which has partly fallen into the stream.” - -“Don’t, Alice—don’t! There may be danger,” Mr. Warren said, shuddering -even while he spoke with an undefinable fear. - -But Alice was not afraid, and springing lightly upon the trunk of the -tree she ventured out—farther, and farther still, until the lilies were -just within her reach, when, alas, the branch against which she leaned -was broken, and to the ear of the blind man sitting on the grass there -came the startling cry of “Father!” while a heavy splash in the deep, -dark water, told that Alice was gone. - -In wild agony the distracted man ran to the water’s edge and -unhesitatingly waded in, shrieking, as he did so: - -“My child! my child! Is there no eye to pity, no arm to save?” - -Yes, there was an eye to pity, and it raised up an arm to save; for, -rushing from a clump of alders which grew not far away, there came a -rough, hard-featured man, who, catching up Mr. Warren as if he had been -a child, bore him back to the grassy bank, then boldly plunging into the -river, he seized the long tresses of the drowning girl, just as they -were disappearing for the third and last time. Wringing the water from -her brown hair, the stranger folded his light burden gently to his -bosom, and bending over her still, white face, looked earnestly to see -if she were dead. There was yet life, he hoped, and swimming to the -shore, he laid the unconscious maiden upon the grass, resting her head -in the lap of her father, who cried: - -“Is she dead—oh, tell me, is she dead!” - -But the stranger made him no reply, save to take his hand and lay it on -the little heart which was beating faintly. Then with rapid footsteps he -walked away, half pausing once as he heard the poor old man call after -him imploringly. - -“Don’t leave me all alone, for I am blind, and Alice’s heart will stop -beating, I’m afraid. It has stopped beating! She’s dead! oh, she’s -dead!” he screamed, as in the distance he heard the tramping footsteps -going from him fast. - -Still though he knew it not, they went for him, and Mr. Howland, whom -chance had led that way, was surprised in his walk by the sudden -appearance of a man with uncovered head and dripping garments, who bade -him hasten to the river bank, where a young girl, he feared, was -drowned. - -“I am going for a physician,” he said, and he sped away, while Mr. -Howland hurried on to the spot where Alice still lay insensible, and -whiter than the lilies for which she had risked her life. Over her bent -the poor old man, his tears falling like rain upon her face, and himself -whispering sadly: - -“It’s darker now than midnight—they are all gone from me—wife, daughter, -all; oh, Alice, Alice, my bright, my beautiful one. Why did God take you -from me when I needed you so much?” - -“She may not be dead,” said Mr. Howland, and touched with the grief of -the stricken man, his own tears dropped on Alice’s face. - -But they did not rouse her, and with a terrible fear at his heart, he -lifted her lightly in his arms, saying to her father: - -“My house is nearer than any other—we must go there.” - -Dizzy and faint with excitement, Mr. Warren arose to his feet, but to -walk was impossible, and sinking back upon the grass, he cried: - -“Leave me here and care for her. You can send for me by and by.” - -This seemed the only alternative, and Mr. Howland started for home, -meeting ere long with several of the villagers who had been alarmed by -the stranger. A few of them kept on to the river, while others -accompanied Mr. Howland to the house, where crowds of people were soon -assembled, and where every possible means were used for Alice’s -recovery. But they seemed in vain, and when at last the poor old father -reached the door he knew by the death-like silence pervading the room, -that the physician had said, “no hope.” - -“Lead me to her, somebody—lead me to Alice,” he whispered, and taking -his outstretched arm, Mr. Howland led him to the couch where Alice lay, -her wavy hair clinging in damp masses to her forehead, and her long -eyelashes resting upon her marble cheek. - -Quickly the trembling fingers sought the heart, but alas! they felt no -motion, and more than one turned away to weep as they saw the look of -bitter anguish settling down upon the father’s face. There was yet one -test more, and laying his ear upon the bosom of his child, the blind man -listened intently, while the lookers-on held their breath in agonizing -suspense. - -Suddenly through the room there rang the wild, glad cry, “I hear it—she -lives, she lives!” and with renewed courage the people returned to their -labor, which this time was successful, for she who had been so near to -death, came slowly back to life, and when the sun went down, its last -parting rays shone on the bowed head of one who from his inmost soul was -thanking God for not having written him “childless.” - -It was thought advisable that Alice should remain where she was for a -day or two, and they carried her into a large, pleasant chamber, -overlooking the town, Miss Elinor constituting herself the nurse, and -ever and anon bending down to kiss the lips of the young girl who had so -narrowly escaped a watery grave. - -Meanwhile, in the parlors below, both Mr. Warren and Mr. Howland were -making inquiries for the stranger, who, after giving the alarm, had -suddenly disappeared. No one had seen him since, and of those who had -seen him before, none knew who he was or whence he came. - -“If I could have heard the sound of his voice, I should know him -anywhere,” said Mr. Warren, while Adelaide Huntington, who had not been -there long, and who, for some reason, did not like to hear much of the -stranger, suggested that it might have been some foot traveler, who, not -caring for thanks, had gone on his way. - -This seemed probable and satisfactory to all, save Mr. Warren, who -replied: - -“If he would come back, I’ve nothing in the wide world to offer him; but -an old man’s blessing might be of some avail, and that he should have, -even though he were my bitterest enemy, and had done me terrible wrong.” - -There was a deep flush on Adelaide’s cheek as Mr. Warren said these -words, and turning quickly away, she walked to the window to hide the -emotions which she knew were plainly visible upon her face. She seemed -greatly excited, and far more interested in the accident than her slight -friendship for the Warrens would warrant, and when she learned that -Alice was to remain, she, too, insisted upon staying all night, provided -she could be of any assistance. But Miss Elinor declined her offer, and -at a late hour she started for home, managing to steal away when Mr. -Howland did not see her. She evidently did not wish to have him -accompany her, and for a few succeeding days she avoided him going to -his house but once, and that on the morning when Alice was taken home in -the carriage. There was something preying upon her mind—something, too, -whose nature neither Mr. Howland nor his far-seeing sister could divine, -though the former fancied he had discovered it, when, a little more than -a week after the accident, she came to him with her face all wreathed in -smiles and handed him the entire amount of money then due for the rent. - -That provoking agent had attended to them at last, she said, and she was -so glad, for it was very mortifying to be owing any one. - -“And _this_ is what has been troubling you of late?” said Mr. Howland, -who was greatly pleased at seeing her appear like herself again. - -“Then you noticed it,” Adelaide replied, coloring crimson, and adding -hastily: “We have recently been much annoyed and perplexed, but for the -future our agent will be prompt, and so shall we.” - -Whether the agent referred to was prompt or not, there seemed for -several weeks to be plenty of money at the white house on the hill—so -much so, in fact, that Adelaide did not, as usual, go to Springfield to -take her accustomed lesson, while old Peggy, whose shabby dress was -beginning to create some gossip among the villagers, presented quite a -respectable appearance in her new gingham and muslin cap. About this -time, too, there was sent by mail to Mr. Warren the sum of twenty-five -dollars, and as there was no word of explanation accompanying it, he -naturally felt curious to know from whom it came. - -“Miss Elinor sent it, I am sure. It is exactly like her,” said Alice, -who was now entirely well, and that afternoon, when her work was done, -she went up to see Miss Howland, whom she found suffering from a severe -headache, and in ministering to her wants she entirely forgot to speak -of the money. The next day Miss Elinor was much worse, and for many -weeks was confined to her bed with a lingering fever, which left her at -last so nervous and low that her physician advised a journey to the West -as the surest means of restoring her health. Her only sister was living -in Milwaukee, and thither Mr. Howland, who began to be seriously -alarmed, tried to persuade her to go. For a time Miss Elinor hesitated, -and only consented at last on condition that her brother promised not to -engage himself to Adelaide Huntington during her absence. - -Bursting into a laugh, Mr. Howland assured her that she need have no -fears of finding her station, as mistress of his house, filled on her -return, for though Adelaide might possibly some day bear the name of -Howland, he could wait a while, and would do so for his sister’s sake. - -With this promise Miss Elinor tried to be satisfied, and after giving -him many charges not to neglect the blind man, she started for Milwaukee -in company with some friends who, like herself, were westward bound. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - THE PARTY DRESS. - - -It was now the first of December. Miss Elinor had been gone from home -nearly three months, and during this time Mr. Howland had spent one-half -of his evenings at least with Adelaide Huntington, who marvelled that he -did not ask her to be his wife. But the promise made to his sister must -be kept, and so, night after night, he came and went, while Adelaide -experienced fresh pangs of fear lest her deception should be discovered -ere Mr. Howland was secured. - -About this time there were rumors of a large party to be given by Mrs. -Hayes, the most fashionable lady in Oakland, and knowing well how the -beauty of her person would be enhanced by a party dress, Adelaide -resolved to leave no means unspared for the procuring of such a dress. - -She had always observed, she said, that Mr. Howland was unusually -attentive when she looked unusually well, and there was no knowing what -would happen if she eclipsed all the ladies who might be present at the -party, and then, as day after day went by, she grew impatient because no -letter came from one who, at the post-office, was designated as ma’s -provoking agent, but who at home, with none but mother to hear, was -called by a different name. Fretting, however, was of no avail—the -provoking agent did not write, and her purse contained only seven -dollars. - -“If I could get the dress,” she said, “I might possibly manage the -rest,” and then, as she remembered the dainty fabric which Alice Warren -had worn upon that memorable Christmas Eve, she started to her feet -exclaiming, “That’s a good idea,” and ere her mother had time to -question her she was on her way to the brown house in the hollow. - -For a few weeks past Mr. Warren had been seriously ill, and though Alice -worked both early and late, she could not procure for him the little -comforts which he needed and missed so much. Miss Elinor’s words, Do not -neglect the blind man, had been forgotten, and many a weary night had -the blind man’s daughter bent with aching head and tearful eyes over the -piece of work which her increased cares had not permitted her to finish -during the day. They were indeed drinking the bitter cup of poverty, and -the sick man in his sleep was moaning sadly for wine, which he said -would make him strong, when Adelaide Huntington entered the humble room. -Glancing hurriedly at the scanty fire and empty wood-box, she thought: - -“They must be wretchedly poor—I dare say I can get it for almost -nothing.” - -Then seating herself by Alice’s side, she told at once the object of her -visit. She had never forgotten the beautiful lace dress which Alice had -worn on the night of her party, and if there was one thing more than -another which she coveted, it was that. In short she wished to know if -Alice had it now, and if so, would she sell it, telling no one that it -had ever belonged to her. - -At the first mention of the dress, Alice’s tears began to flow, for it -was almost the only relic of the past which she possessed, and now, -laying her head in Adelaide’s lap she sobbed out: - -“Oh, Adelaide, my mother bought it for me, and can I let it go?” - -“You know which you need the most, that or the money,” was Adelaide’s -cold reply, while from his pillow the sick man faintly murmured: - -“Something to make me well.” - -This was enough, and wiping her tears away, Alice took from her trunk -the dress, sighing deeply as she recalled the night when first and last -she wore it. - -“I did not know it was so exquisitely beautiful,” was Adelaide’s mental -comment as Alice shook out the soft, fleecy folds, but she did not say -so. On the contrary she depreciated its value, saying, it had turned -yellow, was rather old-fashioned, and a second-hand article at most, -besides being quite too short for her in its present condition. - -In this manner she paved the way to the price which she finally offered, -and which Alice at first refused to take. Four dollars seemed so little -for what had cost so much. But Alice’s necessities were great, and when -Adelaide offered her another dollar to change the dress as it would have -to be changed for her, she yielded, promising to have it in readiness -and bring it home on the night of the party. After trying it on and -giving numerous directions as to the changes she wished to have made, -Adelaide arose to go, saying nothing concerning the pay. With a beating -heart Alice saw her about to leave, and though it cost her a mighty -effort to do so, she at last conquered her pride and catching Adelaide’s -shawl as she was passing out, she said with quivering lips: - -“If you only will pay me part to-day! Father is sick, and we are so -poor,” and the little blue veined hands were clasped beseechingly -together. - -“There’s a dollar, if that will do you any good,” said Adelaide, -thrusting a bill into Alice’s hand, and then hurrying away. - -She had no intention of cheating Alice out of her pay, but she hated to -part with her money, and on her way home she thought of so many things -which she must have, that she began at last to wonder if Alice would not -just as soon take something from the house, bread, or potatoes, or -soap—she heard old Peggy boasting of having made a barrel full, and soap -was a very useful article—she’d ask Alice when she brought the dress! -and, feeling a good deal of confidence in her plan, she stopped at Mr. -Howland’s store, where she spent a portion of her remaining six dollars -for white kids, satin ribbon, blonde lace and so forth. - -As she was leaving the store, she met Mr. Howland, who accompanied her -to the door, casually asking if she knew how Mr. Warren was getting -along. - -“It is some time since I was there,” he said, “and I think of going -round to-night. As he is sick, they may perhaps be suffering.” - -“Oh, no, they are not,” Adelaide quickly rejoined, “I have just been to -see them myself. Mr. Warren is no worse, and they are doing very well. I -gave Alice some work, too, paying her in advance.” - -“So, on the whole, you think I had better spend the evening with you,” -said Mr. Howland, playfully interrupting her, as he saw that one of his -clerks was desirous of speaking to him. - -“Most certainly I do,” she answered laughingly, as she passed into the -street. - -And so that night, while her father slept, poor Alice Warren trimmed her -little lamp, and with a heavy heart sat down to work upon the costly -garment, every thread of which seemed interwoven with memories of the -mother, who had bought it for her. Occasionally, too, she lifted up her -head, and listened for the footsteps which now but seldom came that way, -for only once had Mr. Howland been there since her father’s illness, and -brushing away a tear, she sighed: - -“He does not care for such as we.” - -That afternoon she had heard the rumor that the proud Miss Huntington -was to be his wife, and though the idea that she, little Alice Warren, -could ever be aught to him, had never entered her mind, the news -affected her painfully, and as she sat alone that night, the world -seemed darker, drearier than it had ever been before, while the future -home of Richard Howland’s bride looked very pleasant to her. - -“Alice,” came faintly from her father, and in a moment Alice was at his -side. “Alice, are you sewing to-night?” - -“Yes, father, I am sewing.” - -“But I thought you finished the vest this afternoon. What are you doing -now?” - -Alice hesitated. She could not tell him she had sold her party dress, -neither would she tell him a lie, so she finally said: - -“Adelaide came here while you slept, and I am fixing a dress for her to -wear to Mrs. Hayes’ party. She gave me a dollar for it, too, and -to-morrow I shall buy you the wine which Dr. Martin says you need, and -maybe I’ll get you some oranges, too. Would you like some oranges, -father?” - -“Yes, yes,” the tremulous voice replied, and the childish old man cried, -as he thought that to-morrow he would have the wine and the oranges, -too. - -The morrow came, and with it came the delicacies so long desired. But -the sick man scarcely tasted them; “some other time he might want them -more,” he said, and with a feeling of disappointment Alice put them -away, while her father, turning wearily upon his pillow, prayed that the -deep, dark waters, through which he instinctively felt that he must ere -long pass, might not be suffered to overflow. - -But to Alice there came no forebodings like these. She only knew her -father was very sick, and she fancied that the luxuries to which he had -been accustomed would make him well again. - -So with untiring patience she worked on, thinking how the money which -Adelaide was to pay her should be expended for her father’s comfort. - -Alas for the poor little girl, who, just as it was growing dark on the -night of the party, folded carefully the finished dress, and then stole -softly to her father’s bedside, to see if he were sleeping. He was -very—very pale, and on his face there was a look like that of her dead -mother. - -But Alice was not alarmed. She had never thought it possible for him to -die, so quiet, so gentle, so uncomplaining he seemed. - -“Father” she said, “can you stay alone while I carry Adelaide her dress? -She is to pay me more than that dollar, and I will buy you ever so many -nice things.” - -“By and by,” he whispered, “it is early yet,” and drawing Alice to him, -he talked to her of her mother, who, he said, seemed very near to him -that night—so near that he could almost feel her soft hand clasp his -own, just as it used to do in the happy days gone by. And while he -talked the darkness in the room increased—the clock struck six, and -releasing his daughter Mr. Warren bade her go. - -“He felt better,” he said, “and was not afraid to stay alone.” - -“You must sleep till I return. I shall not be gone long,” were Alice’s -parting words, and going out, she walked rapidly in the direction of -Mrs. Huntington’s. - -In a very unamiable mood Adelaide met her at the door, chiding her for -her delay, and saying: - -“I began to think you were never coming.” - -“Father has been worse, and I could not work so fast,” was Alice’s meek -reply, as she followed Adelaide into the sitting-room, helping her try -on the dress, which the petulant young lady declared: - -Didn’t fit within a mile! It was too high in the neck—too long in the -waist—too short in the skirt, and must be fixed before it was decent to -wear! - -“Oh, I can’t leave father so long,” said Alice, in dismay, as she -thought how much there was to be done. - -“I’ll risk him,” returned Adelaide. “Any way, when I hire anything done -I expect it to suit me, or I don’t pay, of course.” - -This remark was well-timed, for Alice could not go back without the -money, and with a heavy heart she sat down to her task. But the tears -blinded her eyes, and so impeded her progress that the clock struck -eight before her work was done. - -“Now, put these flowers in my hair, and tie my sash just as yours was -tied,” said the heartless Adelaide, as she saw Alice about to put on her -bonnet. - -In a box which stood upon the table lay the bead purse, and glancing at -that Alice did whatever was required of her, nor scarcely felt a pang -when at last the toilet was completed, and Adelaide Huntington stood -before her arrayed in the selfsame dress which she had worn but two -short years ago. - -“I meant you should dress me all the time,” said Adelaide, glancing -complacently at herself in the mirror. “I meant you should dress -me—mother knows so little about such matters, and then, too, she is sick -up stairs with a violent headache, but I do not need you any longer—what -are you waiting for?” she continued, as Alice made no movement to go. - -“I am waiting for the money which I want so much to-night,” answered -Alice. - -“Ah, yes, the money,” said Adelaide, making a feint to examine the -purse, which she knew was empty. - -Alice knew it, too, all too soon, and sinking down upon a little stool -she cried aloud: - -“What shall we do? The wood is almost gone, and I baked the last cake -to-night. Oh, father, father, what will you do to-morrow?” - -Adelaide Huntington was not hard-hearted enough to be unmoved by this -appeal, and forgetting entirely the soap, she glided from the room to -which she soon returned, bringing a basket of food for Alice, whom she -comforted with the assurance that she should be paid as soon as -possible. - -“I’d no idea they were so poor,” said Adelaide to herself, as the door -closed upon Alice. “I wish he would send the money so I could pay the -debt and have it off my mind.” - -Just then the village omnibus stopped at the door, and Adelaide ran for -a moment to show her mother how she looked, then gathering up the folds -of her rich lace skirt, and throwing on her shawl, she entered the -carriage and was soon riding toward the scene of gayety, while Alice -Warren was hurrying home, a nameless terror creeping into her heart, and -vaguely whispering that the morrow, for which she had been so anxious, -might bring her a sorrow such as orphans only know. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - THE FIGURE ON THE HEARTHSTONE. - - -For a while after Alice left him, Mr. Warren lay perfectly quiet, trying -to number the minutes, by counting each tick of the clock, and wondering -if it were not time for Alice to return. While thus engaged he fell -asleep, and when at last he woke there was a death-like faintness at his -heart; his lips were dry and parched, and he felt a strong desire for -water with which to quench his burning thirst. - -“Alice,” he said feebly, “Alice, is that you? are you here?” but to his -call there came no answer, and throughout the room there was heard no -sound save the steady ticking of the clock. - -Why then did the blind man raise himself upon his elbow and roll his -sightless eyes around the silent apartment. Did he hear aught in the -deep stillness? He thought he did—ay, he was sure he did, and again he -called: - -“Alice, Alice, are you here?” - -But Alice made him no reply, and as the minutes went by, the sick man -grew delirious, talking of the past, which seemed present with him now. -Then, as reason for a moment returned, he moaned: - -“Oh, Alice, will you never come? The fire is going out and I am growing -cold. Oh, must I die alone at last?” - -No, not alone; for, crouched upon the hearthstone, there sat a human -form. It was the figure of a man—a dark, hard-featured man; and often, -as the wailing cry came from the humble bed, it bowed its head upon its -hands and wept. Carefully, stealthily through the door it had come while -Mr. Warren slept, and the deep black eyes, which glowed at first like -coals of living fire, grew dim with tears as, glancing hurriedly around -the room, they saw how poor it was. - -“Isn’t there somebody here with me?” the sick man said at last, as his -quick ear caught the sound of breathing. “Speak, isn’t there somebody -here?” he continued, while the figure on the hearthstone glided -noiselessly to the bedside, where it stood erect, gazing pitifully upon -the white, worn face which, with the lamp-light shining on it, seemed of -a deathly hue. - -It was a strange sight, that statue standing there so silently, and that -blind old man trying in vain to penetrate the darkness and learn who it -was that stood there beside him. Raising himself at last in bed, and -stretching out his arm, he touched a hand colder even than his own, for -guilt and fear had chilled the blood of him who remained immovable, -while the trembling fingers passed nervously over the face, through the -hair, down the side, until they reached the left hand, from whose -fore-finger a joint was gone. That missing joint, though we have made no -mention of it heretofore, was well remembered by Hugo Warren, and it -needed but this proof to tell him who was there. - -“William Huntington,” he hoarsely whispered, and falling back upon his -pillow, he wiped the drops of perspiration from his face, for the -presence of that man, coming to him thus, awakened all the bitter -memories of the past. “William Huntington,” he gasped, “why are you here -on this night of all others, when my lost wife seems present with me, -and my ruined hopes pass in sad review before my mind. Say, have you -come to add the last drop in the brimming bucket?” - -There was a moment’s silence, and then, falling upon his knees, William -Huntington made answer to the man he had so wronged. - -“I did not come to insult you, but rather to seek the forgiveness which -I know I do not merit. Only say that you forgive me, Mr. Warren—let me -once hold your hand in token of reconciliation, and then do with me what -you will. A life within a felon’s cell is preferable far, to the remorse -which I have carried with me for two long, dreary years. Say, will you -not forgive me?” he continued, and the strong man’s voice was choked -with tears. - -“Forgive you, William,” Mr. Warren replied, “I might perhaps forgive -you, were my fortune all you wrested from me, but when I think of my -lost Helen, my heart is turned to steel, for you killed her, William -Huntington—you killed my precious wife.” - -“Yes, yes, it was my base act which killed her, it is true, still I have -made you some amends. I saved your daughter’s life, you know, else I had -never dared to seek your face again,” said Mr. Huntington, interrupting -him. - -“You saved Alice’s life?” the excited man rejoined, and the hand which -had withdrawn itself beneath the bed-clothes now came forth again, -feeling eagerly for the bowed head, on which it rested forgivingly, -while he continued, “It was you, then who took her from the river, and -laid her in my arms—you who saved me from a darker night than any I have -ever known. Yes, William, because you did this good to me, you are -forgiven, fully, freely forgiven—but why have you not told of it before? -Where have you been, and did your family know aught of this?” - -“My family know aught of this?” repeated Mr. Huntington. “Can it be I am -deceived?” and then, with the shaking hand still resting on his head, he -told how he had wandered far and wide, seeking rest and finding none, -for ever present to his mind was a white-haired, sightless man, weeping, -o’er his pale, dead wife. - -In the far off California land he had dug for gold, vainly hoping by -this means some time to make amends for the ruin he had wrought. At -last, as the burden of remorse grew heavier to bear, he sought his home -to see once more the faces of his wife and child, hoping, too, that the -forgiveness he so much desired might be obtained. - -“I found them here,” said he—“found my wife and Adelaide working hard -and secretly, lest the world should know how poor they were. I met my -daughter first, and Heaven forgive me if I do her wrong, I thought she -was not glad to see me. I questioned her of you, and learned that you -were here, too, and very poor. You were fully determined, she said, to -revenge yourself on me should I ever be found, and she urged me not to -let my presence here be known, until she had tried to procure for me -your forgiveness. My wife did not seem to understand your feelings, for -she had never seen you, and she wished me to remain; but my daughter’s -fears and my own dread of a convict’s fate prevailed, and trusting to -Adelaide’s promise that she would eventually obtain your pardon for me, -I left them again and became a second time a wanderer. I intended to -take the cars at West Oakland, and was following the course of the -river, when, pausing for a moment to rest, I saw you approaching, and -hid behind the alders, one moment resolving to throw myself at your -feet, and again fearing to do so, for guilt had made me cowardly and -weak. The rest of that day’s incidents you know. I saved your daughter’s -life, but I dared not speak, lest I should be betrayed. My wet clothes -made it necessary for me to return to the house, where I told what I had -done, and asked if this would not atone. My wife said yes, but Adelaide -was fearful still. She would see you herself, she said, and she did see -you that very day, but you refused. ‘The law must take its course,’ you -said, ‘even though I saved a hundred lives.’” - -“Never! so help me Heaven!” Mr. Warren exclaimed. “Such words as those -never passed my lips, and till this moment I knew not who it was that -saved my child. Forgive me, William, but she lied, that girl Adelaide. -There was treachery in her voice when she sat at my feet and asked me -not to tell of your misdeeds, lest disgrace should fall on her. People -thought her mother was a widow, she said, and she would rather they -should not know that you ran away to escape a prison home.” - -“Oh, Adelaide, my child, my child, why did you thus deceive me?” the -wretched father groaned, while Mr. Warren continued: - -“I never tried to find you, William, or sought to do you harm; but go on -and tell me where you have been since that time.” - -“I remained at home a day or two, hiding from the sight of men,” Mr. -Huntington replied, “and then one night I went away, thinking to make -for my family a home in the distant West, where you would never find me. -But no spot could be home to me with that load upon my mind, so at last -I determined to see you myself, and beg for your forgiveness. They think -me far away, my wife and Adelaide, for I only paused a moment at their -door. Looking through the half-closed blind I saw your daughter there, -and knowing that you must be alone I hastened on, entering your dwelling -while you slept, and now it remains for you to do with me what you -will.” - -“Nothing, William, I shall do nothing—only raise me up, my breath is -going from me,” Mr. Warren gasped. - -The faintness he had experienced once before had returned again, brought -on by the excitement of what he had heard, and Mr. Huntington, when he -saw the corpse-like pallor stealing over his face, feared that he was -dying. He was not afraid of death, but the world, he knew, was a -suspicious one, and he would rather the man he had so wronged should not -die alone with him. Just then he heard without, a footstep coming near, -and thinking it must be Alice, he hurried to the door, exclaiming: - -“Be quick! your father, I fear, is dying!” - -In a moment the person thus addressed stood at Mr. Warren’s bedside, and -when the fainting man came back to consciousness he whispered softly: - -“God bless you, Mr. Howland, for coming here again.” - -It was Richard Howland who stood there side by side with one whom he -readily recognized as the stranger who had saved the life of Alice -Warren. He had started for the party, going through the hollow as the -shortest route, and was passing Mr. Warren’s gate, when the words, “Be -quick! your father, I fear, is dying,” arrested his attention, bringing -him at once into the presence of the blind man whom he had so long -neglected. - -“I did not know you were so ill,” he was about to say, when Alice -entered the room. - -“Father,” she cried, bounding to his side, “are you worse?” and then, as -her eyes fell upon Mr. Huntington, the hot blood stained her face and -neck, for she knew who he was, and marveled much that he was there. - -“Alice,” said Mr. Warren, “I have forgiven William Huntington because he -saved your life, though he dared not let us know it then, for Adelaide -had said I thirsted for revenge. He has suffered much, my child, and -you, I am sure, will sanction my forgiveness.” - -It was in vain that Alice attempted to speak, so astonished was she at -what she had heard, and, misinterpreting her silence, Mr. Huntington -advanced toward her, saying, imploringly: - -“Hear, me, young lady, and you will perhaps be willing to forgive.” - -Then very rapidly he repeated in substance the story he had told her -father, touching as lightly as possible on Adelaide’s duplicity, but -still making the matter plain to Alice and clear to him, who, with -clasped hands and wildly beating heart, listened breathlessly to the -strange tale he heard. Richard Howland was undeceived at last, and the -girl he had almost loved was revealed to him in her true character, as -an artful, designing woman. The father, who he supposed was dead, stood -there, a living, breathing man, identical, he was sure, with the agent -of whom he had often heard, and, worse than all, the people against whom -she had breathed her dark insinuations, were innocent of evil; the wrong -was on the other side, and he had been her dupe; had even thought it -possible to call that girl his wife. His wife! how he loathed the very -idea now that he knew her guilt, and how his conscience smote him for -having ever wronged in thought the helpless old blind man and his -gentle, fair-haired daughter. They had suffered, too, from his neglect, -but he could make amends for that, and his heart went out in pity toward -Alice as he contrasted her former life with her present dreary lot. The -party was forgotten, and while Adelaide, in a most impatient mood, -watched each fresh arrival, he, for whom she watched in vain, smoothed -the tumbled pillow, bathed the burning brow, or brought the cooling -draught, and then spoke words of comfort to the weeping Alice, who read -upon his face, and that of Mr. Huntington, a confirmation of her fears. - -But not that night did Mr. Warren die, though the physician, for whom -Mr. Huntington was sent, would give no hope. The disease had assumed a -most alarming form, he said, and Mr. Howland’s hand rested pityingly on -the bowed head of the young girl who was soon to be an orphan. The -morning came, and then, as it was necessary for him to go home for a -time, he left both father and child to the care of Mr. Huntington, -promising to send down one of his domestics, and to return himself ere -long. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - REVELATIONS. - - -The morning train from Albany had thundered through the town, and Mr. -Howland was about returning to the hollow, when hasty footsteps were -heard in the hall, and in a moment his sister stood before him. She had -traveled night and day since leaving Milwaukee, she said, but she didn’t -mind it at all, she was so impatient to be at home and tell him what she -had heard, and, without so much as untying her bonnet, Miss Elinor -continued: - -“I told you all the time they were impostors—but men have so little -sense. I’m glad I ain’t a man, though if I were, no woman would ever -impose on me as that Adelaide has on you. Why, instead of taking music -lessons, as she pretends to do, she goes to Springfield after work, and -the satchel you more than once carried for her, had in it vests and -shirts, and mercy knows what—tell me that wasn’t a wristband I saw under -the lounge. I guess I know a wristband. They are just as poor as they -can be, and sew for Mr. Lincoln’s store in Springfield, for Mrs. -Lincoln’s cousin told me so. I met her in Milwaukee, and when she knew I -was from Oakland, she spoke of Adelaide, and asked me if I knew her. I -told her yes, and then she asked if she were married yet, saying she -hoped she was, for it seemed a pity that a stylish-looking girl like her -should be obliged to sew for a living. Of course I questioned her, -learning what I’ve told you, and, worse than all the rest, Adelaide made -this lady believe that she was going to marry a very wealthy man, who -had a most delightful home, with one incumbrance, which she should soon -manage to dispose of, and that incumbrance was a dried-up old maid -sister! Do you hear that, Richard Howland? A dried-up old maid sister. -That means me!” and the highly scandalized lady walked up and down the -room, upsetting, in her wrath, both her traveling basket and band-box, -which last in a measure diverted her attention, for no woman, whether -married or single, can think of anything else when her “best bonnet” is -in danger. - -Picking up the box, and assuring herself that its contents were -unharmed, she continued: - -“Why don’t you say something, Richard? Are you not surprised at what I -have told you?” - -“Not particularly,” he answered, and coming to her side he repeated to -her the story he had heard from Adelaide’s own father, so long supposed -to be dead. - -“The trollop! the jade!” ejaculated Miss Elinor. “I understand her -perfectly. She wished to keep up appearances, and make her father stay -away until she became your wife, and you couldn’t help yourself. -Dried-up old maid, indeed! I’ll teach her to call me names. But what of -Mr. Warren and little Alice? I’ll go to them at once,” and -notwithstanding her recent fatiguing journey, the energetic woman -started for the hollow, saying to her brother, who accompanied her, “I -am determined upon one thing, Richard. If Mr. Warren dies, Alice will -live with us and have the best chamber, too. Poor little creature, how -she must have suffered.” - -They found both Mr. Warren and Alice asleep, but Miss Elinor’s kiss -awoke the latter, who uttered a cry of joy at the sight of her friend -and benefactress. The sick man, too, ere long, awoke, but only to doze -again, and as the day wore on he continued in a state of stupor, from -which it was difficult to rouse him. Just before the sun was setting, -however, consciousness returned, and he asked for Alice, who in a moment -was at his side. Winding his arm lovingly around her neck, he prayed -that the God of the fatherless would not forsake her when she should be -alone. - -“I am going from you, Alice,” he said, “going to your mother, who has -waited for me all day, and the pain of death would scarce be felt did I -know what would become of you.” - -“Tell him, Richard,” whispered Miss Elinor, and advancing to the -bedside, Mr. Howland said: - -“Your daughter shall live with me when you are gone.” - -“God bless you,” came feebly from the dying man, while the fair head -resting on his bosom was a moment uplifted, and Mr. Howland never forgot -the grateful, glad expression of the soft blue eyes which looked into -his face. - -“I, too, will care for Alice so long as my life is spared,” said Mr. -Huntington, who had been there all the day, and again from the white -lips a faint “God bless you” came. - -Slowly toward the western horizon sank the setting sun, and when at last -his farewell beams looked into that room of death, they shone on the -frosty hair and still white face of one who was no longer blind, for to -him the light of a better world had been revealed, and the eyes so long -in darkness here were opened to the glories of the New Jerusalem. - -Every necessary care was bestowed upon the dead, and then, leaving the -orphaned Alice in Miss Elinor’s arms, with Mr. Howland standing near and -speaking to her an occasional word of comfort, Mr. Huntington started -for his home, walking slowly, sadly; for his heart was full of -sorrow—sorrow for the dead and sorrow for his only child, who had so -cruelly deceived him. What her motive was he could not guess, unless it -were that she dreaded the disgrace his presence might bring upon her, -and when he thought of this, he half resolved to leave her forever, but -love for his wife prevailed, and with an aching heart he kept on his -way. - - * * * * * - -Restless and impatient Adelaide had passed the day in wondering what had -happened to Mr. Howland, and why he was not at the party. She had -confidently expected him there, but he had disappointed her, and the -lace dress with which she hoped to impress him was worn for naught. - -“Parties were bores, anyway,” she said, “and she hoped she should never -attend another so long as her name was Adelaide Huntington.” - -In this unamiable mood she fretted until late in the afternoon, when old -Peggy, who had been sent on an errand to the village, returned, bringing -the news that Mr. Warren was not expected to live, and that she saw Mr. -Howland entering the door as she passed. Then lowering her voice to a -whisper, she continued: - -“Right up against the window was a man’s head, which looked so like your -father that I stopped a little, hoping he would turn his face one side, -but he didn’t, and I came along.” - -“My father,” repeated Adelaide, “isn’t within a hundred miles of here.” - -Still the idea troubled her even more than the news of Mr. Warren’s -illness, and after old Peggy left the room, she turned to her mother -saying: - -“Wouldn’t it be mean if father had come back and gone to see Mr. -Warren?” - -“I suppose it would be right, though,” returned her mother, while -Adelaide continued: - -“Right or wrong, nobody wants him turning up bodily just yet, for Mr. -Howland is so squeamish about a little deception that any chance of -winning him would be rather slim, if he knew father was not dead as he -believes him to be. If I secure him before he finds it out, he can’t -help himself, and I wish he’d either propose or let it alone. I declare, -mother, I think it is your duty as a prudent, careful parent to ask what -his intentions are. You can tell him there is a great deal of talk about -his coming here so much, and unless he is serious, you prefer that he -should discontinue his visits, hinting, of course, that you fear my -affections are already too deeply enlisted for my future happiness -should he not be in earnest. Say, mother, will you tell him this when he -comes again?” - -Mrs. Huntington at first refused, but Adelaide’s entreaties finally -prevailed, and it was decided that when Mr. Howland next visited them he -should be questioned concerning his intentions. - -“Oh, I hope he’ll come to-night,” said Adelaide, and feeling confident -that he would, she made some changes in her dress, smoothed her glossy -hair, and then, just as it was growing dark, lay down upon the lounge, -building castles of the future, and wondering if she should be Adelaide -Huntington one year from that day. - -As she lay thus, she heard the gate open and shut—a heavy footstep was -coming up the walk, and thinking it must be Mr. Howland she assumed a -half reclining posture, which she fancied was careless and graceful, and -then awaited the appearance of her expected visitor. He did not ring, -and she heard his step in the hall. Nearer and nearer he came, his hand -was on the knob, and as the door swung back the large black eyes, which -turned at first so eagerly in that direction, flashed their surprise and -anger, not on Richard Howland, but on William Huntington, who keenly -felt the coldness of his welcome. - -“Father,” she exclaimed, “where did you come from?” - -“I came from Mr. Warren’s,” he answered. “He is dead, but I have been -forgiven, and can once more walk the earth a free and fearless man. -Adelaide,” he continued, and in the tone of his voice and gleam of his -eye there was something which made the guilty girl tremble, “I have -heard that of you which fills me with grief. Oh, my child, how could you -so shamefully deceive me?” - -“What do you mean?” she asked, in well-feigned surprise, for she would -not admit anything until she knew how far she was implicated. - -Very briefly her father repeated to her what he had heard from Mr. -Warren, and then awaited her answer. At first she thought to deny the -charge, but she dared not give the lie to one then lying dead not far -away, so she remained silent, trying in vain to frame some excuse with -which to appease her father, and also to find some way of again binding -Alice to secrecy, so that Mr. Howland should never hear of her -falsehoods. He would, perhaps, excuse her deception with regard to her -father when she told him, as she should do, that she had done it for the -sake of her mother, who could not endure to have the matter known, and -if the rest were kept from him, all might yet end well. - -At that moment she remembered what Peggy had said, and with a faint -voice she asked: - -“Does any one know this but yourself?” - -“Mr. Warren’s daughter knows it,” he returned. “And the young -man—Howland is his name—knows it, too, for he was there all night and -heard my conversation with Alice.” - -“Mr. Howland!” Adelaide fairly screamed, and in the terrified expression -of her face the motive for her conduct was revealed to her father, who -rather enjoyed than otherwise the passionate tears of anger and -mortification which she shed at finding herself thus betrayed to one -whom she had loved as well as such as she could love. - -“I understand you perfectly,” said Mr. Huntington, advancing toward her -as she lay weeping on the lounge, “and your punishment is just; for a -child who can abuse its father as you have abused me, ought never to be -the wife of a man like Mr. Howland. I will not reproach you further with -your guilt,” he continued, “for your sin has found you out, and I leave -you to your own reflections.” - -So saying, he passed on in quest of his wife, whose welcome to the -repentant man was far more cordial than that of his daughter had been. - -Adelaide was, indeed, sorely punished, for all hope of winning Mr. -Howland was gone, and, as the days wore on, she experienced more and -more that the way of the transgressor is hard. - -The story of Mr. Huntington’s existence and return to his family -circulated rapidly, and with it, hand in hand, went the rumor of the -wrong he had once done to the blind man, who by the people of Oakland -was honored more in death than he had been in life, for they came in -crowds to his funeral, gazing pityingly at the white face of the dead, -and then staring curiously at the dark-browed stranger who was said to -be William Huntington. Adelaide was not there, for Miss Elinor, a little -given to gossip, it may be, had kindly remembered her, and numerous were -the exaggerated stories afloat concerning the deception she had -practiced both upon her father and the villagers. Like most people she -had one so-called friend who dutifully kept her informed with regard to -all that was said concerning her, and completely overwhelmed with shame -and mortification, she resolved to keep herself secluded at home, where -she vented her disappointment in harsh language and bitter tears, -particularly when, on the day succeeding the funeral, she heard that -Miss Elinor had taken Alice to live with her. - -But little did Miss Elinor care for her anger. The world to her was -brighter now than it had been for many years, and with something of a -mother’s love, her heart went out toward the orphan to whom she had -given a home. Adelaide, however, was not forgotten, and the good lady -was certainly excusable if, when riding with her protege, she did -frequently order Jim to take them round to High Street, bidding him -drive slowly past the house of the Huntingtons. But if in this way she -thought to obtain a glimpse of Adelaide, she was mistaken, for the young -lady was never visible, though, safely hidden behind the curtain, she -herself seldom failed to see the carriage and the little figure in -black, who she instinctively felt would some day be her rival. - -The bitterest drop of all in Adelaide’s cup of mortification was the -knowledge that Mr. Howland had once thought to make her his wife, for he -told her so in a letter written three weeks subsequent to Mr. Warren’s -death. It is true he had never committed himself by words, but he had -done so by actions, and honor demanded an explanation. So he wrote at -last, and though it was a most polite and gentlemanly note, its contents -stung her to her inmost soul, and casting it into the fire she watched -it as it turned to ashes, feeling the while as if her own heart were -charred and blistered with its load of guilt and shame. There were no -more trips to Springfield now, for concealment of labor was no longer -necessary, and the satchel Miss Elinor taunted her brother with having -carried so often, lay useless upon the closet shelf. - -“I’ll die before I’ll do that—father may support us,” Adelaide had said -when her mother suggested that they take in sewing from Mr. Howland’s -store. - -And Mr. Huntington did do his best toward maintaining his family, but -popular opinion was against him. He had defrauded his employer once—he -might do so again—and so all looked upon him with distrust, making it -sometimes very hard for him to procure even the common necessaries of -life. His health, too, had become impaired, both by exposure and the -mental anguish he had so long endured, and night after night his labored -breathing and hacking cough smote painfully on the ear of his wife, -whose love no circumstances could destroy. - -One morning, toward the middle of February, he left them as usual, but -he was soon brought back with a broken limb, which he had received from -a fall upon the ice. For him to work was now impossible, and Adelaide no -longer objected when her mother proposed that Peggy should be sent for -sewing to Mr. Howland, who gave it to her readily, manifesting much -concern for Mr. Huntington, whom Peggy represented as being in a most -deplorable condition. - -Two or three days afterward, as he was leaving the store, he received a -message from the sick man, who wished to see him, and in a short time he -stood at the bedside of Mr. Huntington, who told, in a few words, why he -had been sent for. - -They could not keep that house—they must rent a cheaper one, and if no -tenant for the brown house in the hollow had been obtained, would Mr. -Howland let him have it? He would try hard when he got well to pay the -rent, and the strong man’s eyes filled with tears, just as little Alice -Warren’s had done when words similar to these escaped her lips. - -Yes, he could have it, Mr. Howland said, and the sum he asked for it was -just what Mr. Warren had paid; then fearing lest Adelaide by chance -should enter the room, he hastened away, pondering upon the changes -which a few short weeks had brought to the haughty girl, who, when she -heard of her father’s arrangement, flew into a violent rage, declaring -she would kill herself before she’d live in that little shanty. - -But neither her wrath nor her tears could shake her father’s -determination, and when the first April sun had set, and the warm spring -moon had risen, wretched, hopeless and weary, Adelaide Huntington crept -up to her bed beneath the rafters, covering her head with the sheet, -lest she should see the white-haired, sightless specter, which, to her -disordered fancy, seemed haunting that low-roofed dwelling. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - NATURAL CONSEQUENCES. - - -It is summer again—“the leafy month of June”—and in the spacious, -well-kept grounds of Richard Howland hundreds of roses are blossoming, -but none so fair and beautiful to the owner of these grounds as the rose -which blossoms within the house—the brighthaired, gentle Alice, who, -when the grief-laden clouds of adversity were overshadowing her life, -did not dream that she could ever be as happy as she is in her new home. -The grass-grown grave in the quiet valley is not neglected, nor he who -rests there forgotten, but though her tears fall often on the sod, she -cannot wish the blind man back in a world which was so truly dark to -him. - -And Alice has learned to be happy in her luxurious home—happy in the -tender love which Miss Elinor ever lavishes upon her, and happy, too, in -the quiet brother-like affection of him who seems to her the embodiment -of every manly virtue. He does not talk often with her, for Richard -Howland deals not so much in words as deeds, but in a thousand little -ways he tells her he is glad to have her there. And this is all he tells -her, so that neither she nor his more discerning sister dream how sweet -to him is the music of the childish voice, which often in the gathering -twilight sings some song of the olden time; nor do they know, when -returning home at night, how wistfully he glances toward the window -where Alice is wont to sit, and if they did know it, they could not -fathom his meaning, for when the golden hair and bright young face is -there, he always turns aside, lingering without, as if within there were -no maiden fair, whose eyes of blue played wilder notes upon his -heart-strings than the dark, proud orbs of Adelaide had ever done. Even -he does not know he loves her, so quietly that love has come—creeping -over him while he slept—stealing over him when he woke—whispering to him -in the dingy counting-room, and bidding him cast frequent glances at the -western sky, to see if it were not time that he were home. He only knows -that he is very happy, and that his happiness is in some way connected -with the childish form which flits before him like a sunbeam, filling -his home with light and joy. It had never occurred to him that she might -sometime go away, and leave in his household a void which no other one -could fill, and when one day, toward the last of June, his sister said -to him, “Alice has received a letter from an old friend of her mother, -asking her to take charge of the juvenile department of a young ladies’ -seminary in B——,” he started as if he had been smitten with a heavy -blow. - -“Alice teach school!” he exclaimed. “Alice go away from—me—from you, I -mean. Preposterous! She don’t, of course, think of accepting the offer?” - -“Yes, she does. I’d no idea she had so much decision,” and Miss Elinor’s -scissors cut quite a hole in the embroidery on which she has worked ever -since we knew her. “I remonstrated when she told me she should return an -affirmative answer, but it did no good. She never intended long to -burden people on whom she had no claim, she said. She would rather be -independent, and though she was very happy here, she felt it her duty to -earn her own living, now that an opportunity was presented.” - -“Earn her own living,” repeated Mr. Howland, “just as though she cost -anybody anything. There is some other reason, and if I didn’t know you -as well as I do, I should be inclined to think the fault was with you. -Maybe you do sometimes scold her, Elinor?” and he fixed his eyes -inquiringly upon his sister’s face. - -Miss Elinor had striven hard to restrain the tears which thoughts of -parting with her favorite induced, and thus far she had succeeded, but -when she heard her brother’s remark, they burst forth at once. - -“_Me_ scold Alice?” was all she could articulate, as with a deeply -injured air she left the room, while her brother, seizing his hat, -hurried off to the store, where he remained the entire day, trying to -think how it would seem to him when he knew that Alice was gone. - -_It didn’t seem at all_, either to him or to his clerks, for never -before had he been so irritable and cross, finding fault with the most -trivial matters; chiding the cash-boy for moving too fast, and the head -clerk for moving too slow; refusing to trust the widow Simpson, whom he -had trusted all his life, and making himself so generally disagreeable -that the young men in his employ were not sorry when, about five -o’clock, they saw him start for home. - -“I’m glad he’s gone, anyway, dern him!” muttered Check, who had been, -perhaps, the greatest sufferer, and with a most contemptuous whistle he -looked after the retreating figure of his master. - -Alice was not in the yard—nor in the parlor—nor in the house. He knew it -by that indefinable feeling which we experience when the one we love the -best is absent. - -“She had gone to walk by the river,” Miss Elinor said, when questioned, -asking him in the same breath why he didn’t come home to dinner. - -“I was not hungry,” he replied. “The prospect of losing Alice has taken -my appetite away. Do you think she would stay with us, if I were to -adopt her as my daughter?” - -Miss Elinor didn’t think anything. She had not quite forgiven his unjust -remark in the morning, and failing to obtain satisfaction from her, he -started in quest of Alice, who, he was sure, would listen favorably to -his plan of adoption. The tree where she and her father sat on that -afternoon when she had come so near to death, was her favorite resort, -and here he now found her, thinking of the coming time when she would be -gone. It had cost her a struggle to decide the matter, but it was best, -she thought; she could not always be dependent, and that very night she -would answer “Yes.” But she wondered why she should feel so sad, or why -the thought of leaving Mr. Howland should make her pain harder to bear. - -“I shall miss both him and his sister so much,” she unconsciously said -aloud, “I shall miss them both, but him the most.” - -“Why then do you go?” came to her startled ear, and Richard Howland -stood before her. - -Springing to her feet she blushed and stammered out something about the -watch-dog Ponto, whom she should miss. But it would not do. Mr. Howland -was not to be deceived, and in her telltale face he knew the watch-dog -Ponto meant himself. - -“Alice,” said he, “sit down with me upon the bank, and tell me why you -wish to leave us.” - -Alice obeyed, but neither of them spoke until Mr. Howland, growing -suddenly very bold, wound his arm around her waist, and drew her to his -side. It was the first time in his life he had ever found himself in a -position like this, and though it was very novel—very strange—he liked -it. He forgot, too, all about the adoption, and bending low, so that in -case of an emergency his lips could touch her cheek, he whispered: - -“Alice—” - -But what else he said the murmuring river never told, neither the summer -air which lifted the shining tresses falling over his arm, nor yet the -little bird, which from the overhanging bough looked archly down upon -them, shutting its round, bright eye with a knowing look as if it -understood that scene. It did understand, and the sight of them sitting -there thus brought to mind the dainty nest up in the maple tree, where -its own loved mate was waiting, and when at last the maiden lifted up -her head, it plumed its wings for flight and flew away, singing as it -flew. - -“She’s won—she’s won.” - -That night Alice, instead of Mr. Howland, was missing from the table, -and when Miss Elinor sought her in her room, she was surprised at the -abruptness with which the young girl threw her arms around her neck and -whispered: - -“I am happy—oh, so happy.” - -Then, with the twilight shadows gathering around, Alice told her story -to the wondering lady, who in her joy forgave her brother for his unjust -insinuation, and folding the orphan girl lovingly in her arms, she told -her how gladly she should welcome her as a sister. It was known ere long -all over town that the wealthy Mr. Howland was to wed the blind man’s -daughter, and the rude brown rafters of the cottage in the hollow never -witnessed so fierce a storm of passion and of tears as on the night when -first to Adelaide came tidings that the man she so much loved had given -himself to another. To William Huntington, however, the news brought joy -and gladness. He had recovered from his broken limb, but his health did -not improve, and now he seldom left his home. Still he did whatever he -could do for his family, and the little yard in front of his house was -filled with flowers, which he tended with the utmost care, and sold in -small bouquets to such of the villagers as wished to buy. When he heard -that Alice was to be a bride ere the summer days were gone, he set apart -his choicest flowers, watching them with jealous care, and experiencing -a childish delight in thinking how he would form a rare bouquet, worthy -of her to whom it should be given. - -There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, Mr. Howland -said, and so one balmy night, when the harvest moon was in its infancy, -St. Luke’s Church was filled to overflowing, and the same man, who, over -Hugo Warren’s grave, had read the burial service, now spoke the solemn -words which made one flesh of two. And when the rite was ended and Alice -was a bride, from the three towers of Oakland there rang a merry peal, -for Mr. Howland was greatly honored by the citizens who thus would keep -his wedding night. - -Across the grassy meadow, up the wooded hill, and down into the hollow, -floated the music of those bells, awakening an answering note of joy in -every heart save that of the wretched Adelaide, who, grinding her teeth -together, fled to her lonely garret and stuffed cotton in her ears, so -as to shut out the hateful sound, which told her of her rival’s -happiness. Anon, and from the rocky heights which overlooked the town, -and from the village green, there shone a lurid light. Bonfires had been -kindled by the workmen from the factory and shop, and among the boys who -danced around the blazing fire, none threw his hat so high or cut so -many antics as did the little Check, who in his bran-new suit, the gift -of Mr. Howland, forgot his grievances on that memorable day when his -master tried to see how it would seem, to live without Alice Warren. - -From her window Adelaide looked out upon the scene, shedding bitter -tears of envy and of rage, then, wishing she had never seen the light of -day she sought her solitary pillow and cried herself to sleep, while the -song and the dance moved joyously on, and the gentle bride, in her robes -of white, looked lovingly up to him who was her all in all. Nor were the -inmates of the brown house in the hollow forgotten by Alice in her -prosperity. From Mr. Huntington she had received a beautiful bouquet; it -was all, save his blessing, that he had to give, he said, and Alice -prized it the more when she knew how carefully he had watched each -opening bud, shielding it alike from storm and noonday heat. - -“I will remember him for this,” she thought, and many a timely gift -found its way to the brown cottage where it was sorely needed, for as -the fall advanced Mr. Huntington grew worse, and to the other labors of -his family was added the task of ministering to him and providing for -his wants. - -As yet, no rent for the cottage had been paid, and Miss Elinor, when she -remembered the ugly name which Adelaide had called her, secretly wished -she might be turned into the street. But her brother was more forgiving, -and when Alice’s birthday came, he gave her the brown house in the -hollow, telling her playfully that she must collect the rent of her own -property! - -“And I _would_ do it too,” spoke up Miss Elinor, who, nevertheless, was -just as sure then of what Alice intended to do as she was next morning -when she saw upon her sister’s writing-desk a receipt in full for the -rent, and heard Alice bid a servant take it, with sundry other things, -to the brown house in the hollow as a Christmas gift from her. - -Surely it is more blessed to give than to receive, and the prayer which -the sick man breathed for Alice Howland was worth far more to her than -the paltry sum which she had lost by doing what she did. Adelaide, too, -was softened, for the pangs of poverty were beginning to be keenly felt, -and when the servant turned to go, she said to him, with quivering lip: - -“Tell Mrs. Howland that _I_ thank her.” - -Another year has nearly gone, and from the windows of the cottage there -shines a glimmering light, while gathered round the hearth three lonely -women sit. They are now indeed alone—the bed in the corner is empty—the -husband and father is gone. When the last May flowers were blooming, and -the voice of spring was on the hills, strong men carried him out into -the open air, and in the village churchyard, not far from Hugo Warren’s -grave, they laid the weary one to rest. William Huntington had saved the -life of Richard Howland’s wife, and for this reason his family were not -neglected, though Miss Elinor took good care that not enough assistance -should be given to them “to keep the trollop, Adelaide, from working.” - -In Richard Howland’s home all is joy and gladness, and though the -curtains of one room are dropped, and the blinds are closely shut, it is -only because the fussy old nurse will have it so, and not because the -young mother is in any danger now. In the crib there sleeps a sturdy -boy, and the bottom of his cambric petticoat is trimmed with the -veritable embroidery which we have often seen in the hands of Miss -Elinor, who is the baby’s aunt. - -She had fully expected that it would bear her name, but it proved a -Betsey Trotwood affair, and when the Christmas bells are ringing, and -the star of Bethlehem gleams on the walls of the old stone church, she -will stand as sponsor for the little boy, to whom in memory of the blind -man now singing to the praise of Bethlehem’s child, will be given the -name of “Hugo Warren.” - - - THE END - OF - ALICE AND ADELAIDE. - - - - - RED-BIRD. - A BROWN COTTAGE STORY. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - INTRODUCTORY. - - -It was Christmas morning, and everywhere the merry bells were ringing -and telling again the story, which, though more than eighteen hundred -years old, is always sweet, always new—the story of Bethlehem’s babe, -for whose birthday we keep the Christmas-tide. All over the northern -hills the December snow was lying, and the wind was sharp and cold as it -went singing past the windows of the houses where so many eager, happy -children ate their Christmas cakes, or counted their Christmas toys. But -far away in the south land it was like summer still, and the -orange-trees were fresh, and green, and beautiful, with the yellow fruit -and the white blossoms showing among the leaves. Upon the highest branch -of a tall orange-tree which grew upon the bank of the river St. John, a -Red-bird was sitting, and listening to a Paroquet, which, on a magnolia -near by, was dressing its bright plumage, and talking to his neighbor, -the Red-bird. - -After wishing him a merry Christmas, he said: - -“And so, Mrs. Red, you are still alive! Why, we all thought you were -dead, and Mr. Red wore mourning for a month, and then—but never mind. -Have you been up to the old nest among the yellow jasmine? If not, I -advise you to stay away; but say, where have you been this year or more? -Tell me about it.” - -It seemed strange to me, who was sitting on a bench beneath the -magnolia-tree, to hear birds talking together after this fashion, and -remembering the children at the North who had never seen a Paroquet, nor -a magnolia, nor a Red-bird, nor an orange-tree, I said to myself, I will -write down what these birds are saying, and sometime, perhaps, I’ll send -it to the little ones at home. - -And this, as nearly as I could understand it, was the story the Red-bird -told. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - THE STORY. - - -“You may well ask me where I have been, Mr. Paroquet,” said the -Red-bird, “but you can keep your Merry Christmas to yourself, for it is -not a merry Christmas with me. My heart is as heavy as lead, and if it -were not that I dreaded the cold so much, I’d fly to the North, where -they are having a grand time to-day with their Christmas trees, and the -children all so happy.” - -“Fly to the North!” said Mr. Paroquet, with a shudder. “Fly to that -horrid place where they have ice and snow the year round, with nothing -green or bright, unless it’s that Christmas-tree you speak of! Pray, may -I ask what kind of a tree that is? Is it like this magnolia, or that -palm across the river, waving its fans in the breeze, or that -orange-tree where you are sitting? And what kind of fruit does it bear? -Icicles, or what?” - -“Icicles!” And Mrs. Red laughed a merry, rippling kind of laugh which -did me good to hear, for there was something very sad in the expression -of her face, as if she had lost every friend she ever had. “Little you -know of the North and what they have there. I’ll wager now you never -heard of the place before.” - -“Haven’t I, though?” Mr. Paroquet returned. “Didn’t one of those men -from the North shoot the first Mrs. Paroquet one morning, just after -breakfast, when she had gone out to take the air, and I was watching the -three little birds in the nest? And didn’t he take her away to that -place they call New York, and didn’t I hear afterward from a robin who -comes down here every winter that they _stuffed_ her, and put glass eyes -in her, and strung her on a wire frame, and set her up in somebody’s -parlor for an ornament, to be admired? My dead wife _stuffed_!—and such -a time as I had with the little ones, who kept tumbling out of the nest, -and who had such appetites that I was almost worn out with hunting -things for them to eat, and was obliged to get another Mrs. Paroquet to -help me do the work. Of course, I know about the North; but pray go on -and tell me how you happened to be there, and why you are here again.” - -“Yes,” returned Mrs. Red, “I’d like to tell some body. You remember my -old home up the river, where the stream is so narrow that the boats -almost touch the shore as they pass. There’s a splendid mass of yellow -jasmine there, with lots of white dogwood, and Cherokee roses, and -orange-trees, and palms, and magnolias, and water oaks, and there I had -my nest, all covered up with flowers and leaves. - -“I was very happy in my soft, warm nest, with Mr. Red, and four of the -prettiest little birds you ever saw just hatched and wanting a mother’s -care so badly. But one morning I saw coming down the river one of those -big boats, full of people, who kept firing at the poor alligators -sunning themselves in the warm spring air. At last the boat stopped, and -some of the men got out and began to look around and fire at anything -they saw; and one shot hit me under my wing, so that I could not fly, -but dropped to the ground, half dead with pain and fright, but still -having sense enough to be glad that it was I who was hurt instead of Mr. -Red, who flew away to the top of the very tallest palm-tree in sight, -where he sat and watched while a man picked me up and said: - -“‘See, she is not dead; she is only wounded. I shall take her to my wife -at the hotel. She has wanted a Red-bird so much.’ - -“What a hotel was, or where he meant to take me, I did not know, and for -a time I must have been unconscious, for the next I knew I was on the -boat covered over with a kind of wire screen, which kept me a prisoner. -I could not get away, though I beat my head against the screen until it -ached almost as hard as the place under my wing. - -“Oh! what a change it was from my lovely nest among the oranges, and -magnolias, and jasmines, to that dreadful wooden box in which they put -me at the hotel, and which they called a cage. I think my new mistress -meant to be kind to me, for she stroked my feathers very gently, and -called me a ‘poor little thing,’ and brought me so many things to eat. -But I could touch none of them, I was so home-sick and lonely, and my -heart was aching so for the dear home up the river, and the little -birdies there, who were sure to cry for me when the dark night came on -and I was not there to shelter them. Would Mr. Red do it? I wondered, -and I was afraid he wouldn’t; for, though the very best of all the -Red-birds on the St. John’s, he did not always like to be bothered with -the children, especially when he was tired and a little cross.” - -“But he did, though,” interrupted Mr. Paroquet. “He took care of them -for quite a while after you went away. I used to see him hunting worms, -and seeds and things; and he’d go every day to the top of that palm you -spoke of, and watch to see if you were not coming back. After -awhile—well, you remember old Mr. Red, whose nest was near yours on a -sour orange-tree, and whose pretty little grand-daughter, Spotted-Wing, -with the shining feathers and so many airs, you did not fancy much? - -“Yes, I remember her,” Mrs. Red answered very sadly, I thought, and Mr. -Paroquet continued: - -“She used to fly up to that palm, too, and balance herself way out on -the very tip of the longest green fan, and help him watch for _you_, -because she was so anxious for you to come back and relieve him of his -family cares, and then her eyes were younger than his, and could see -farther, you know.” - -And as he said this Mr. Paroquet rolled both of his eyes quite out of -sight in what I thought a very disagreeable, insinuating manner. But -Mrs. Red did not seem to notice, and went on with her story: - -“I am glad if he was good to the children, and missed me a little, for I -was so home-sick for him, that I could neither sleep nor eat, and I -heard my mistress say she was afraid I would starve to death. And I was -afraid, too, for had I been disposed to eat I could not have touched -what she brought me—sweet potato, cake, and bread and sugar, as if that -were proper diet for a bird. I had a great deal of attention from the -guests of the hotel. It was the St. James, I heard them say, and it was -full of people who did nothing but eat, and sleep, and dress for the -parlors or the piazzas, where the young ones used to walk sometimes of -an evening. At last, one morning very early, before anybody was up -except a few of the servants, I was sitting on my perch in a new cage, -with my head down, thinking so hard that I heard nothing until suddenly -I was startled by a strange voice with a decidedly foreign accent, close -to the bars of my cage. - -“‘Halloo, Miss Red-top,’ it said, ‘seems to me you are down in the mouth -this morning. Guess you didn’t sleep well. What’s the matter with you? -Look up and speak to a fellow, can’t you?’ - -“So I looked up and saw a big round fat robin, with a breast red and -shining, and a very good-natured face, and eyes which were very curious -and inquisitive, as if he meant to know everybody’s business, and help -them attend to it, too.” - -“I’ll bet that’s the very robin who brought me news of my stuffed wife,” -interposed Mr. Paroquet. “He knows everybody, and can trace their family -back to the time when Mr. Noah let the first bird out of the ark. He -comes here every winter for his health, he says, and he stops along by -the way, and so gets all the news.” - -“Maybe it was the same,” Mrs. Red replied. “But he was very kind to me, -and asked me a great many questions, and when he heard my story, he said -if it were not so warm he’d go up the river and find Mr. Red, and tell -him about me. I thanked him and said that would do no good as I could -not get out of prison, and should die there very soon. - -“‘No, you won’t,’ he answered, cheerily. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ - -“Then, after eyeing me awhile, he continued: - -“‘Why, Miss Red-top, I’ll tell you what’s the matter. You are starved! -Look at that sweet potato and frosted cake. You’ll have dyspepsia sure. -What you want is a good fat bug, and seeds of some kind. Just keep up -your courage, and I’ll fix you.’ - -“So saying, he flew away to a neighboring garden, while I thought how -good he was to me, an entire stranger, though I did wish he would not -call me _miss_. It made me feel ashamed when I remembered Mr. Red and -the nest among the jasmine. - -“When my mistress came to see me, after breakfast, bringing the usual -sweet potato, and broiled fish and bits of bread, she found a part of a -bug in my cage, and a piece of fig which my new friend had found near -one of the dining-room windows and brought to me. Great was her wonder -as to where it came from, but as I could not talk to her, though able to -understand all she said, I do not suppose she ever knew about the robin -who came to see me every morning before there was much stir in the -hotel, and kept me so well supplied with such things as I liked, that I -began to recover my health and my spirits, too, though my heart was -always aching for the nest up the river, and the babies I left in it. -Gradually, too, I began to have a great liking for Mr. Red-Breast, as I -called him at first, though he insisted that I should say Robin, as that -was more familiar. At home they all called him Robin, and no one ever -mistered him, he said, except Mrs. Robin, when she began to help him -build the nest in the mountain ash, which he told me grew in the garden -where he lived at the North. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - ROBIN’S HOME. - - -“One morning when he came to see me as usual, complaining of the heat, -and saying he should soon be starting for home if the weather continued -like this, he found me very sad and anxious, for only the night before I -had heard my mistress say that she intended taking me North with her, -and should, perhaps, give me to a friend who had asked her to bring her -a bird from the South. This was a deathblow to all my hopes, for as day -after day I had watched the piles of baggage and the crowds of people -which left the hotel, and heard the waiters say they were starting for -home, I thought to myself the day will come when my mistress will go, -too, and then she will surely set me free, and I fancied the surprise -and joy of Mr. Red and the little ones, when I flew down upon them some -evening.” - -“About how long was this after your capture?” asked the Paroquet, and -Mrs. Red replied: - -“Three, or four, or five weeks. I don’t quite remember.” - -“Ah!” and Mr. Paroquet nodded very knowingly. “I reckon he might have -been surprised to see you, and glad, of course, very glad, and Miss -Spotted-Wing, too, for she was at the jasmine nest every day by that -time, helping take care of the children, and must have been pretty well -tired out.” - -“Yes,” and Mrs. Red spoke sorry-like, as she always did when -Spotted-Wing was mentioned, but if she understood the Paroquet’s meaning -she gave no sign, and went on with her story. - -“All my hopes were blasted now, for if my mistress took me away with her -that was the end to my dream of freedom, and I was feeling so wretched -and heart-sick when Robin came, as usual, and to him I told my trouble, -asking what the North was like, and if, as I had heard, it snowed there -all the time, though what snow was I did not then know, any more than -you knew what icicles were when you asked if they grew on Christmas -trees. - -“‘Snow all the time!’ and Robin laughed so loudly that I was afraid he -would awaken the lady on whose window-sill he was sitting. ‘That is one -of your mistaken ideas of the North. Snow all the time! No, nor half the -time, though we do have some pretty heavy north-easters when the wind -blows enough to shake your feathers off; but that is in the winter, when -such as you are in the warm house, hanging by the windows, where you can -look out and see the snow drifting down through the trees, as the leaves -of the dogwood and Cherokee roses fall in high wind. But it is the -summer that is just glorious up there! Do you see that patch of green?’ -and he nodded toward a yard not far away, which I had before noticed, -and thought very fine. - -“‘Well, the people who live there have sowed some kind of grain to make -believe it was grass, but, dear me, it is no more like the turf at the -North than your sand is like our clay. I wish you could see our -beautiful lawns and meadows; they are just like a piece of green velvet. -There is grass everywhere, and such flowers as we have in the summer -time; such roses! No Cherokees, to be sure, but all the other kinds, -with names I cannot begin to pronounce. And there is some smell to the -lilacs, and honeysuckles, and the June pinks, and the English violets, -and I can’t begin to tell you what else, except that the beds and -borders are one blaze of beauty and brightness from early June till the -frost comes in the fall.’ - -“‘Do you have magnolias there?’ I asked, and he answered slowly, ‘Well, -now, Miss Red, we don’t have magnolias, nor orange blossoms, nor -jasmines, and such like, but we have pond lilies, which to my mind beat -everything else in the world. I wish you could see my home, or rather -the garden where I was born, and have lived all my life. It is so -lovely, with its grass and evergreens, and mountain ash and -horse-chestnuts, and so many crooked little paths winding here and -there, and arbors covered with woodbine, and grape-vines, and roses, and -in the summer so many baskets and tall white things filled with flowers; -and, oh my, if you could just see the cherry-trees! It makes my mouth -water now to think of the luscious fruit of which we robins can have all -we want. There is one tree which my mistress says belongs to the boys -and birds, and such squabbles as we have over it. I don’t much like the -boys, for they will leave cherries any time to break up a bird’s nest, -and I’ve seen some sad sights in my time; though in the garden -everything was peaceful and quiet, for my mistress takes care of the -birds, and sometimes in spring, when the snow comes late, and we cannot -find any worms, she gives us bread crumbs to eat, and we are not afraid -of her, though she comes very near to us. My nest was up under the -eaves, and near a chamber window, where I felt so safe and secure, -knowing that nothing could ever touch the pretty blue eggs which Mrs. -Robin laid every spring and summer. Neither boy nor cat could reach us -there.’ - -“‘Cat?’” I said. “‘Cat! Pray what is that? I never heard of a cat -before.’ - -“‘Never heard of a cat?’ Mr. Robin repeated, and now he laughed so -loudly that the lady in the room upon whose window-sill he was sitting -turned the shutter, and looked out to see what all the chattering was -about. - -“‘Seems to me the birds make a great noise this morning. They have been -at it more than an hour,’ I heard her say, and then she went on with her -dressing, while Robin continued: - -“‘Never heard of a cat! Why, where were you raised, that your education -was so neglected? But I forgot that you Red-birds lead a kind of -Bohemian life apart from civilization, and so fail to learn a great many -things which we robins, who are in society all the time, take -naturally.’ - -“I had before observed that Mr. Robin, though given to a good deal of -slang, sometimes went off into strains which I could not understand, and -this was one of them, for I had not the remotest idea what he meant by -civilization or Bohemian either, and I said so to him, whereupon he -laughed again, and told me that the free and easy life I led up the -river with Mr. Red and the little Reds, and the jasmines, and Cherokees, -and alligators was Bohemian, while it was the very top of civilization -and society to be shut up in a gilded cage as I was, with no chance of -escape. At the risk of seeming very vulgar and ignorant in his eyes, I -told him I liked Bohemian best, even if I had never heard of a cat, and -then I questioned him again of that creature, was it a bird, or a beast, -or what?’ - -‘A _beast_ most decidedly,’ he said; ‘a _vile, ugly beast_,’ and by ugly -he meant bad, for he said cats looked well enough, and he had even heard -his mistress call one she had ‘a darling little beauty,’ but he did not -see it. They had fur instead of feathers, four legs instead of two, with -a long streamer behind which was called a tail, and which was anything -but handsome. Then they were the natural enemies of birds, which they -caught and ate whenever a chance occurred. - -“‘Eat birds! Eat my little Reds!’ I exclaimed, in horror, and he -replied: - -“‘Yes, quicker than wink if they could get at ’em; and they are so sly -and creeping-like that they are upon you before you know it, and they -keep us in a constant fret when we are teaching our young ones to fly.’ - -“‘Then there is something bad even at the North, which you describe as -so perfect,’ I said, a little maliciously. - -“‘Why, yes,’ he answered, slightly crestfallen. ‘We have cats there, but -then there’s no place just exactly right, you know. There’s a _cat_ or -something everywhere.’ - -“I knew that ‘by cat or something,’ he meant an annoyance of some kind, -and I thought of the yellow jasmines up the river, and said to myself, -‘There’s no cat there;’ and then, when I remembered how Mr. Red had -sometimes troubled me with his indolent habits, and his familiar way of -talking to that pert Miss Spotted-Wing, I thought that might perhaps -have been a cat, or at least a kitten, as Robin said the little cats -were called. - -“And then he told me of a kitten which came to his mistress’ door one -wintry day when the snow was blowing, as he said, great guns, and the -mountain ash almost bent up double before the driving wind. His mistress -heard the cry, and saw the kitty looking in at the window and begging to -come in; and as both she and the master were fond of cats he waded out -into the snow and brought the kitty in, and gave it milk in a china -saucer in the parlor, and petted it more than they did old Fanny, a -highly respectable cat, who had lived with them a long time, and who did -not at first take kindly to _Jim_—that was what they called the -intruder—but spit at him, and boxed his ears, and growled if he came -near her. But Jim was not to be repressed, and cared nothing for Fanny’s -growls, or spits, or boxes, but seized every opportunity to jump at her -from under chairs and tables, and to spring at her tail, until the old -cat’s life was almost a burden to her. At last, however, Jim conquered, -and the two were the best of friends, Fanny treating him as if he had -been her own, giving him more than half the milk, and even waking him up -when the dinner-bell rang, if he happened to be sleeping in the -easy-chair near the fire, where he took his usual nap. - -“‘After a time,’ said Robin, ‘old Fanny died, and was buried in the -garden, under the plum-tree, and then Jim was really the master of the -house, for I never knew a cat petted as my mistress petted him. And for -a cat he was very handsome. He did not grow tall and long, as cats -usually do, but was short, and fat, and round as a ball, with fur which -shone like satin, and a white spot under his chin. I did not wonder my -mistress liked him, he was so playful and affectionate; but it used to -make me sick sometimes when she actually kissed him and called him a -darling. But when one morning he caught a little striped snake, and -carried it to her in triumph, and persisted in keeping it and tossing it -in the air in spite of all her efforts to make him drop it, I noticed -that she did not fondle him for a week; and I think she put him in the -bath-tub, for I saw him lying in the sun, looking very wet and forlorn. -But his fur was soon dried, and he raced about the grounds like a mad -creature, catching grasshoppers and flies, and worrying almost to death -a highly respectable toad, who lived near the cellar door, outside.’ - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - LITTLE STUPID. - - -“All this time I had felt no fears for the pretty blue eggs in our nest -under the eaves, and with Mrs. Robin I was very happy watching them -until the shells cracked open and four little birds appeared. They were -our first, and we were so proud and fond of them, and nursed them with -so much care, until one beautiful summer morning when we thought them -old enough to begin to learn to fly. I shall never forget that day, and -it all comes back to me now so vividly, the bright sunshine, the shadows -on the grass, the ripe cherries on the trees, and our little ones -hopping about on the walks, and then flying a few feet. I had taken the -precaution to see that Jim was asleep in his chair, and so had no fear -of him. Three of our children were sitting on the branch of a tree; but -the fourth, who had never seemed quite as bright as the others, and whom -we called Stupid, was in the grass pecking away at a cherry, while I was -hunting about for more, when suddenly Mrs. Robin gave a terrible scream, -and darted past me so swiftly that I felt kind of dizzy like and -frightened, and flew up into a honeysuckle, where I was out of danger, -and could look around and see what Mrs. Robin was so excited about. I -never thought of Stupid, and my blood curdled in my veins, and I went a -little higher up in the honeysuckle, when I saw that Jim had him in his -mouth, and was bounding through the grounds with Mrs. Robin in hot -pursuit, uttering such dreadful cries that out came my mistress with her -parasol, and the cook with the broom, and the housemaid with the duster, -and all took after Jim, on whose back Mrs. Robin finally pounced, -pecking him so with her beak that he dropped his victim and turned to -defend himself. But it was too late; poor little Stupid was dead, and -that night there were only three little birds in our nest, and Mrs. -Robin never spoke to me but once, and that was to call me a coward for -hiding in the honeysuckle, instead of fighting as she did. If there was -anything she despised, it was a _sneak_, she said, and for a whole week -she was very cool and distant toward me, and would not believe me at all -when I told her how sorry I was for my apparent want of courage, and -that I stood back to look after our other young ones, and see that no -harm came to them, while she, and my mistress, and the cook and the -housemaid did battle with Jim. - -“‘That was our first quarrel and our first sorrow, and I may say our -last, for before we had any more eggs in our nest the horrid Jim was -dead. Just what ailed him I never knew, but Mrs. Robin said he had been -fed too high, and possibly she was right. At any rate he grew very thin, -and sick, and weak, and we watched him anxiously, feeling glad to see -him suffer when we remembered Stupid, but sorry for our mistress, who -nursed him so carefully, and cried that morning when they found him dead -on the grass, with the rain falling heavily upon him. They buried him -under the plum-tree, by the side of Fanny; and there’s not even a kitten -about the house now, for they made such work with the lace curtains, -jumping at each other through them, and scratched up the flower-beds so, -that my mistress grew tired of them, and there’s nothing in that garden -to trouble us birds. But our nest is not now up under the eaves, for -they have torn the house down over our heads two or three times, and our -home is in a big horse-chestnut, where the leaves are so thick that not -a boy in the neighborhood has ever suspected where we live.’ - -“Here the robin stopped to rest, for he had talked so fast, and used so -many large words, that he was quite out of breath; and as by that time -the people began to come out on the piazza for the fresh morning air, he -flew away to a live-oak-tree, and began to sing merrily.” - -Here the Red-bird paused, and from my seat beneath the magnolia I looked -at the Paroquet just in time to detect him trying to hide a yawn, as if -he were slightly tired with Robin, and Stupid, and Jim, and cats -generally. But perhaps I was mistaken, for after a moment he asked: - -“Where is Mrs. Robin now? Do you know if she is dead or alive?” - -“Dead,” answered the Red-bird. “Robin told me that she was with him two -winters ago, near Tallahassee, and that they built a nest there—almost -the first in Florida, for as a general thing robins do not nest here; -but they did, and were very happy, too, until poor Mrs. Robin was -killed—shot by one of the soldiers who used to be so thick in those -parts.” - -“It’s the same fellow I know,” returned the Paroquet, “a great gossip; -but go on—you certainly have more to tell.” - -“Oh, yes, a great deal more,” said Mrs. Red; “but my story takes me now -to the North, for my mistress left Florida a few days after my long talk -with Robin; and after a three days’ voyage by sea, during which I was so -sick that I hoped I should die, we reached a place they called New York, -and there I changed owners. It seems my mistress lived very far to the -West, and as she had found it some trouble to travel with me, she gave -me to a friend of hers whom she met at the hotel, and who took even -better care of me than she had done, for sometimes she had forgotten to -give me any water for an entire day, and had otherwise neglected me. But -my new mistress was very kind, and petted me a great deal, and called me -some of the names Robin had said his mistress gave to her cat Jim. I -missed Robin, and wondered if I should ever see him again. It was not -likely, I thought, for of course his home and mine must be miles apart. - -“We were going home very soon, I heard my mistress say, and one morning -we left the noisy city, and when we stopped it was so late and so dark -that I could not see where we were, or what the house was like. It was -very quiet and still, and I was so tired and worn with the journey that -I slept soundly until morning, and was only awakened by the housemaid -when she came to open the shutters. It was a funny kind of a house, -unlike anything I had ever seen before, which was not strange, perhaps, -inasmuch as I had only been in big hotels. Still I think it was -different from most houses, for the rooms all opened into each other, -with no doors to shut, if one had wished to shut them; and there were -queer nooks and corners, everywhere, and pleasant places to sit, and -read the books upon the shelves. I really began to feel quite literary -and learned myself, there were so many books, and pictures, and curious -things from foreign parts, the names of which I did not then know, but I -learned these afterward from hearing the people, who came to see my -mistress, talk about them. There were Madonnas, and saints, and angels -from Florence, and Rome, and Dresden, and dancing girls from Pompeii, -and Apollos, and Venuses, and vases, and shells, and tables, and more -things than I can remember now. I think my mistress wrote books, for -there used often to be ink spots on her fingers, and a very tired look -on her face when she came from a room upstairs which they called the -library, and where she spent most of her mornings. - -“It must have been April when I went to my new home, and one morning I -saw what a snow-storm was for the first time in my life. My cage was -hung in such a pretty little nook off from a bay window where a great -many flowers were kept, and there were windows on three sides, so that I -could look out into the yard, and see the big snowflakes sifting down -through the trees, until the ground was completely covered with a soft -carpet of white, and the little birds which had been flitting about for -several days, hid themselves in the evergreens, and I heard my mistress -say she must throw them some crumbs if the weather continued so cold. -And that made me think of Mr. Robin, and what he had told me of his -mistress feeding the birds. Where was he, I wondered, and where was his -home, and I wished so much that I might see him again, if only to ask if -there was any news from the South, where I left all that made life -pleasant to me. I was always thinking of the old home among the -jasmines, and it was especially kept in my mind by a stuffed bird which -hung on a shelf in one corner of the nook where my cage was hung. My -mistress brought it and put it there one morning, and said to me very -friendly-like: ‘There, little Reddy, that will remind you of home, and -who knows but poor Greenie came from the same place with yourself?’ It -was a Paroquet, with such lovely green and golden feathers.” - -“With a brownish tinge on the breast?” Mr. Paroquet asked, somewhat -anxiously, and Mrs. Red replied: - -“Yes, I noticed that particularly—the mottled appearance of the breast, -where there was a spot of bright yellow.” - -“My first wife, I’ll wager my head!” exclaimed Mr. Paroquet, very much -awake now, and excited, it seemed to me, for he flew from the magnolia, -where he had been sitting in a sleepy kind of way, to the orange-tree, -where he alighted close to Mrs. Red, and continued: “My wife, from your -description; the one they carried away and stuffed, so Robin said. Do -you think she _was_ stuffed—think she was really dead, or will she be -coming back some day when I don’t expect her?” - -“Dead? Of course she was dead,” returned Mrs. Red, rather scornfully. -“She never spoke nor moved, all the time I was there, but just stared at -me with those dreadful glass eyes, which made me feel so uncomfortable. -You need have no fears of her coming back.” - -“Oh, well,” returned Mr. Paroquet, brightening up a little. “Not that I -shouldn’t be very glad to see her; very glad, of course, but then, you -see, there’s the present Mrs. Paroquet, who might not be so glad, and -that would make it rather awkward. Nobody can be dead a year, and come -back, without being a very little in the way, for they are sure to find -their places filled, or at least bridged over.” - -To me, who, you will remember, was sitting on a bench listening to the -conversation of these birds, the Paroquet’s assertion was startling, and -for a few moments I forgot what the birds were saying, while I asked -myself: - -“Is it true that if I were to die, and go away into the darkness and -silence of the grave, and then after a year could come back to the -friends who had wept so bitterly when I left them, is it true that I -should find myself in the way—my place filled, or bridged over with new -loves and interests, which my sudden return would disturb and mar?” - -And then I thought of a little blue-eyed, golden-haired girl, whom we -called Nellie, and whose grave had been on the hill-side more than a -dozen years. If she could come back again, would she not find a warm -welcome from the mother who never mentions her without the hot tears -springing to her eyes! Would Nellie be in the way? Oh, no, not the -_little_ Nellie who died that winter day so many years ago, the child -Nellie, whose chair is in the corner yet, and whose picture looks down -upon us from the wall. _She_ could never be in the way, though the -_woman_, the Nellie of twenty years, might be strange at first to the -mother twelve years older now, with fuller and larger experiences of -life, and habits of making plans with Nellie left out of them; but there -could be no real jarring of new loves and interests; there could only be -a deep joy and thankfulness for the Nellie alive again. So I reasoned—so -I decided, and then turned back to the birds, who were still at their -talk, and had passed from the snow-storm of April to the month of May, -when Mrs. Red’s cage was first hung in a mountain ash which grew in the -garden of her new home. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - BLACK-EYES AND BRIGHT-HAIR. - - -“The day was so bright,” she said, “and the grass so green, and the yard -so beautiful, that for a time I could only look around me and admire the -many pretty things scattered about the grounds. And as I looked it -seemed to me I must have been there before, everything was so familiar, -even to the iron deer with Southern moss upon his horns. Had I dreamed -of all this, or what was it? I asked, and my head was beginning to ache -with trying to recall something in the past, when suddenly a voice, -which I remembered perfectly, called out: - -“‘Halloo, Miss Red, if this don’t beat all. Here you are away up here on -my own ground. How did it happen? And what do you think of the North -now?’ - -“It was Robin, of course, and to my great delight I found that I was -actually in the very garden he had described to me, that my mistress was -his mistress, and that his nest was up in one of the tall horse -chestnuts, which grew at the entrance of the grounds. And there was -another Mrs. Robin now, a pretty little bird, who arched her neck so -gracefully and looked so shyly at me from her bright eyes when Robin -brought and introduced her to me. They were very happy together—Mr. and -Mrs. Robin—and I in part forgot my own sorrows and loneliness in -watching them day by day as they flew in and out of the nice soft nest -in the chestnut tree, and made wide circles in the air just as I used to -do away down on the river. - -“At last Robin came to me with a very important air, and told me there -were four blue eggs in the nest, and Mrs. Robin was sitting on them to -keep them warm, and he was going to hunt worms for her from the mound of -earth just turned up in the garden. They were Mrs. Robin’s first eggs, -and she scarcely left them at all until the shells were broken and I -heard there were four young birds in the nest. Oh, how proud little Mrs. -Robin was! What care she took of her babies—more care, indeed, than -Robin, who was growing old and fat, and indisposed for work, and who -sometimes called her nervous and fussy, and told her that nothing could -harm her children as long as they staid up in that tall tree. Still Mrs. -Robin was very watchful and vigilant, and looked askance at every boy -who passed on the walk, and even at Harry and Grey and Gifford, little -boys who came sometimes to play in the garden, and who could no more -have climbed to the nest than they could have gone to the steeple of the -church just showing above the trees in the distance. - -“At last, when the birds were old enough to be taught to fly, an event -occurred which threw Mrs. Robin into a wild state of excitement. I had -several times heard my mistress and the cook talking together of some -people who were coming to spend a portion of the summer, and I had -caught the names of Florence and Johnnie, but who Florence and Johnnie -were I did not know or particularly care, for it mattered little to me -who came or went. I was never molested, and my daily wants were supplied -with great regularity. And still I did have some little curiosity with -regard to the expected guests, on whose account the whole household was, -for a few days, in an unusual commotion. On the afternoon when they -arrived my cage was hanging in a little archway at the rear of the -grounds, and so I heard and saw nothing until Robin, who had been absent -for a few hours, came home, and stopped for a moment on a shrub near me -to rest and chat awhile, as he was in the habit of doing. In fact, I had -sometimes thought that Mrs. Robin, whom, since the birth of the birds, -he had called little Motherdy, while she in return had called him -Fatherdy, was more than half jealous of me because of Robin’s -sociability. At all events he never sat near me long before she joined -him and made some excuse to get him away. So I was not surprised to see -her flying toward us from the cherry-tree, where she had been pecking -away at a half-ripe cherry. As she came near I saw at a glance that -something was the matter, and so did Robin, and he called out in his -cheery, teasing way: - -“‘Well, little Motherdy, what’s up now, that your feathers seem so -ruffled, and you so excited? Anything happened to the young ones, or -what is the matter?’ - -“‘Matter!’ she repeated. ‘Matter enough. What do you think has come -right into our midst to worry our birds to death?’ - -“‘Cats, maybe,’ he said; and she replied: - -“‘Cats! No, something worse than that. Two children, boy and girl, and -by the looks of the luggage they have come to stay, and there’s an end -of all peace for us. Why, the boy has already spied me, and actually -thought he could reach me, and I on the top of the Brockway house. You -would far better have put our nest in the evergreens across the street, -where I wanted it. But no, you must stay in that old place just because -you used to live there with the other one, who I wish was here now. Such -a time as I am going to have with those children! Afraid for my life and -the babies every minute!’ - -“I had known before that Motherdy, though a nice little thing, had a -temper, and that she was sometimes given to being jealous of the first -Mrs. Robin, and that she had opposed the old nest in the chestnut tree, -because Mrs. Robin 1st had lived there. But she was so pretty, and had -such graceful ways, that Robin never lost his temper, no matter how -unreasonable she might be, and now he only laughed good-humoredly and -made light of her fears, saying his mistress would never allow any one -to disturb the birds, and as for the evergreens across the street, where -she had wanted him to build a new nest, she would have been no safer -there, for was not Harry over there, and Grey, and were they not both -larger than this Chicago boy who had so alarmed her? - -“‘You are nervous, little Motherdy,’ he said. ‘You have _boy_ on the -brain. Hadn’t you better go home? Some boy may have stolen your babies, -nest and all.’ - -“Motherdy was too angry to reply, and flew away rapidly, followed soon -by Robin, who, I suppose, made his peace with her, for they were out -together early the next morning, hunting for worms and grasshoppers, and -talking lovingly in the language which birds understand. And still I -could see that both were rather anxious for the appearance of the -children, Florence and Johnnie, and so was I, for I had heard the sound -of voices from the house—sweet, musical voices, such as children always -have—and I thought I could tell which was Florence and which was -Johnnie, for one I knew was two or three years older than the other. - -“At last they came into the grounds with a laugh and a bound, and from -the ridge-pole of the Brockway house Fatherdy and Motherdy were watching -them, while I, in my cage, looked eagerly and curiously at them. How -pretty they were in their white dresses and gay sashes—Florence with her -pale face and starry eyes of black, which seemed to see everything at -once, and Johnnie with his great round blue eyes, the color of the -robin’s eggs, and his beautiful golden hair falling in curls about his -neck. ‘Black-Eyes’ and ‘Bright-Hair’ I named them at once, and I watched -them as they started to run up the gravel walk. Bright-Hair, whose -little feet had just commenced to walk, fell down, of course, and bumped -his nose and soiled his clean white dress; but he did not seem to mind -it at all, but, man-like, got up again and started after Black-Eyes, who -had spied a little arbor under an apple-tree, which she decided was just -the place for the mud pies she was longing to make, as no child’s life -in the country is complete without a trial of making and baking pies. -Then she saw me next, and both came rushing to me, and Bright-Hair -wanted to ‘take, take,’ and stretched his little hands toward me, and -tried to climb the lattice, in the archway of which I was hanging. But I -was far above his reach, and looked down upon him fearlessly as he tried -in vain to get me. - -“What lovely children they were, and those were very happy days when I -watched them flitting about the grounds or making their mud pies in the -grapevine arbor. I think the cook must have been very good-natured, for -she gave up her muffin-rings, and sponge-cake tins, and iron spoons, and -a pan and dipper for the bakery, and even brought a box of dirt, which -little Florence called flour; and then the mud pie business began in -earnest, and Johnnie’s fat white arms were besmeared above his elbows, -and his face was covered with mud, and Florence was not much better, as -in her long-sleeved gingham apron she worked industriously at her pies -and cakes, which were made into wonderful shapes, and baked on a griddle -in the sun. - -“Sometimes Maggie and Harry, and Grey and Sophie and Louise came to -help, but the girls were almost too old for mud pies, and Grey was -afraid of soiling his clothes, and Harry fonder of chasing a kitten -which had strayed into the yard the day after the children came, and -which my mistress kept as a plaything for them, and so Black-Eyes and -Bright-Hair had the pies mostly to themselves. It was difficult to tell -which Bright-Hair liked the best—the pies or the kitten, which he called -the ‘_cart_,’ or the little robins, which were just learning to fly, and -who hopped about in a very stupid way, while little Motherdy watched -narrowly and nervously to see that no harm came to them, either from the -cat, or Bright-Hair, who always started for them when he saw them in the -grass, and seemed greatly disturbed because they flew away just before -he had reached them. - -“One afternoon there was a garden party for the children, and I think I -never saw a finer sight than it was to see all those little girls and -boys in their best clothes, which did not look quite so fresh and nice -when they went home, as when they came. Oh, what fine times they had -playing upon the lawn, and in the different arbors, which were fitted up -with dollies, furniture, and called by different names. There was the -‘Doll’s Drawing-room,’ where the larger dolls sat solemn and still in -their chairs, and there was a sleeping room for the dolls, and -Apple-Tree Hotel and a restaurant near by, where the children had -macaroons, and took weak lemonade through straws; but the thing which -pleased them most was the wheel chair, in which all the children had a -ride before the day was done. - -“That afternoon, Motherdy kept her robins out of sight, and did not -allow them once to fly down into the grass, lest some harm should befall -them. She was not afraid of Bright-Hair nor Black-Eyes, nor Harry, nor -Grey, nor Maggie, nor Gifford, she said, but she distrusted some of the -larger boys, who ran so fast and made so much noise, and she kept her -children at home greatly against their will. They were not afraid, and I -think had really become attached to Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair, and so -had the Fatherdy and Motherdy birds, who liked to see them round, and -thought the grounds were prettier because they were there. I thought so, -too, and when at last their father came and took them away, I felt more -lonely and desolate than I had done in weeks, while my friends, Mr. and -Mrs. Robin, with their four young ones, flew up to the ridge-pole of the -house, and watched the huge thing which bore them away until it was out -of sight, and there was nothing to be seen but a ring of smoke away to -the west, where they were gone. I remember that my mistress came out to -the arbor where the children had played, and cried a little as she -picked up the spoons, and plates and dishes which had been used for -their mud pies, some of which were still baking in the sun. - -“I pass rapidly over the remainder of the summer and the fall, when Mr. -and Mrs. Robin bade me good-by, and, with their family started for the -South. How I longed to go with them, and how many messages I sent to Mr. -Red and my own little ones, should they chance to meet them. And then -the days were very long and dreary, until little Florence came again to -pass the holidays with her auntie, and there was a Christmas-tree in the -church, and I was taken there in my cage and hung near the chancel, -where I could see all the fine doings which were so new and strange to -me. But I soon began to understand it, and watched the ladies with a -great deal of interest as they filled the tree with every conceivable -toy for the children, who, when it was done, came crowding in, and -filled nearly half the church. What carols they sang of the ‘Wonderful -Night,’and ‘Jesus of Bethlehem,’ and how the organ filled the church and -even made the floor tremble, as the organist played with both hands and -feet, and the children’s voices rose louder and clearer as they sang of -a Saviour’s birth. I really began to feel quite like a churchman myself, -or at least like a church bird, though I _did_ wonder why I was there. -But I soon found out, for as name after name was called, and the -children came trooping up to receive their gifts, I heard at last little -Florence called, and, to my surprise, I was given to her as a Christmas -gift from her auntie. I knew that she was very fond of me, and called me -a great many pet names, and gave me more things to eat than I could -possibly take, but I had never dreamed of belonging to her, and when I -found that I was to go with her to her home in Chicago, where -Bright-Hair lived, I felt at first sorry to leave my former mistress, -who had been so kind to me. And there was Robin, whom I might never see -again, and the beautiful garden where I had spent so many pleasant days. -But it could not be helped, and within a week or two I was hanging in a -bay window in my new home in the city, and I was very happy there, too, -with Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair for my companions. Children do cheer up -a house wonderfully, and I learned to listen to their merry voices, and -wait anxiously for their appearance in the morning. As the winter wore -away and the spring came on, little Florence, who was always a pale, -delicate child, seemed to grow paler and thinner every day, until at -last she refused to eat anything, and in the summer they took us all to -their country home, a few miles from the city, where she improved -rapidly, and ran about the grounds as merrily as ever. But when the -autumn came and the winds blew cold from the lake, she began to droop -again, and I heard them say they must take her South, where it was -always warm and sunny. - -“Then my heart began to beat so fast with wondering if she would take me -with her. I half believed she would, she loved me so much—and she did, -and we came to the same hotel where I was first a prisoner, and my cage -was hung again in the old place, where through the trees of oak and -orange I could see glimpses of the river, and the boats as they went up -and down.” - -“Really, now, it is all quite like a story. Have you seen Robin? and how -did you get away?” Mr. Paroquet said, hopping up and down, first on one -foot and then on the other, as if he were growing tired. - -Mrs. Red noticed this, and hastened on. - -“Yes, I have seen Robin; it was up the river, where he is spending the -winter with Mrs. Robin, who is as bright, and pretty, and spirited as -ever—but I must tell you how I came to be up the river myself. My dear -little mistress, Florence, knew that my home was once in this part of -the country, and a few days ago, when she gave me my breakfast of seeds -and figs, she talked to me in her usual loving way, and said: - -“‘You know my mamma says I am not getting well here as fast as I ought, -and she is going to take me to St. Augustine, down by the sea, and so, -poor little Reddie, I love you ever and ever so much, but I’ve been -thinking and thinking how dreadful it would be for me to be shut up as -you are, and taken away where I never could see my papa, or mamma, or -Johnnie any more. Maybe, though, you haven’t a papa, or mamma, or -Johnnie. I guess birds never have such things, like us girls, but you -may have had some little birds in some nest somewhere, and maybe you can -find your way home to that nest, and so, you precious old Reddie, I am -going to make you a present of your freedom. I am going to open the door -of your cage, and let you go—so!’ - -“And here she opened the door suddenly, and gave the cage a shake which -sent me out upon the piazza. - -“If I had stopped a minute to consider, I might have hesitated about -leaving the cage which had been my home so long, and to which I was -really very much attached, but just as I hopped out upon the floor, some -children came running round the corner and frightened me so, that I -instantly flew to the top of a tree near by. It was my first experiment -in flying for almost two years, and it seemed so natural, so delightful, -to beat the air with my wings once more, and freedom seemed so sweet -that I could not go back, but sat for a moment looking at the empty cage -and my little mistress standing by it with a sorry look on her face, as -if she had not quite expected me to leave her so readily. Then I thought -of the nest in the jasmine, and of Mr. Red, and the happy life I had -lived with him among the orange-trees and magnolias, and I said to -myself, ‘I must go there,’ and while my mistress was looking up at me -with those bright black eyes of hers, I flew away as fast as my wings -could take me, in the direction of my old home. But not being accustomed -to flying, I soon grew tired, and stopped many times to rest and look -down from some tall tree upon the river, which had never seemed so -beautiful to me as it did that day. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - CONCLUSION. - - -“It was late in the afternoon when I reached the clump of jasmine where -I had left my little ones, and though I knew that by this time they were -grown-up birds, and possibly had families of their own, I could not help -feeling as if I should find them just as I had left them, hungry, noisy, -and so glad to see me. It was very still in the thicket, and not a -single bird of any kind was to be seen. But this did not surprise me -much, for it was the time of day when the old birds would naturally be -off after the little ones’ supper. They would soon be coming back, and I -thought how delighted Mr. Red would be, and how startled, too, when he -found me waiting for him just as I used to do.” - -“I reckon he was startled, too,” interrupted the Paroquet. “But pray -hurry on. I _was_ getting a little tired, but I’m all attention now. You -waited, you say, for Mr. Red to come, and didn’t you go near the old -nest till he came?” - -“Yes,” returned Mrs. Red, “I went to the nest the first thing, and found -it just as I had seen it in my dreams so many times, and right at the -bottom, huddled together, were three little ones about the size of mine -when I left them. And for an instant I forgot myself and thought they -_were_ mine, and flew down so close to them that they awoke and began to -scramble toward the top of the nest and open their mouths as if they -were hungry. On the right wing of two of them little brown spots were -beginning to show, and then I _knew_, and grew sick and faint, and more -sorry than I had been since the day I was stolen away, and with such a -different kind of sorrow, too. - -“Always before in the midst of my sharpest pain there had been a kind of -comfort in thinking that Mr. Red remembered and longed for me just as I -longed for and remembered him, but now I knew better. Those birds in the -nest were not my birds. Spotted-Wing was their mother. I was forgotten; -my place was filled; nobody wanted me there, and I felt as if my throat -would burst with the lump which kept rising in it. - -“And while I waited, sitting high above the nest where I could look down -into it, there was a whiz and whir in the air, and Spotted-Wing came -home, looking a little older than when I saw her last, but quite as -pretty and very happy. I was obliged to own that to myself, as I sat and -watched her feeding her young ones, and every now and then turning up -her head as if listening for some one. Just so I used to listen and just -so I used to act when Mr. Red was coming home, as he did at last, and -Spotted-Wing flew out a little way to meet him, and rubbed her bill -against his, and kept at his side as he flew so near to me that the air -set in motion by his wings stirred my feathers, and I could have touched -him had I tried. - -“Oh, little did he dream who it was that sat and watched him until it -grew dark, and all was still in the dear old nest which was once my -home. When I could no longer see him and knew that he was asleep, I said -good-by to him forever, and flew away to the palm-tree; where I staid -till morning, and then I started down the river, caring nothing where I -went or what became of me, and feeling an indescribable longing for the -cage I had quitted and the little mistress I had left. - -“It was then that I came suddenly upon Robin, who is living near Green -Cove Spring, and who was both astonished and delighted to see me. My -face must have told him that I knew the worst, for he only said: - -“‘Poor little Reddie, it is rather hard, but it’s the way of the world. -I s’pose you didn’t see your own children. One of them is dead, and the -others are far up the river, near Enterprise, with families of their -own, and as likely birds as you could wish to see. They think you dead, -and so does Mr. Red, of course.’ - -“Both Robin and Motherdy were very kind to me, and I staid with them all -that day and night, and they brought me my supper and tried to cheer me -up, but nothing can ever make me happy again unless it be to find myself -in the cage once more, with Florence and Johnnie to pet me. But even -that pleasure is denied me, for when I left Robin I went back to -Jacksonville and the hotel, hoping to find my mistress. But she had gone -down by the sea, and it is a long way there, and I might get lost, and -not find her after all, so I have given it up, and what I shall do with -myself now I am sure I don’t know.” - -“Do?” repeated the Paroquet, who began to evince a friendliness I had -not given him credit for. “Why, make the best of it, of course, and if -you are so anxious to find Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair again, go over to -St. Augustine after them. It is not so very far: I’ve been there. I know -the way. I’ll go with you and start now, to-day, if you like. It’s up -the river a ways, and then across the wildest, swampiest piece of -country you ever saw. But St. Augustine is lovely—some like that North -you are so delighted with, and maybe you will make up your mind to stay -there if you do not find the children.” - -“And I almost know I shall not,” returned Mrs. Red, who seemed to be -quite discouraged, “for how shall I know where to look for them?” - -“Look! Why, look everywhere, at all the hotels and boarding-houses, but -mostly at the Old Fort and in a square they call the Plaza. Children all -like to play there. We shall find them, don’t you fear, so come; it is -getting almost noon, and we ought to be off. We will fly across the -river first, and then hunt a bug or two for dinner, before we start -again, so here goes.” And spreading his beautiful green wings, the -Paroquet flew swiftly away, followed by Mrs. Red, who moved more slowly, -for she was tired, and had not much heart or courage left. - -I was half afraid she would drop into the water, but the Paroquet -evidently encouraged her to exert herself as much as possible, and at -last I was glad to see that they were fairly over the river, and resting -on a live-oak tree. Then I started as from a dream, and wondered if it -were really true that I had heard birds talk together, and if poor -Reddie would ever find Florence and Johnnie again, and be happy once -more. I hoped she would, and that I might know it; and I did, for when -the spring came, and, with many other travelers, I started for home on -the _City of Savannah_, I noticed upon the boat two lovely children, a -boy and girl, one with beautiful black eyes, and the other with eyes as -blue as the April sky over our heads. _Fornce_ the little boy called his -sister, and then I guessed at once I had found Black-Eyes and -Bright-Hair, and remembering Mrs. Red I said to the little girl one day: - -“Isn’t your name Florence and your brother’s name Johnnie, and don’t you -live in Chicago?” - -“Why, yes,” she answered, looking curiously at me. “How did you know -that?” - -“Oh, I guessed it,” I said, and then I added: “Did you ever have a -Red-bird in a cage, which you let go one morning?” - -“Yes,” she replied; “but I think I have her again. I’m almost sure of -it. She is in my stateroom. Don’t you want to see her?” - -Of course I wanted to see her, though as Red-birds are much alike, I -knew I could not tell if this were the one whose sad story I had heard -on Christmas morning. But when Florence told me the particulars of its -recapture I was sure of it, and rejoiced that poor little Reddie was -happy with its friends, Florence and Johnnie. They were at the Old Fort -in St. Augustine one morning, Florence said, and one of the Indians kept -as prisoners there, was teaching her how to use the bow and arrow, while -Johnnie stood by begging to “_soot too_,” when suddenly a Red-bird, -which seemed to be very tired, flew down at her feet, and kept hopping -around close to her, while Johnnie tried to catch it, and the young -Indian suggested making it a mark to shoot at. But from this Florence -recoiled in horror, and, stooping toward the bird, she said: - -“I believe it’s my very own dear old birdie I used to have in a cage. -Are you mine, Reddie?” and she held her hands toward it, when Reddie -flew up to her shoulder, and caressed her face, and neck, and hair with -its bill, nestling close to her, as if it did not wish to be let go -again. - -So Florence took her back to the hotel where she was stopping, and, -bringing out the cage, opened the door and set it before Reddie, who -instantly went into it, and springing up to the perch, began to swing -back and forth as if perfectly delighted with its quarters; nor could it -be tempted to come out of the cage, although the door was left open the -entire day. - -“Then I knew for sure it was mine,” Florence said, “and that it wanted -to come and live with me again; though it is very funny how she found -her way here, and why she did not go back to the nest, which I am sure -she used to have somewhere in Florida.” - -I could have told her what I knew, and made her eyes blacker and larger -than they were, but when I remembered the little girls and boys at home -who had asked so often for a story which they could understand, I said -I’ll wait, and some day when I feel like it I will write it, and so let -other children, whose names I do not know, but whom I love because they -are children, read the story which I heard the Red-bird tell that -Christmas morning when I sat under the magnolia-tree far away in -Florida. - - - THE END - OF - RED-BIRD. - - - - - RUTH AND RENA. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - CHRISTMAS EVE IN OAKFIELD. - - -It was Christmas Eve, and the first snow of the season lay upon the -fields of Oakfield, and the wintry wind blew cold and chill through the -leafless trees in the yard and shook the windows of the old red -farm-house, where Uncle Obed Harris lived, and where in his comfortable -kitchen he sat waiting for the supper which his wife, whom everybody -knew as Aunt Hannah, or Grandma Harris, was putting upon the table. -Across the common and distant from the house a quarter of a mile or -more, the stone church was seen with lights shining from every pane of -glass, for the worshippers at St. Mark’s had that night, in addition to -their usual Christmas-tree, an illumination in honor of Bethlehem’s -child, born amid the Judean hills so many years ago. And ever and anon -as Uncle Obed took his tea he heard the merry sound of sleigh-bells and -the happy voices of the children as they went tripping by, excited and -eager to know what the tree held for them on its many and beautiful -branches of green. - -It was thirteen years since Uncle Obed had been inside his church on -Christmas Eve, and during all these years he had nursed only bitter -memories of the night when his daughter, Agatha, had made such glorious -music in the organ loft, and then sang so sweetly the “Peace on earth, -good will toward men,” with a soft look of ecstasy upon her face which -the proud old father thought sprang wholly from a love divine, never -dreaming of the terrible blow in store for him, when, after the services -were over, he waited in vain for Agatha to join him on his homeward -walk; Agatha did not come either then or ever after, and he heard next -day of a marriage performed by a justice of the peace and knew from the -note sent to him that Agatha was gone with the young man whom he had -forbidden her ever again to speak to if she cared to be his daughter. - -“You must choose between Homer Hastings and me,” he had said, and she -had chosen, and his door was henceforth barred against her, and she knew -it, and accepted the situation, and wrote once or twice to her mother -from New York, and said that she was happy, and told of a little girl -baby, whom she called _Ruth_, and who had her grandmother’s soft brown -eyes and hair. - -Then for a time they lost all trace of her until a letter came, telling -them her husband was dead and asking if she might come home; Aunt Hannah -pleaded with Uncle Obed then, begging him to go for their child and the -little one, who would brighten their lonely lives, but he said: “No, she -has made her bed and now she must lie in it. She was my _eyes_, and when -they are once pulled out you can’t put them in again.” - -Uncle Obed and his wife had married late in life and were old when -Agatha was born, and it seemed as if the father loved her more for this, -and her desertion of him for a worthless fellow, whose only virtue was -his handsome face, had hurt him cruelly, and he would not forgive, and -he kept aloof from the Christmas-tree, which was each year set up in the -church where other fingers than Agatha’s swept the organ keys, and -another voice sang “Glory to God on High.” But he was going to-night; he -had promised his wife that he would, and Aunt Hannah’s face had been -brighter all the day for that promise, and her step brisker and lighter -as she prepared the basket of presents for the poor children of the -parish, thinking, as she folded up a pair of lamb’s wool stockings, of -the little Ruth whom she had never seen, and whose feet they would just -fit. Where was she now, and where was Agatha that wintry day when the -snow was drifting down so swiftly, and the wind was blowing so hard over -her native hills. Something seemed to bring the absent one nearer to -Aunt Hannah, and she almost felt the touch of the chord which was to -have a beginning that night far away in New York and which would reach -even to her lonely home and make it bright as the sunshine, which, as -the day wore to a close, came through the dull gray clouds and fell soft -and warm upon the pure white snow. - -There was a great crowd in the church that night, and Uncle Obed felt a -throb of pain cut like a knife through his heart when he saw the gaily -decorated tree, and heard the organ peal and the children’s voices -telling of the “wonderful night” when - - “Angels and shining immortals, - Crowding the ebony portals, - Fling out their banners of light, on this - Wonderful, wonderful, night.” - -He was thinking of thirteen years ago, and the golden head he saw in the -gallery where Agatha sat in her bright beauty playing her Christmas -songs. But his wife’s thoughts were more with Ruth, the unknown child, -and as one after another the little ones went up the aisle, she prayed -softly to herself, “God grant me life to see her some day before this -very railing.” - -And God, who hears and answers the prayer of faith, heard and answered -hers, though in a different way from what she had expected. As if the -sight of the Christmas-tree and the happy, joyous faces of the children -had softened Uncle Obed’s heart, he talked much that night of Agatha and -the baby, as he always designated Ruth, who, if living, was then twelve -years old at least. - -“They haunt me,” he said; “and it seems as if Aggie was here in this -very room telling me to do something—I can’t make out what.” - -“She has been close to me all day, too,” Aunt Hannah replied, “she or -the little one; and before the train came in I was foolish enough to go -to her old room to see if all was right in case she came. You know, it -is just as she left it, only the curtains are new.” - -“Yes, yes, I know, wife,” and Uncle Obed lifted his head suddenly. -“Should I be an old fool to go to New York to-morrow and inquire?” - -Aunt Hannah had done with kissing years ago, but now her arms were -around her husband’s neck in a trice, and her cheek was laid to his as -she kissed him fervently, while the great tears choked her utterance and -kept her from answering. But she was understood, and the next morning, -while the bell was ringing for church and the Christmas sun was shining -brightly over the earth, Uncle Obed sat in a corner of the car which was -taking him to New York and, as he hoped, to the lost ones he sought. -Aunt Hannah ate her Christmas dinner alone that day, and after it was -over went to Agatha’s room and kindled a fire upon the hearth, and felt -her pulse beat with a new hope as she watched the flames lapping the -bits of pine and then leaping up the chimney mouth. - -“He may not be home in three or four days,” she said to herself, “but -it’s well to be ready; and the room needs airing so much.” - -So she opened both the windows, and brushed the snow from the stools, -and made the bed up fresh and clean, and gave the pillows a loving pat -as she put them in their places, and moved Agatha’s favorite chair -nearer to the fire, and put the book of Psalms upon it, with -“Doddridge’s Rise and Progress,” and by way of variety laid beside them -one of the Waverly Novels which Agatha used to like so much and prefer -to Doddridge or the Psalms. This done, she shut the windows but left the -blinds open to let the sunshine in, thinking to herself as she went out -and closed the door, “I’ll build a fire every day until he comes back -with ’em.” - -Alas for Aunt Hannah praying so often and waiting so anxiously for him -and them, she little knows how long and severely her faith is to be -tested, or of the rich fruition which will crown that faith at last. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK. - - -There was no snow in New York that Christmas Eve, but the wind seemed -colder for that, as it blew in sharp biting gusts through the dark -streets and alleys, and sweeping up a long flight of rickety stairs to -one of those tenements where the poor live,—God only knows how,—crept -through the wide cracks of a room where two little girls crouched before -the fire, which the elder of them was trying to coax into a blaze. She -had been out all day in the crowded streets offering her pins and -shoe-lacings and matches, first to one and then to another of the gay -throng hurrying by, all, or nearly all, in too great haste to notice -her, shivering with cold and pinched with hunger though she was. Had -they done so, they would have seen that she was no ordinary child, and -her soft brown eyes, and sweet pale face, would have attracted attention -to her at once. But it was the day before Christmas, and though money -was spent by the thousands for toys which would please for an hour, and -then lie idly upon some nursery floor, only twenty-five cents of it came -to poor little Ruth, who wanted it so much, and whose eyes had in them a -wistful, anxious look every time she offered her wares for sale. She did -not tell a pitiful tale of her mother, dead six months before, or of the -poverty and the sorrow, as one article after another was sold for food -and fuel, until the comparatively comfortable home was bare of nearly -everything, save the absolute necessities for daily use. Neither did she -tell of her struggles to earn bread for herself and Rena, darling little -five-years old Rena, whose eyes were like the violets of spring, and -whose hair was golden in the sunshine, with a tinge of red upon it. Poor -little Rena, who kept the house at home while Ruthy was away,—who washed -the two plates and the one mug they shared between them, and swept the -floor and washed the hearth, and wiped the dingy paint, as her mother -had done when it was not as dingy as now, and did it more than once to -pass away the long, lonely hours of Ruth’s absence. She had been told -never to play with the children in the street, and her dead mother’s -command was sacred to the conscientious child, who contented herself -with looking from the windows of the fourth story, where she lived, down -upon the moving, everchanging crowd in the narrow street below. - -And here she sat waiting for Ruth, as the short December day drew to a -close, and the cold night shut down over the great city. She knew all -about Christmas eve and Santa Claus, and many times that day she had -said to herself, “I wish Santa Claus would bring Ruthy something,” and -once she thought to go herself upon the walk and beg a few pennies for -“Ruthy’s present,” as she had seen children do, but this had been -forbidden, and so she sat in her chair by the window and watched and -thought of many things, and among others, of the story of Bethlehem, -which she liked so much. The lowly manger, the mound of hay, the -meek-eyed oxen with their long white horns, were things she never tired -of. But she delighted most in the baby, the little boy and his mother, -and she had so wanted a book full of pictures which should tell her all -about it. There _was_ such a one called “That Sweet Story of Old.” Ruthy -had said, and Rena had made many plans for getting it when she was -older, while Ruth, too, had her own darling scheme with regard to it, -and every day for a month, she had put by a few pennies from her little -earnings, and eaten less herself, in order to save enough to buy the -book, as a Christmas gift to Rena. She had almost enough that morning -when she went out, but the day was not a good one for her trade. Nobody -wanted boot-lacings and pins, when in all the shop windows, there were -so many beautiful things, and if she bought the book, she must go -without her supper. But she did not care for that, though she was very -hungry, and the smell of the food which came to her so often from the -many basement kitchens, nearly drove her wild. Still she did not falter, -and when at last she turned into the narrow street, and ascended the -long, steep stairway, the book was under her shawl, and she had only two -buns and a hot roll in her hands. These she had bought far up town, at -Purssell’s, as a treat for little Rena, to whom a lady had once given a -Bath bun, and who had talked of it ever since. - -Rena was off her guard, and in thinking of Bethlehem had fallen asleep -and let the fire go out, so that it was dark and cheerless enough when -Ruth entered the room; but though very cold and tired, she did not care -for Rena’s remissness, as it gave her time to hide the book which was to -be a great surprise on the morrow when it was fairly Christmas day. -Putting it carefully away she lighted the lamp and then tried to -rekindle the fire. The noise awoke Rena, who was soon beside her on the -hearth and looking into her face to see if the day had been a good one. - -To little Rena _good_ days meant a bit of meat for supper with perhaps a -piece of pie, and a warm fire in the evening, and she saw that none of -these luxuries were in store for her that night, and the old, patient, -but sad look came back to her face as she wound her arms around Ruthy’s -neck and said: - -“You didn’t get much; but no matter, you’ve got _me_.” - -Yes, Ruth had little Rena, and forcing down a great sob just as she had -forced it down the livelong day when she remembered other Christmas -tides, she held her darling sister close to her and parted her -bright-hair from her brow, and told her of the nice Bath buns from -Purssell’s and the roll for breakfast, and said she did not want -anything herself, as she had had her supper, meaning a part of an apple -she had found near a fruit stand. - -And hungry little Rena ate a bun, sitting on the floor by the fire, for -neither of the girls thought it worth while to set the table just for a -single bun! And as Rena ate she talked of Christmas and Christmas trees, -and asked Ruth to tell her again of the tree which she saw once, and -which had on it a doll and a paper of candy for her. “Jesus’ birthday -party” Rena called the Christmas eve festival, and as she warmed her -blue hands by the fire, she wished that she might go to His “party” and -get “oh, lots of things—some new shoes and stockings, and a doll that -would squeak, and some mince pie, and that story of Jesus—only, Ruthy, -I’d give them all to you, ’cause you goes in the cold, but I’d keep the -book about the pretty Bethlehem child,” she said, as she stuck out her -little feet with her ragged shoes and looked ruefully at them. - -Poor little Rena, there were shoes and stockings both, just fitted to -her cold feet, in the basket Aunt Hannah carried to the Oakfield church -that afternoon, but Rena knew nothing of them, and she kept on talking -to Ruth, asking finally what it was their mother had said about her old -home in the country where there was grass in summer, with flowers and -birds, and always enough to eat and “Jesus’ birthday party” every year -in the church. - -So Ruth told her again of the house of which she had heard so much from -her mother; and Rena asked: - -“If we’ve a grandpa and grandma there, why doesn’t they come for us? -It’s so cold here, Ruthy, and I’s so hungry, too. I want the other bun -so bad, and I’s savin’ it for you.” - -There were great tears on Rena’s cheeks as she confessed that her hunger -was greater than her spirit of self-denial could endure. She had meant -to keep the other bun for Ruthy’s breakfast, but, as she said, she was -“so hungry,” and Ruth made her eat it, and then to save the fire, they -crept into bed, but not until their prayers were reverently said, Rena -venturing to improvise a little and ask God “to send them a great big -fire, which should make them, oh, as warm as toast—and let her sometime -go to His Son’s birthday party and get something from the tree, please, -for Christ’s sake; good night, and don’t let us be cold any more, amen.” - -This was Rena’s prayer, and then nestling close to Ruth, she whispered, -“God is here, isn’t He; in this room?” - -“Yes,” was Ruth’s reply. - -“And hears me pray when I say ‘please, for Christ’s sake?’ And I am sure -he _will_, for mamma said so, and we’ll be warm to-morrow, Ruthy, you -and I; oh, so warm, with a big fire—fire—for Christ’s sake—please.” - -The words were far apart and indistinct for little Rena was fast falling -into dreamland. But so long as consciousness remained, there was a -prayer in her heart for “fire—a big fire to warm us, please.” - -And God, who was there, in that humble room, and heard their prayer, -answered it in His own way, which was not exactly little Rena’s way. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - THE FIRE. - - -The Christmas Eve Festivals were over, and night brooded silently over -the great city, until the clock on Trinity rang for twelve; then a few -moments went by, and the great bell at Jefferson market sent forth its -warning, which was caught up and repeated faster, louder, more -excitedly, as the mad flames, let loose from the nooks and corners where -they had perhaps been smoldering through the day, leaped high in the air -and ran riotously over the roofs of the old tenement house on —— street, -where Ruth and Rena lay sleeping. “Fire,—fire,—” how the cry sounded -through the streets, and what a clatter the firemen and the people made -and how the women shrieked and the children cried, and nobody but God -thought of Ruth and Rena. He was taking care of them, and woke Ruth just -as the flames looked for an instant into the room, already filled with -smoke, and then were subdued by a powerful jet of water, which left all -again in darkness. - -Ruth knew what it meant, and with a gasp of suffocation sprang from the -bed, and groping her way to the door, opened it wide, hoping to admit -the fresh air, without which she knew she must smother. But only thick, -dark billows of smoke came rolling in, filling her lungs and eyes and -mouth, as she tried to find her way back to her sister to whom she -shrieked, “Wake, Rena; the house is on fire. Run for your life.” - -The cry awoke Rena, who staggered toward the door, more by chance than -design. Fortunately for her, it was still open, and, blinded by smoke, -and wild with fright, she rushed down the stairway, and escaped unharmed -into the street below, where the excited throng of people were running -and shrieking, and where she would have been trampled to death, if a -city missionary, had not found her as, in her night dress, with her -little white feet nearly frozen, she ran hither and thither, sobbing in -a pitiful kind of way for “Ruthy” to come and get her. One of the -mission houses received her, and when the Christmas dawn broke over the -city, and the bells were pealing merrily she lay on one of the little -cots asleep, her lips occasionally whispering softly, “Come, Ruthy, -come.” - -The fright and exposure brought on a low fever, and for weeks kind -nurses watched by her trying to make out something from her not very -clear story. - -“Mother’s dead,” she said, “I haven’t any papa; Ruthy and me lives -alone, and sells pins and things, only Ruthy sells ’em and I keep house, -and she’s burned, and I’s Rena Cutler and she isn’t.” - -This was her story, and as nothing more could be learned of her or of -the Ruth of whom she talked, and as it was known that several had -perished in the flames, it seemed probable that Ruth was one of them; -and Rena’s fever ran higher, and she talked of the baby of Bethlehem and -Jesus’ birthday party, and the buns from Purssell’s, but after a time -she grew better, and was interested in things around her, and was a -great favorite with every one and happy in her new home, where all the -influences were calculated to strengthen the good there was in her when -she lived with Ruth in the old house. - -But she never forgot “poor Ruthy,” whom she believed to have been burned -to death, and every night she prayed that God would make her “good -enough to go some day to Heaven where Ruthy and mother were; amen, for -Christ’s sake, please.” - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - RENA AT UNCLE OBED’S. - - -Uncle Obed had not found his lost daughter in New York, or any trace of -her; but he heard of the fire, and he went down and looked at the ruins, -and stood close to the place where little Rena came shrieking down the -stairs into the streets; then he went to the Mission House on Sunday and -heard the children sing their songs, and saw them take their evening -meal, and went into the room where little Rena lay and saw her -bright-hair on the pillow and just the outline of her pale face, and -heard she was one of the little ones rescued from the fire. He left ten -dollars with the matron to be used for her and “the other wee ones, God -bless them!” and then went home and told Aunt Hannah, who all the winter -long worked for that Home in New York, and sent to it more than one -garment which happened to fit Rena. - -And so five years went by, and then there came to Oakfield one day an -agent for the Home, and with him several little girls for whom places -were wanted. Rena was among them, and in her soft blue eyes and pretty -face there was something which appealed strongly to the sympathy of Aunt -Hannah, who took the child for her own and brought her home and put her -in the room which had been Agatha’s, and gave her so much love and -kindness that the little girl sometimes wondered “if Heaven, where Ruthy -was, could be better than this.” - -There in Oakfield she saw, for the first time, the Christmas-tree in all -its glory, and “Rena” was called so many times, that at last when she -came back with a huge doll which Aunt Hannah had worked at in secret for -weeks, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically, so great -was her happiness. That was to her in truth “Jesus’ birthday party,” and -when that night she knelt alone in her room, she thanked Him in her -quaint way for all the joy and brightness crowning her young life, and -then, with a sigh as she remembered poor Ruthy, asked that if there were -Christmas trees in Heaven, Ruthy might see one and get everything she -wanted, just as she had done. - -Here Rena paused with a thought of the book she had coveted so much, and -which Ruth had promised to buy as soon as she saved money enough. Rena -had never seen the book, for Grandma Harris, as the child called her, -knew nothing of it, and the nearest Rena had been to possessing it was -on that night when Ruth had hidden it away so carefully against the -morning which dawned upon them amid smoke and flame. The book had burned -to ashes; Rena was there at Grandpa Harris’s; and Ruth, as she believed, -was in Heaven with the mother whom Rena could scarcely remember. Fright -and sickness had driven some things from her mind, but Mr. and Mrs. -Harris knew that she was picked up on the street on the night of a fire -and that her name was Rena Cutler. They knew, too, about poor Ruth, and -Grandma Harris had wept more than once over the two little girls living -alone in the cold, forlorn chamber of the dreary tenement house. So much -Rena could tell, but when it came to her mother she remembered nothing -except that she was good, and sick, and died; and so grandma never -suspected the truth, or dreamed why the orphan seemed so near to her and -her husband, both of whom would have been very lonely now without the -little girl to whom they had given their name, so that she was known to -everybody as Rena Harris. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - DAISY. - - -Swiftly the years came and went till Rena had been for more than four -years in Oakland, and was a fair, sweet-faced girl of thirteen, when one -day, toward the last of August there came to the farm-house from the -hotel on the hill across the river, a young man whom Rena had seen in -church and who she had heard was stopping in town with his wife. -Occasionally he had driven by the farm-house, and Rena had caught sight -of a pale, beautiful face which had made her heart throb quickly with a -feeling she could not define. It was a young girlish face, and Rena was -surprised when she heard that the lady was the young man’s wife, and -very sorry and grieved when she further heard that she was crazy. - -“Not quite right in her mind,” George Rivers said, when he came to the -farm-house to ask if they would take his poor “Daisy” for a few weeks -“She lost her baby six months ago,” he said, “and she’s been strange -ever since. I brought her to the country hoping a change from the city -would do her good, and I think she is improving. We have driven by here -several times, and for some reason she has taken a great fancy to this -place, and says she could sleep and should get well if she were here, so -I called to ask if you will take her.” - -The price offered was remunerative, and as dollars were not so very -plenty with the old couple they consented at last to take the young -lady, whom her husband called Daisy, and whom Rena felt that she should -love so much. She was a wonderfully beautiful little creature, not much -taller than Rena herself, and her soft, brown eyes had in them an -expression so sad and pitiful, that Rena could scarcely keep back the -tears when she saw her coming in leaning upon her husband’s arm. There -had been talk of a nurse to look after her when George returned to the -city, but Rena had begged so hard for that office that Mr. Rivers had -consented and Rena was to attend her, and she came at once to the -invalid and showed her to the large, pleasant chamber which adjoined her -own, and which overlooked the town and the hill country beyond. - -“This is so nice—so like a dream I’ve had of something. I shall be -better here,” Daisy said, as she leaned from the window and looked out -upon the yard and garden below. - -“Can I do anything for you? I am to be your little maid. I am Rena -Harris.” - -This was what Rena said as the lady turned from the window, and Daisy’s -brown eyes looked wonderingly at her, while a deep flush suffused the -white face for an instant and then left it paler than before. - -“Rena, Rena,” she repeated; “I never knew but one, and she is with the -angels. I called baby _Irene_, and she died too. Rena; it’s very strange -that you should have that name.” - -Daisy was talking to herself now, for at the first mention of _Irene_, -Rena had darted down stairs to Aunt Hannah, exclaiming: - -“I’ve got it now—my real name. You know I never could think for sure, -but the moment she said her baby was Irene, it came back to me. That was -the name in the Bible—_Irene Cutler_, and Ruth read it to me once and -she called me Rena. Oh, grandma, you don’t know how sad the lady looked -when she said, ‘Rena, Rena!’ I shall love her so dearly, and I mean to -take such good care of her, too.” - -Rena was as good as her word, and soon loved the beautiful Daisy with a -devotion both rare and curious, while Daisy never seemed happier than -when her little maid was with her. She was very pretty with a fair -creamy complexion, soft brown eyes and abundant hair of the same shade, -which she wore in braids coiled about her head, while, added to her -beauty was an air of grace and gentle dignity which alone would have -made her very attractive. She did not seem to be really crazy; her mind -was only weak, and sometimes when talking of her baby she said queer -things, which showed that her reason was not quite clear. But the quiet, -happy life she led at the farm-house began to have its influence, and -when in September her husband, who had returned to Boston after seeing -her comfortably settled, came again to Oakfield, he found her greatly -improved. She was very happy there, and begged so hard to be allowed to -stay until after Christmas that both Mr. and Mrs. Harris and her husband -consented, while Rena was wild with delight when she heard of the -arrangement. - -When Mr. Rivers first came she had feared that she might lose the sweet -lady whom she loved so much, but now she was to stay a long time, it -seemed to her, and her joy knew no bounds, while she redoubled her -efforts to please and amuse her patient who owed much of her improvement -to Rena’s care. Together in the bright autumn days they roamed over the -fields and thro’ the woods of Oakfield, and the villagers sometimes saw -them sitting on the banks of the river, Rena at Daisy’s feet, looking up -into the lovely face above her, while Daisy’s fingers caressed her -golden hair, or wove for it a crown of the rich-hued autumn leaves. - -Once Daisy said to her: - -“You make me think so much of the sister I lost; her name was Rena, -too.” - -“Tell me about her, please,” Rena said, and Daisy replied: - -“Sometime when I am stronger I will, but now it makes my brain thump so -to think of her. Oh, Rena, Rena, my darling, my darling.” - -She covered her face with her hands, and Rena could see the tears -trickle through her fingers as she rocked to and fro, whispering of -things which perplexed and puzzled the little girl to whom they did not -seem strange or new. - -After a little Daisy became quiet, but for many days she was not quite -herself, and Rena never spoke again of the dead sister, and the autumn -went by and the winter came with its dull gray clouds and wailing winds, -and still Daisy tarried at the farm-house where she was to remain until -after the holidays. These her husband was to spend with her, and he came -the day before Christmas with gifts, some for his wife, some for Mr. and -Mrs. Harris, and some for Rena. Among these last was a book—too young it -might seem for a girl of thirteen, but it had been gotten up with -beautiful binding and colored prints expressly for the holidays, and its -title was: - - “THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD; - - OR - - THE LIFE OF JESUS.” - -Very carefully, nay, almost reverently, Daisy took the book in her hand -and her eyes were full of tears as she said: - -“It is beautiful, but not much like the one I bought that day for my -darling. Oh, George, how the Christmas holidays bring her back to me, -and I see her just as she looked that last night kneeling by the fire -and talking of ‘Jesus’ birthday party,’ and what she wanted from the -tree if she ever went to one—shoes, and stockings and a doll that would -squeak, and some mince pie and the story of Jesus and she would give -them all to _me_ but the book, she said, because I went in the cold, -and, George, her shoes were so ragged then and her little toes so blue.” - -“Yes, yes, I know. Don’t talk of it any more; it excites you too much,” -George said, as he drew his young wife fondly to him, but Daisy -answered: - -“I must talk. I feel just like it, and the words will choke me if I do -not let them out. I have thought of Rena all day just as I always do at -Christmas time. It’s eight years to-night since the fire, and I loved -her so much; she was so sweet and pretty, with a look in her eyes like -Rena Harris, whom I love for her sake. Darling sister, I see her now as -she prayed for a big fire to warm her and Ruthy, as warm as toast, and -God sent the fire and burned my precious sister up. Oh, George, does he -always answer prayer that way?” - -Ere George could reply there was the sound of a choking sob by the open -door, a rush across the floor, a folding of arms tightly around the -astonished Daisy’s neck, while Rena’s voice said: - -“Oh, Ruthy, Ruthy,—you _are_ Ruthy and I am Rena. I was not burned that -awful night, but thought you were, and have cried so often for you. God -did answer my prayer and I never was cold any more. I am Rena Cutler and -you are sister Ruth.” - -Rena had been passing the open door when her attention was attracted by -hearing Daisy repeat the title of the book she had once coveted so much. -Involuntarily and without any intention of listening, she paused a -moment and heard that which kept her riveted to the spot, while the hot -blood surged wildly through her veins at Daisy’s story. She did not stop -to reason or ask herself how that beautiful young lady, with all the -signs of wealth and culture around her, could be the Ruth who once sold -matches in New York, and lived with her in that cheerless upper room. -She knew it was she—the Ruth she had mourned as dead,—and with a glad -cry she went to her, and falling upon her neck, claimed her as her own. - -And Daisy neither shrieked, nor fainted, nor cried out, but sat like one -dead, while George unclasped Rena’s arms from her neck and questioned -her of the past. Very rapidly Rena told her story, and Daisy listened -till the color came back to her face, and the tears flowed in torrents, -while sob after sob shook her frame, and her lips kept whispering -gladly: “Thank God; thank God, it’s Rena, it is.” - -Mr. and Mrs. Harris were now summoned, and to them George appealed for -confirmation of Rena’s story. As concisely as he could Grandpa Harris -told what he had heard of Rena from the man who brought her to Oakfield, -and when he had finished even Mr. Rivers himself could no longer doubt -that Daisy had found her sister, and drawing Rena to him he kissed her -fondly in token of his recognition as a near and dear relation. - -Daisy’s story was soon told. After her frantic call for Rena to waken -she had fallen senseless upon the floor, where she would have died but -for the women who occupied the adjoining room, and who suddenly -remembered the little girls and called to a fireman to save them. The -flames by this time were rolling up the stairway, and Ruth’s hair was -scorched when the brave man reached her and bore her safely into the -street. To venture again into the roaring mass of fire was impossible, -and as none of Rena’s acquaintances chanced to see her in the crowd, it -was supposed that she perished in the flames, and not all the good -fortune which came to Ruth could ever obliterate the memory of that -dreadful night, or her sister’s terrible fate. A kind woman belonging to -the better class of poor had taken Ruth into her house, where within a -few days came Mrs. Rivers, from far uptown, to get plain sewing done. -Six months before she had lost her only daughter, who was just Ruth’s -age and size, and something in the face of the desolate young girl -attracted the lady’s notice, and when she heard her story it seemed as -if her own dead child from the grave in Greenwood, was pleading for the -orphan. And so it came about that Ruth found herself in a beautiful -home, where, as Mrs. Rivers’ adopted daughter, every want was supplied, -and she went no more into the street to sell her humble wares. So -certain did Rena’s death seem, that no effort was ever made to find her, -and for more than two years the sisters lived in the same city, and -possibly met sometimes in the street, as Ruth rode with Mrs. Rivers in -her luxurious carriage, and Rena took a walk with a teacher or older -girl. Then Mrs. Rivers moved to Boston, and three years after Rena was -sent to Oakfield, so that their lives were as far apart from each other -as they were different in incident.—Loved, and petted and caressed, -Ruth, to whom Mrs. Rivers gave the name of Daisy, had no wish -ungratified which money could procure, and she grew up a beautiful and -accomplished woman, retaining still the same sweet unselfishness of -disposition and gentleness of manner which had marked her childhood, -when she went hungry that little Rena might be fed. At eighteen she was -married to the nephew of her so-called father, and after the birth of a -little girl, whom she named Irene, she seemed perfectly happy until her -infant died, when she sank into a weak, peculiar state of mind from -which nothing had power to rouse her until Providence directed her to -Oakfield. There she felt at home from the first, she said; the place -reminded her so much of the house she had heard her mother describe so -often. - -“And,” she continued, taking up her story where George had left it, “I -never thought of it when I first came here. I guess I did not think of -anything, but mother’s name was Harris—Agatha Harris—and she——” - -Daisy never finished the sentence, for ere another word could be uttered -Grandpa Harris fell heavily against his wife, with the look of death on -his face. The shock was too great for him to bear, and they laid him -fainting upon the couch, while Aunt Hannah, Daisy and Rena bent over -him, trying to restore him to consciousness. When he was himself again -and able to listen, it needed but few words more to convince him that -the Rena whom he loved already as his own, and the beautiful Daisy, whom -he looked up to as a superior being, were both the children of his -daughter, whose marriage with Homer Hastings twenty-one years ago that -very night had so offended him. - -Daisy could remember very little of her own father. He had been kind, -she knew, and they had been comfortable while he lived, but after his -death they were very poor till her mother married a Mr. Cutler, who -though a worthy and respectable man, was always sickly, and died soon -after Rena’s birth. - -“So long as mother lived, we did pretty well,” Daisy said. “She took in -sewing and I went for and carried home the work; but when she died and -we sold the things to pay the doctor’s bill, and keep us from starving, -it was so hard; then I peddled in the street and tried to earn a living, -and tried to be good and remember all mother had taught me, but -sometimes, when I was so cold, and nobody bought, and the ladies held -their purses tight if I came near them, and the newsboys halloed after -me, and Rena was home so hungry waiting for me, I thought God had -forgotten us; but Rena never did. Her faith was always strong, and her -sweet, baby words of comfort kept my heart from breaking.” - -They were all sobbing but Daisy, who alone was calm, as she went over -the dreadful past which was now done with forever. Cold, nor hunger, nor -insult, would ever touch Daisy again, and, as some great shock -frequently unsettles the mind, so, contrarywise, it sometimes restores -it, and the excitement and surprise of finding her sister and friends -seemed to restore Daisy’s reason wholly, and after a moment she said, as -she put her hand to her head and turned to her husband with one of her -brightest smiles, “It is all gone,—the confusion and uncertainty. Every -thing is clear as it was before baby died. I am myself once more. Thank -God for giving me back my mind with all the other blessings.” - -She did seem perfectly sane, and never was there a happier family group -than that at the farm-house on that Christmas eve. They did not go to -the church, for they felt that their joy was something with which -strangers had nothing to do, and they kept the festival at home and -talked together of all the wonderful ways through which God had led -them, until the bell of the church across the common rang for twelve and -another Christmas morn was ushered in. - -Rena had her book at last,—the story of Bethlehem,—and though many -costlier presents have been given her since, she prizes none of them so -much as that “sweet story of old” which came to her with the sister she -had believed to be dead. Her home proper is in the city now, with Daisy, -where her winters are spent, and where Grandpa and Grandma Harris often -come; but, all through the summer months, she stays at the old -farm-house with Daisy and the sturdy boy who has taken the place of the -little Irene. Uncle Obed always goes to the Christmas festival in the -old church, and though his voice trills and shakes a little, he does not -stop for that, but with a silent thanksgiving in his heart for the -children restored to him, joins heartily in the “Peace on earth, and -good will toward men,” which goes up to Heaven from so many tongues on -that, night of nights—that “wonderful night” when— - - “Down o’er the stars to restore us, - Leading His flame-winged chorus. - Comes the Eternal to sight:— - Wonderful, wonderful night!” - - - THE END - OF - RUTH AND RENA. - - - - - BENNIE’S CHRISTMAS. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - BENNIE’S HOME. - - -It was very cold down in the old lumber yard which skirted the canal, -and Bennie’s little hands were numb and blue as he gathered the bits of -boards and shingles and piled them in his basket, until it seemed as if -so small a boy as he could not lift the heavy load. But Bennie was used -to burdens and hardships; indeed, he would hardly have known himself -without them, and when the basket was full he took it in both his hands -and walked slowly along the towpath towards the miserable hovel he -called his home. As he came near the bridge a young lady was going up -the stone steps which lead to the street above, and with her was a -little boy just Bennie’s age, but so different in looks and dress and -general appearance that one could not fail to notice the contrast at -once. Clad in a warm winter suit of the latest style Wallie Morgan knew -nothing of cold or hunger and cruel neglect, and the sight of Bennie, -with his ragged clothes and old slouched cap roused the boy nature and -he called out, “Halloo, there, tow-head! What are you stealing chips for -from my father’s lumber yard? I mean to tell him of you, Mr. -Out-at-the-knees.” - -“Hush, Wallie!” said the young lady whose face was very sweet, “you -should not speak so to the little boy. He looks very poor and very cold. -Come here, boy, and tell me your name and where you live.” - -She held her hand towards the child, who was scowling defiantly at -Wallie, but who, at the sound of her voice, seemed intuitively to -recognize an ally in her, and replied: “He ’allus calls me tow-head, or -out-at-the-knees, ’cause my hair’s white and my trouses is tore. I can’t -help it, I didn’t make myself.” - -“Who did make you?” the young girl asked, and Bennie replied, “I dunno, -mother’s dead and pa gets drunk. I dunno nothing.” - -“Don’t know who made you! That’s dreadful,” the lady said. “Why, you -poor child, you must come to Sunday school and into my class and I will -tell you about God. Will you come next Sunday? It is the church on the -corner.” - -“Will _he_ be there?” Bennie asked, nodding towards Wallie. - -“Yes, he is in my class, and I am his Aunt Nellie; but he will be very -kind to you. He is not a bad boy. Come, and perhaps you may get -something at Christmas. Do you know what that is?” - -“Yes, it’s when the old chap fetches things down the chimbly; but he -never brung me none. We’re poor, and Hetty keeps house and runs the -streets all the time, and Mag and I is alone. I’ll tell Maggie, and -mayby she’ll come. She’s got a new gown Miss Katy give her. I must go -now, we are goin’ to have hasty puddin’ for dinner.” - -He took his heavy basket and almost staggering under the load walked -slowly away. As usual at that time of day Hetty was out, but Maggie, a -dark faced girl of twelve, was waiting for him, and with her help a fire -was soon kindled in the old broken stove, and the hasty pudding, of -which Bennie had spoken, was boiling and bubbling in the one kettle the -miserable house afforded. - -“I wish we had some ’lasses, don’t you?” Bennie said, as Maggie poured -into his dish more than half of the blue milk she had begged of a -neighbor. - -But molasses was a luxury quite beyond the means of the Hewitts, and so -Bennie ate his pudding and skimmed milk, and told Maggie of Wallie -Morgan who had called him tow-heard and of the beautiful lady who had -invited him to Sunday school. - -“Yes that’s Nellie Morgan, his aunt; his mother’s dead, and she keeps -house and has a class, a big one, in Sunday school, and give Jane Shaw a -doll and a dress and lots of candy and pop-corn last Christmas, and her -brother Tim got a top and a whip.” - -“My, that’s jolly; less go to her class next Sunday,” Bennie said, his -fancy caught with the top and the whip, and the shoes which would keep -his little red toes from the cold. - -But Bennie was a delicate child and when Sunday came he was sick and lay -on an old rug in a little room off from the kitchen where he was safe -from his drunken father, while Maggie went to church and into Miss -Morgan’s class. - -That day was a new era in Maggie’s life, and unmindful of the bitter -cold which struck through her thin garments and made her shiver -involuntarily, she hurried home to Bennie with the picture card she had -received and the wonderful story she had heard of Jesus’ birthday and -the baby born among the cows and oxen in that far off manger in -Bethlehem. Wonderingly Bennie listened, asking innumerable questions -about the child; was he ever cold, or hungry, and was he afraid of the -cattle, and did his father get drunk and thrash him? To all these -inquiries Maggie answered no decidedly, but when Bennie asked if he -really could hear what every body said and would give them what they -wanted, Maggie was doubtful. She thought, however, they better try it, -and so the two forlorn little ones knelt down as Maggie said they did in -church and tried to pray. But neither knew what to say and when Bennie -suggested that his sister ought to know “’cause she’d been to meetin’,” -she answered, “I know they said Our Father, I am sure of that.” - -But Bennie scoffed at this idea, “That baby in the hay our father! Why, -pa is drunk down to the grocery!” - -As well as she could, Maggie explained, drawing some from her -imagination, some from what Miss Morgan had told her, and some from -faint remembrances of a time when her mother, who died at Bennie’s -birth, had taught her of God and Heaven. Half convinced, half doubtful -still, Bennie tried again, and said, “Our Father, if you is my father, -and was oncet a little boy like me, give me something to eat and some -gooder trouses and shoes, and a pair of lines on the tree when you have -your birth night.” - -“For Christ’s sake; say that,” Maggie whispered, and Bennie rejoined, -“Who’s he! I shan’t do it. I’m not goin’ to get ’em mixed, I’ll stick to -Our Father.” - -And surely the good Father, who is so kind and pitiful to the little -ones, heard that prayer of the ignorant child, and would in His own time -and way answer it. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - BENNIE’S FIRST CHRISTMAS. - - -The snow had fallen all day long, and from the window of his wretched -home Bennie had watched the feathery flakes as they fell in perfect -clouds, covering the old lumber yard where only yesterday he had -gathered his basket of wood and chips, covering the tow path which -skirted the canal, and covering the roofs of all the houses as far as he -could see. It was the first genuine snow of the season, and he wanted to -enjoy it as he saw some school-boys doing on the bridge, but his toes -were out of his shoes, and his elbows were out of his jacket and there -was that little hacking cough to which he was subject every winter, and -which this season was worse than usual and kept him awake at night. He -had learned that wet feet and chilled limbs increased it, and he dreaded -to lie all day long in that dreary little bed-room, with no fire and -nothing pleasant to look at. From his mother, who had been his father’s -superior in every respect, he had inherited a love of the beautiful, an -appreciation of comfort and pretty things, which made the squalor around -more offensive, and he could not endure the thought of being sick again, -as he was a month ago, when he was soaked in a rain and had the cough so -badly; and then, he wanted to go to the Christmas-tree that night, and -Hetty had said that he “should not stir a step if there was any sign of -his coughing, for she would not be bothered with a sick young one -again.” So, lest he should take cold and cough Bennie staid in doors all -day and watched the falling snow, and late in the afternoon hailed with -delight a rosy cloud in the west which said the storm was over. It was -not very cold, and when the sun went down and the full moon rose up over -the carpet of pure white snow Bennie thought he had never seen so -beautiful a night, or felt as happy as he did when starting for the -church, with Maggie as his chaperone. She had been three times to Sunday -school and when Miss Morgan asked for the little boy seen that cold day -in the lumber yard, Maggie had told her of his ragged clothes and -worn-out shoes, and Miss Nellie, who was like an angel of mercy in the -homes of the poor, had made a note of it; determining after Christmas -was over to find the child and do what she could for him. - -It was early when Maggie and Bennie entered the church, but they found -it nearly full, and abashed at the sight of so many strangers and -attracted by the heat of the registers Bennie insisted upon staying by -them, near the door where he was jostled by the crowd and jeered at by -some thoughtless boys who made fun of his old clothes and asked “what he -would take for himself, rags and all.” But Bennie bore their jeers -meekly and only doubled his fist once, so intent was he upon the tree in -the chancel, bending with its hundreds of gifts. He had never dreamed of -anything like that, and his belief in Bethlehem’s baby grew stronger as -he saw this tangible commemoration of his birth night. How fine it all -was, and how splendidly the rector looked in his white robe, and how -grandly the music of the organ rolled through the aisles, making the -floor tremble under his feet, and causing him to start a little and look -down to see what was the matter. And when the children began one of -their Christmas carols and sang of the “Silent night, the holy night,” -Bennie felt a strange thrill creep over him and every nerve quivered -with excitement as he listened to the words: - - “All is calm,—all is bright - - · · · · · - - Glories stream from Heaven afar, - Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia, - Christ the Saviour is born.” - -Was Heaven, of which Maggie had told him such wonderful things, any -better than this, or the children there happier than these whose faces -looked so eager and expectant as they went up to the tree, and so full -of joy when they came back? They were calling the names very rapidly -now, and Bennie held his breath to hear, and watched them anxiously. -Wallie Morgan seemed to be a favored one, for he was called many times, -and when he came back with a pair of red lines with little tinkling -bells, Bennie exclaimed aloud, “Oh, if they’d only call _me_!” - -Would they? Was there anything for him on that heavily laden tree? There -were gifts for Johnnie and Jakie, and Susie and Freddie, and Sam, and -yes,—certain and true, he heard his name at last, or something like it, -and half started forward, when a rough boy caught his arm, saying, -“’Tain’t you. It’s a gal.” - -No, it was not Bennie, but it was Maggie, his sister, whose name he had -heard and who received a Bible and a bundle of something which looked -like clothes. - -“Maggie Hewitt; Maggie Hewitt,” Bennie heard a woman in front of him -say. “That is a new name. Who is she?” - -“Oh, some waif Miss Nellie has picked up, I dare say,” was the reply. -“She is always doing such things, you know. Isn’t she beautiful to-night -with that long feather and jaunty sacque?” - -Bennie thought she was beautiful and watched her admiringly as she moved -among her pupils, sharing their joy and occasionally trying to repress -their wild spirits. Johnnie and Jakie and Tommie again, and Susie and -Katie and Anne, but no Bennie Hewitt; he had been forgotten; there was -nothing for him, and with a choking, gasping sensation he stood, holding -fast to the pew railing in front of him, while the grand old anthem -Glory to God on High, rang through the church, and the final prayer was -said. But the music and the prayer were nothing to him now; faith in -Bethlehem’s baby was gone, and his little heart was as empty of -happiness as the tall tree was of gifts, and as full of bitter -disappointment as the church was of people, all moving out and crowding -him as they went. Maggie had been near the chancel with Miss Morgan’s -class, and when at last she came there were few left in the church, and -these were gathered about the rector, near the tree. - -“Oh, Ben, see what I’ve got; a bran-new gown,” Maggie said, as she -caught sight of her brother. - -At the sound of her voice Bennie’s pent-up grief gave way, and a low, -piteous, wailing cry reached the ear of Nellie Morgan, who, in a moment -was at Bennie’s side asking what was the matter. - -“Everybody got somethin’ but me, and I never had a darned thing. I -thought the baby in the stable would bring me suthin’; I asked him this -mornin’ would he.” - -This was the sobbing reply of the little ragged boy who cried as if his -heart would break, while Nellie tried to comfort him. In the -multiplicity of her cares she had forgotten him, and she felt so grieved -and sorry, until an idea struck her. There were a few whispered words to -Wallie, whose hands were full, and then turning to Bennie, she asked -what he wanted most. - -“Some lines and some shoes,” he said, and glancing at his thin, worn -boots, Nellie replied, “Poor boy, you do need shoes, and you shall have -them to-morrow, while the lines,—” she turned appealingly to Wallie, -who, after a momentary struggle, laid the lines in her hand. “Yes,” she -continued, “you shall have the lines to-night. Wallie gives them to you, -and is sorry for the naughty words he said to you the other day. Now, -shake hands and be friends with him.” - -Such generosity and self-denial were more than Bennie could comprehend, -and he stood staring blankly at Wallie, while his lip quivered and the -tears rained down his cheek. - -“Git out! Yer only foolin’,” he said, while the glimmer of a smile -showed round his mouth. - -Wallie had felt like crying himself, but at the sight of tears in -another he assumed a show of manliness and answered, “No, I ain’t -foolin’. I want you to have ’em. Auntie can knit me some more. They are -three yards long. Look!” and with a swift movement he threw them across -Ben’s neck, exclaiming, “Get up there! Go ’long!” - -Quick as thought Ben started off on a brisk canter, with sundry little -squeals and kicking up of heels, and before the astonished rector could -stop it the two boys had made the entire circuit of the church, one as -driver and the other as horse! It was an unprecedented thing, but Bennie -knew no better, and Wallie would not admit that he was sorry. It was the -greatest fun, he said, and Ben was the nicest kind of a horse, because -he squealed and kicked up so good! To Bennie that race was, perhaps, the -best part of the festival, though the next day was to him the real -Christmas, the white day of his life, which he never forgot. There was -much cheer and festivity at the Morgan house that Christmas time, for -many guests were staying there, and Nellie, as the mistress, had -numberless duties to perform, but she did not forget her promise to -little Ben, and just before the bell at St. Luke’s rang for the morning -service, the Morgan carriage stopped at the wretched house where the -Hewitts lived, and Nellie entered the cold, dirty room, laden with gifts -for Bennie. There was a warm suit of Wallie’s half worn clothes, a pair -of shoes, with mittens and tippet, a book of pictures, and a horse on -wheels, which, possibly, pleased the little boy more than all the rest. -He was very happy and proud in his new clothes, and when the next Sunday -came and Nellie Morgan joined her class in Sunday school Bennie was the -first one she saw, his face all aglow with excitement and eager -expectancy. Forlorn and despised as he was, he was no ordinary child, -and the quickness with which he comprehended her and the aptness of his -replies and questionings surprised and interested Miss Nellie, who felt -that she had known the child for years, so fast did he gain upon her -love during that first hour of teaching. Regularly every Sunday after -that, through sunshine and storm, Bennie was in his place, his lesson -always perfect, and his brain full of the puzzling thoughts which had -come to him during the week, and which only Miss Nellie could explain. -Of the child Jesus he was never tired of hearing, and the story of -Bethlehem was told him again and again until he knew it by heart, and -prompted both Miss Morgan and his sister if, in telling it, they -deviated ever so little from the original. Of Calvary and its agony he -did not care to hear. There was something horrible to him in that three -hours’ suffering, and the darkened sky and opening graves, and he would -far rather think of Christ as a little child sleeping on a mound of hay, -or playing by the door of his home in Nazareth. - -“Seems if I got nearer to Him, and He was sorrier for me when I’m cold -and hungry and father licks me so hard for nothin’,” he said, and his -prayers were mostly said to the baby boy he had first heard about, and -we have no doubt that God listened with love and sympathy for the poor -child who sometimes asked so touchingly, “Was you ever hungry, dear -Jesus, and be flogged and cuffed as I am when I hain’t done nothin’, and -did the snow come into your winder and cover the front of your bed, and -make you so cold at night?” - -At first Bennie’s prayers were mostly interrogatories of the Lord with -regard to His early life; but as he learned more from the faithful -Nellie, he came at last to ask for what he wanted in his own peculiar -way, and God, who always hears and answers the prayer of faith like -Bennie’s, heard and answered him, as we shall see in our next chapter. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - BENNIE’S SECOND CHRISTMAS. - - -The year had rolled round swiftly, and the little ones of St. Luke’s -were again looking eagerly forward to Christmas Eve and the wonderful -tree, which all the summer long had been growing down by the lake and -gathering new beauty and strength for the task it was to perform. It was -in the cellar of St. Luke’s now, and the ladies and children were busy -trimming the little stone church on the corner, and Maggie Hewitt was -with them, holding twine and pulling twigs for Miss Nellie, at whose -side she hovered constantly, and whom some of the young girls called -“Miss Morgan’s shadow.” But Bennie was not there, and if you had gone -down on the tow path that winter day and entered the room, into which -the snow used to drift at night, and where Bennie used to hide away from -his drunken, crazy father, you would scarcely have known the place. -Nellie Morgan had proved the good angel of that house, as of many -others, and discovering that appreciation of tidiness and comfort which -Bennie possessed to so great a degree, she had made his surroundings as -pleasant as possible under the circumstances. Bennie was a delicate -child, and often sick for days and even weeks, and when Miss Nellie -found how distasteful to him was that dingy, dreary room where the -broken window was stuffed with rags, and the damp, stained paper hung in -strips on the wall, she went to work with a will, and many an article of -cast off furniture found its way from the garret of the Morgan house to -the hut on the tow path, and in comparison with his condition one year -ago, Bennie now lodged like a prince, and felt almost as happy as one. -There was fresh paper on the walls, the window was mended, and a clean -white curtain hung before it; a strip of carpet covered the floor, and -Bennie’s bed was a wide, capacious crib, which had once been Wallie -Morgan’s; and there, propped up with pillows and clad in a bright -dressing-gown, Bennie lay that December day when his sister Maggie was -busy at the church where he so longed to be. A severe cold had settled -on his lungs, and for weeks he had kept in doors, trying to subdue the -tickling cough, which harassed him day and night. - -“Oh, if I only can be well by Christmas, I want to see Jesus’ birth -night once more. Do you think he’ll let me go?” he would say to Miss -Nellie, when she came, as she often did, to see him, and with tears in -her eyes Nellie would smooth the light hair of the little boy who had -grown so fast into her love, and answer that she hoped so, when all the -time there was a great fear in her heart that never again would Bennie -celebrate the Saviour’s birth night. - -But she would not tell him so then, for she felt sure that he was one of -the little ones of whom our Savior said “of such is the kingdom of -Heaven.” Her labor had not been in vain so far as Bennie was concerned. -With astonishing avidity he had seized upon her words of instruction, -and now, whether awake or asleep, the baby of Bethlehem was always -present with him, the friend to whom he told his joys and griefs and to -whom he often prayed for his drunken father, his idle, wicked sister -Hetty, and his other sister, Maggie, whom he loved so well. - -Such a child could not fail to influence any household for good, and it -was observed by many that Mr. Hewitt worked more steadily, and was not -intoxicated so often as of old, while Hetty was less in the street and -never brought her vile, noisy companions to disturb her sick brother. -And Bennie was very happy except when he thought of the Christmas -Festival and his desire to attend it. - -“Please, Jesus of Bethlehem, let me be well enough to go there just this -once and hear my name called from the tree, will you, and I’ll be so -good and not fret at Mag when my side aches and I cough so hard.” - -This was Bennie’s prayer, or the substance of it, said often to himself, -but for once God did not seem to hear the little boy, for his cough -daily grew worse, the pallor about his lips grew deeper, the red on his -thin cheeks redder, and his great blue eyes had in them that bright, -glassy look which only the eyes of consumptives wear. - -“I can’t go; he won’t let me,” he said, with a burst of tears, the -morning before Christmas to Miss Nellie, who had come down to see him, -and who tried to comfort him by saying that he would be remembered just -the same, and that his presents would be new to him Christmas morning. - -“’Tain’t that,” he answered with quivering lip, “’Tain’t the presents. -It’s going up myself and feeling that _he_ counts me in as one of ’em, I -want to hear Him call my name,—Bennie Hewitt, and know how it sounds.” - -It was a fancy of his that Jesus himself called the names of the little -ones, and Nellie did not try to dispel the illusion. Jesus would call -him soon, she was sure, and with a kiss and a promise to come again on -the morrow she left him and went back to the church where she was busy -all the day with Maggie as her constant aid. And while they trimmed the -house of God and hung their gifts upon the tree, little Bennie lay in -his crib thinking about it and of the tree of life, of which Nellie had -once read to him. Would he ever see that tree, and would there be -something on it for him, and could he bathe his burning cheeks and hands -in that pure river of water, and wouldn’t it be nice to have no nights -to cough so in, and no need of sun or moon to light those golden -streets. - -It was nearly dark when Maggie came in, full of the beautiful church and -the tree on which were so many curious things. - -“Something for you,” she said to Bennie. “I saw more than one, and I’ll -bring ’em to you when it’s out. Don’t cry, Bennie, I’m so sorry you -can’t go with me. Next year you will.” - -“No, Maggie, I shall never go—never hear my name,” Bennie tried to say, -but a fit of coughing severer than any he had ever had came on and the -cloth he held to his lips was stained with blood. - -Neither Hetty nor Mag knew the danger, or what those crimson stains -portended, and both went to the church leaving their father with Bennie, -who at first lay very still and seemed to be asleep; then he began to -grow restless and asked his father to read to him of the “golden city -where the gates stand always open and there is neither sun nor moon.” - -But Mr. Hewitt was unused to the Bible, and did not know where to find -that description of the New Jerusalem of which Bennie talked so much, -sometimes coherently and sometimes not, for his mind wandered a little -and was now in “Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest,” where -the tree of life was growing and where Christ’s name was written on the -foreheads of his children, and then at the church where the names were -called, his perhaps, and he bade his father listen and tell him if he -heard it. - -“I can’t go up,” he said, “I’m so sick, but Maggie will bring them, and -next year I shall see that other tree in the New Jerusalem, I guess I -will, I mean, for I have tried to be good since she told me how, and -I’ve prayed to Jesus every day. Do you love Him, father?” - -There was no answer from the rough-faced man who sat watching his child -with a pain in his heart such as he had not felt in years. - -“Father!” and Bennie’s voice was very low and pleading, “You ain’t drunk -now one bit.” - -“No, by Jove, no,” came emphatically from the father’s lips, and Bennie -continued, “Don’t ever be so any more, will you? Promise me, father, -promise your little sick boy, who is going to die.” - -“No, Bennie, you must not die, and I’ve been so hard on you, and flogged -you when I was in drink,” Mr. Hewitt sobbed, laying his head upon the -pillow, while Bennie went on: “But I’ve forgiven that, father, and I was -naughty sometimes, and called you names and made faces at you when you -did not see me. I’m sorry for it now, and when I’m gone remember me as I -was at the best, when I tried to be good, and, father, _don’t_ drink any -more, please keep sober, for Maggie’s sake, and Hetty’s; will you? Say -you will; say it, father, quick.” - -His wasted hand rested lovingly on the bowed head of his father, who -faltered out: “Yes, Ben, I’ll try, I will, so help me God.” - -“And He will help you, father, I’ll ask Him, now; He will hear me -because I am going to die,” and folding his hands reverently, Bennie -prayed, “Oh, Jesus, _man_ Jesus, I mean; please keep father from getting -drunk, and don’t let him trade at the groceries where they sell it; then -he won’t see it and want it so bad, and make him a good man, for -Christ’s sake.” - -Bennie’s voice ceased, and for a long time there was silence in the -room, broken at last by the sound of steps outside, and Maggie came -rushing in, her arms full of presents and her cheeks glowing with -excitement and exercise. But she stopped quickly when she caught sight -of Bennie’s face. It was very white, with a rapt look upon it, as if he -were already lost to earth and was listening to “the shouts of them who -triumph, the song of them that feast.” But her voice called him back and -his eyes sparkled with pleasure for a moment as she spread his presents -before him, and told him how many times his name had been called. - -“Six times; ’most as often as Wallie Morgan’s; and look, here’s a -Christmas card, and a bran-new suit of clothes, and a ball, and a top, -and a jumping jack, and—and—oh, Bennie, guess what else; a pair of -skates from Wallie Morgan.” - -She had kept the skates for the last, knowing how her brother had wanted -them, and now, at sight of them, he did seem to brighten up, and took -them in his hands and examined them carefully; then, laying them where -he could see them, he said, “Yes, I’m so glad, and they are all so good. -I’d like to skate just once. I know I could beat Tom Carter in a little -while; but, Maggie, I’m going to die. It came to me to-night. I’m going -where Jesus is, and pa is not going to drink anymore, and Hetty must -stay home nights, and you must be a real good girl, and not romp and -tear your clothes so much.” - -“Oh, Bennie, Bennie,” and all the brightness was gone from Maggie’s face -as she dropped beside the bed, and seizing her brother’s hand begged of -him to stay with her and not leave her all alone. - -“Father and Hetty will be with you, and Jesus, too,” the pale lips -whispered, and then Bennie’s mind began to wander, and he talked strange -things of the Tree of Life, which he said was hung with tapers and -beautiful gifts, some of which were for him, and he listened to hear his -name, bidding his father and sisters keep very quiet lest he should fail -to catch the sound. - -All night they sat by him, scarcely daring to move, while, with closed -eyes and parted lips, he lay listening—listening—till over the snow-clad -town the grey morning broke and the Christmas chimes were rung from the -church tower; then with a triumphant voice he cried, “There, he has -called me at last, little Bennie Hewitt, he said. Didn’t you hear his -voice? He’s there, with something for me. I’m going now. Good-bye. Tell -Miss Morgan she told me the way, and I love her for it. I wish more -ladies would hunt up the poor little boys on the canal. I’m going up the -aisle, and the music is playing, too. Such music! oh, Maggie, don’t you -hear it? It’s better than the ‘Silent Night,’ and I hear the heavenly -hosts sing ‘Alleluia.’ Little Bennie Hewitt they call. Yes, I’m -coming—coming—coming. A golden harp and golden crown. That’s what is on -the tree for me and joy forever and forever. Good-bye, good-bye, -good-bye.” - - * * * * * - -Little Bennie was dead and the Christmas he had looked forward to so -eagerly was kept with the Saviour he loved, and when Miss Nellie came to -inquire for him she found only a white wasted form which her own hands -made ready for the grave. The new suit of clothes which was to have kept -him warm, were put upon him, and flowers from the Morgan conservatory -were placed in his hands and on his pillow, and over the little coffin -bitter tears were shed and promises were renewed as the wretched father -whispered to himself, “I’ll keep my word to Ben. I’ll try to be a man.” - -There’s a small white head stone near the gate in the Rosedale Cemetery, -and Bennie’s name is on it. - - “BENNIE HEWITT. - DIED DECEMBER 25, 1883, - AGED 9 YEARS.” - -Strangers pass it by and think nothing of it, but God knows all about -that little grave and the boy sleeping there, and when the Golden City -shall indeed come down and Christ’s saints be gathered home, Bennie will -be with them, where there is no more night, or need of sun or moon, for -the glory from the Eternal Throne transcends the light of noonday and -Christ is all in all. - - * * * * * - -Does my story seem a sad one to you, my little readers? In one sense it -is, and in another it is not. It is always sad to see the children die, -but when like Bennie they go from cold and hunger and toil, to be -forever with the Lord it is for them a blessed thing, so, on Christmas -morning of 1884 do not think of little Bennie, as in the grave where -they laid him one year ago, but - - In that far off, happy country - Which no human eye hath seen, - Where the flowers are always blooming, - And the grass is ever green. - -There we find our little Bennie. No more hungry days and freezing nights -and cruel blows for him, for he is safe forever. Jesus called his name, -and he has gone to that beautiful land where so many children are, and -where, I pray, we too may meet to celebrate our Saviour’s birth in one -never ending Christmas. - - _Brown Cottage, - Christmas—1884._ - - - THE END - OF - BENNIE’S CHRISTMAS - - - - - THE CHRISTMAS FONT. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - INTRODUCTORY. - - -When I was a child, as young as some of the children who may read this -story, I brought from the Sunday school one afternoon the story of “Ruth -Lee.” The day was warm and bright, and the summer sunshine fell softly -on the grass in the old orchard, where, beneath an apple-tree, I sat -down to read about Ruth and her half-brother Reuben, to whom she was -always so kind, even when he was cross and irritable. The story was not -a long one, and I read it very rapidly, growing more and more interested -with every page, and wishing so much that I knew just where the brother -and sister lived, and if Ruth still watched the web of cloth bleaching -on the mountain side, or Reuben in a pet threw his piece of pie over the -ledge of rocks, where his good, patient sister could not get it. To me -every word was true. I believed in Ruth and Reuben. I knew just how they -looked—Ruth with her grave, womanly face and soft brown eyes, and Reuben -with his rosy cheeks, and round, hard head, which he sometimes bumped -upon the floor when in one of his passions. I could see him bumping his -head—could see Ruth, too, trying to quiet and soothe him. I would -imitate her, I thought, and when my little baby brother screamed and -kicked and wanted me to gather flowers instead of reading under the -apple-tree, as I was given to doing, I would put up my books and go with -him to the brook in the meadow where the little fishes glided in and out -from their hiding-places and where the buttercups and daisies grew on -the side of the mossy bank. I would be more like my older sister, who -had borne with my childish freaks, who always gave me the fairest apple -and the largest piece of cake, and who might have stood for Ruth -herself. - -The story was having a good effect upon me, when suddenly I came upon a -little note appended by the author, and which said the whole was a -fiction; that no such person as Ruth Lee had ever lived, and I had been -reading what was not true. I did not know then that but few of the -Sunday school books are literally true, and I was terribly disappointed. -I felt that in losing Ruth I had lost a real friend, and, leaning my -head against the tree, I cried for a few moments, thinking to myself, -that when I was older I would write a book for children, which should -every word be _true_. I am older now—much older than I was then; that -Sunday afternoon lies far back in the past; the sister, who might have -been Ruth, is dead, and her grave is under a little pine, which whispers -softly to the wind, of the gentle sleeper below. There are more graves -than hers near to the pine. The household is broken up, and children of -another name than mine read under the old apple-tree in the orchard, or -search for violets and buttercups down by the meadow brook. I have -learned to know that stories of fictitious people, if true to life and -written with an earnest purpose to do good, may oftentimes be as -beneficial as stories of real people; but I have through all adhered to -my resolution, that my first story for children should be true; and so -this bright May morning, when the sky is beautifully blue, and the grass -in the garden is green and fresh with yesterday’s rain, I begin this -story of the Font, which shall in every particular be _true_. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHURCH, AND THE CHILDREN WHO BOUGHT THE FONT. - - -I must tell you first about the Church where the children who bought the -Font went to Sunday school. St. Luke’s we call it, and it stands on the -corner where two streets cross each other, in a little village which we -will call Carrollton. That is not its real name, you know, but I will -call it that, and then go on to tell you how the church is built of -stone, with a spire from which the paint has been worn off by time, and -the rains which beat against it from the west. The window, too, on that -side, has been broken by the wind, and boards are nailed across the top -where the stained glass used to be. But the window will be mended in -time; the old spire will be repainted; the ivy at the corner will reach -higher and higher, until the tendrils will cling perhaps to the very -roof; the fence will be built around that plot of grass, which looks so -fresh this morning; and then the church will be as nice and neat as it -was the day it was completed and consecrated to God. It is very pretty -now inside, and the fine-toned organ in the gallery makes sweet music on -a Sunday when they chant the “Gloria in Excelsis” and sing “Peace on -earth, good-will to men.” That organ has played the Christmas songs -which tell of a Saviour born, and the joyful Easter carols, which -proclaim a Saviour risen. It has pealed a merry strain as bridal parties -went up the aisle to the altar bedecked with flowers, and then its notes -have been sad,—oh, so sad!—as strong men carried coffins up the aisle -and laid them on the table. Two of them little coffins, with a dead boy -in each,—boys who once came to the Sunday school, but who will never -come again, or join their voices in the hymns the children sing and the -prayers they say. - -To the left of the chancel, looking toward the organ, is a little -enclosure, or room where the singers used to sit, but which is now used -for the infant class;—the nursery which feeds the larger Sunday school. -It is nearly seven years since the class was first organized, and, -during that time, there have been in it one hundred different children. -Three of these are dead,—three little boys,—and they lie up in the quiet -graveyard where the white stones show so prettily through the dark -evergreens. Berkie was the first to die,—blue-eyed, pale-faced Berkie, -who used to sit so quietly all through the Sunday school, with an -earnest expression on his thoughtful face and in his great blue eyes, as -if he were already looking away from this world into the one where he -was going so soon. There is a picture on the wall before me of Berkie, -with many other members of his class, and I never look at it without a -sigh, as I recall the dear little boy who used to run so gladly to meet -me, and listen so attentively to the stories I told him of Jesus; and -then I think of that innumerable host of white-robed children - - ... “whose little feet, - Pacing life’s dark journey through, - Have safely reached the heavenly seat - They had ever kept in view.” - -And I know Berkie is there with them, and I cannot wish him back, though -his going from us made a sad vacancy in our little school, and left his -parents’ hearts so desolate. - -Children cannot be sorry long, neither is it right they should; and so -the members of Berkie’s class, although they did not forget him, soon -began to wear their cheerful faces again, and look forward to the -Christmas festival, when the church was hung with garlands of green, and -in the chancel was set up the young pine-tree, which, away in the marsh -by the lake, had been growing year by year, and gathering strength in -its young limbs to bear the many gifts hung upon it by parents, and -teachers, and friends, when, on Christmas eve, they came together to -keep the birthnight of the child born in Bethlehem’s manger more than -eighteen hundred years ago. Children are always happy on such occasions, -and it seems to me that the children of St. Luke’s, in Carrollton, are -particularly so, judging from the eager joy which lights up their faces, -and beams in their eyes when they hear their own names called, and go up -the aisle to receive the expected gift. I wonder every church in the -land does not have the Christmas trees, and thus give to the children -pleasant remembrances of that day, without which we had indeed been -shrouded in the deepest gloom! True, we do not know the exact date of -Christ’s birth, but we know near enough, and children should be early -taught that Christmas has a far deeper meaning than merely a day for -festivity and mirth. - -As far as possible the little ones of St. Luke’s were taught to -understand why the day was kept; and that rosy, round-cheeked Fred did -understand was proved by his saying to his mother, “I know what the -Christmas-tree means. It is Jesus’ birthday party.” - -Freddie had caught the spirit of the thing, if not its exact meaning; -and as often as Christmas comes round he will remember the child Jesus, -whose birth the church then commemorates. - -The summer following Berkie’s death the infant Sunday school was -unusually large, and every seat was full, while a few of the smaller -boys sometimes sat upon the floor. There were some visitors in -Carrollton Parish that summer,—Susie Ganson from Jersey City, Maggie -Holmes from New York, Lena and Ira Stevens from Philadelphia, and Sammie -Field from New Orleans,—and these were all in the class. Then there was -another Susie and Maggie, with Louise and Maria, and Carrie, and Fanny, -and Mary, and Cora, and Ida, and Dell, and Nellie, and Lizzie, and Lulu, -and Jennie, and Geenie, and two Emmas. Then came the boys,—a host of -them: five Willies, four Freddies, three Franks, three Georges, two -Walters, two Johns, with Ezra, and Mason, and Eddie, and Charlie, and -Hugh, and Hunter, and Polie, and Newton, and beautiful little -Wallie,—the youngest of them all,—who presented the Easter offering last -year, and whom we love so much because of his mother, who died ere he -could remember more of her than the cold, white face which he patted -with his dimpled hands, as he said to the weeping ones around, “That is -my mamma.” Darling Wallie! God keep him in safety, and bring him at last -to the home where his mother is waiting for him! - -To say that these fifty children were always quiet and well-behaved -would not be true; for sometimes, when the day was warm, and they were -crowded more than usual, there was a pushing among the boys, a knocking -together of boots and elbows, with a few wry faces made, and a few sly -pinches given. Then, too, they sometimes whispered during prayers, and -compared marbles and balls, and traded Jack-knives; while the girls -thought sometimes of their new dresses, and the ribbons on their hats. -Do any of the children who read this story play in Sunday school, and -whisper to each other when they should be listening to what the teacher -is saying? And do they know how displeasing this is to God, whose eyes -are upon them everywhere, and who would have them reverence his house? I -am sorry to say that there were a few children in the class who were -very irregular in their attendance. The most trivial thing would keep -them at home. The day was too hot or too cold,—or their new clothes were -not done,—or they went out into the country to see their grandmother,—or -they wandered off to some other Sunday school, where there was to be a -festival or celebration, from which they hoped to be benefited. For this -last the parents are especially to be censured. Better have some regular -place, and stay there; for as a rolling stone gathers no moss, so no -real good can come from going to different schools, and learning -sometimes from one catechism, and sometimes from another, and sometimes -from none at all. - -One boy there is at St. Luke’s who deserves especial notice for his -regular attendance. The day is very cold and stormy indeed which does -not find him there; and neither worn-out shoes nor threadbare coat avail -to keep him at home. He does not always have his lesson, and he loses -more catechisms than I can tell; but he is _always there_; and, what is -better yet, he brings other children with him. Six, in all, he has -brought to the Sunday school, and we call him our little “recruiting -officer.” He has a very high-sounding name,—“Napoleon Augustus,”—but we -all know him as “Polie.” - - - - - CHAPTER III. - THE CHILDREN’S SEWING SOCIETY. - - -There were many baptisms that summer, and the little silver bowl was so -often called into requisition, that the people began to think a marble -Font would be a most appropriate and useful ornament for the church; and -who more appropriate to buy it than the children? So the teachers set -themselves at work to devise the best means by which it could be done. -And now, as it has something to do with the Font, I must tell you of the -Children’s Sewing Society, which met every Saturday afternoon at the -different houses in the parish, and was composed of the young girls of -St. Luke’s, together with many who came from the other denominations. -There were Carries and Lilies, and Adas, and Jennies, and Nellies and -Ellas, and Marys, and Kitty, and Lenas, and Ida, and Annies, and Fannys, -and many others, and they worked at first upon a patchwork quilt -intended for Nashotah. There were bits of calico of every quality and -hue, from flaming yellow down to sombre brown; and the blocks were put -together with but little regularity or adaptation of one color to -another. But could the student, whom it will keep warm next winter, have -seen the group of merry-hearted girls who worked upon that quilt,—some -with thimbles and some without; some with long stitches and some with -short,—and could he know how engaged they were in the work, and how -anxious even the youngest of them was to learn to sew for Nashotah,—he -would forgive whatever there is unsightly in the quilt, and hold it more -precious than the covering of kings’ couches. A lady in the parish, who -was deeply interested in the children’s society, offered to give five -dollars for the quilt when it was done, and then send it herself to -Nashotah; and this five dollars was the nucleus round which other funds -were to be gathered for the Font. - -At last a fair was suggested, and then the little girls’ fingers worked -faster and their faces grew brighter as they talked together of what -they could make or do for the fair. It was the one absorbing topic of -conversation, and the society increased, and all were busy with -something which they intended for the fair. I cannot enumerate all the -articles, for it would make the story too long; and then I do not -remember them. But I have in mind the beautiful bead mats, which little -Susie made; and the elephant, as natural as the real ones which -sometimes come into town, with their fanciful blankets on, and their big -feet, which leave so large prints in the sand. There was a little -air-castle made of straw, and designed for the flies to light on; and -every time I lift my eyes I can see it hanging over my head, and I think -of the bright-eyed Carrie who made it, and who was so much interested in -the fair, even though she did not belong to St. Luke’s Sunday school. -There were handsome hair-receivers, made by a young girl, from New York, -who was spending the summer in Carrollton, and who contributed both -labor and material. Boys tried their skill in making mats on corks, and -harnesses for dogs; and all through the parish the enthusiasm increased -until the fair promised to be a great success. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - WHAT WAS DONE IN THE INFANT CLASS FOR THE FAIR. - - -There were two teachers in the infant school,—one the mother of little -Berkie and the other Mrs. Hoyt, who wrote to a friend in New York, -telling him of the fair, and asking if his little daughter would like to -send a few toys for the tables. Three days passed, and then the answer -came, not in the shape of toys, but a crisp five-dollar bill from little -“Susie Street,” another five from “little Joe,” and two from “little -Mamie.” This was the answer; and the ladies, who had sometimes felt -discouraged, and feared they might fail, believed that God was blessing -them in their efforts, and with earnest prayers they gave the fair into -his charge, and the result proved how faithful he was to the trust. Not -satisfied with what his children had done, the kind gentleman from New -York, who was an editor, interested his workmen in the matter, and the -treasurer was one day surprised with twelve dollars and a half, -contributed by the printers and workmen in the press-room,—strangers, -the most of them, to the ladies of St. Luke’s—and the gift was all the -more acceptable for that, while many thanks and blessings were showered -upon the generous donors. In Massachusetts, too, where the treasurer’s -childhood was passed, a few kind friends interested themselves in the -Children’s Fair, and eleven dollars more was the result. And so the fund -kept growing, as one friendly hand after another was stretched out to -help, and the Font seemed almost a certainty without the fair. - -It was a plan of the teachers that the smaller children should assist, -and, either by saving or earning, contribute their mites. And so each -Sunday the pennies were brought, while during the week the little ones -were busy as bees in devising ways and means to save or earn for the -fair. I wish you could have seen the boys who lived in the brick house -just across the street from St. Luke’s. They were as fond of play as -boys usually are; but they gave it up for a while, and the croquet -mallets rested quietly in the grass, and the old house-dog had a -worried, anxious look in his eyes, as if he wondered what had come over -his young masters, and why, instead of running up and down the walk with -him, they stayed so long out in the back yard, or climbed the trees -where he could not reach them. They were picking plums, and piling up -wood, and selling grapes; and, as the result of their work, they brought -to the Sunday school over a dollar and a half. And while they were thus -busy, two little girls, Susie and Maria, were picking apples, their -chubby faces getting very red and their white aprons somewhat stained -with the juicy fruit. Down on Main street there was a soda-fountain, and -the delicious, creamy liquid was very tempting, on a hot day, to the -children who had the pennies to spare, and in many cases the temptation -was too strong to be resisted; but a few denied themselves, and brought -the fruits of their self-denial to their teacher, just as Willie -Sutherland brought the pennies which he had saved by going without the -chewing-gum which boys usually like so much. To us these self-denials -may look very small, but God knew just how hard the struggle was in each -little heart, and he surely commended the offerings as he did the -widow’s mite, and blessed the children, too, who made them. Fourteen -dollars and thirty-three cents was the sum total which the children -saved in seven weeks; and never were pennies more acceptable than these, -which had cost the children quite as hard a struggle as many a greater -self-denial costs those of maturer years. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - THE DAY OF THE FAIR. - - -Oh, how it rained and rained for days and days before the one appointed -for the fair, and how many anxious eyes were turned up towards the -clouds which looked so heavy and gray and pitiless, as if they never -intended to stop raining again! It was hard to believe that behind the -dark mass the sun was still shining, and the children watched in vain -for the “silver lining” which is said to invest every cloud. But it -appeared at last on the very day of the fair, and patches of blue sky -showed here and there in the heavens, and before noon the October sun -was drying the walks and the wet grass, and brightening up the little -faces which for days had been overcast with gloom. The fair was to be -held at a private house, and I wish you could have seen the multitude of -pretty things which came pouring in, until the Brown Cottage looked like -one great bazaar of toys and fancy articles. There were cushions of pink -and cushions of blue, and penwipers and book-racks, and a beautiful -whirling butterfly which Lulu bought on Broadway, and needle-books and -spool-cases, and tidies of various devices and colors, with mittens and -gloves, and fanciful lines with tinkling bells attached, and I know a -little boy, among the Massachusetts hills, who to-day drives his -miniature horses, of which he has forty or more, with a pair of those -very lines. Then there were toys of every description sent from New York -by Susie Ganson’s mother, and spread out upon the tables in the upper -room, whose glass door looked into the garden. There were jumping-jacks, -which turned the boys wild, and churns, which made the little girls -scream with delight. There were washbowls and tubs, tin-kitchens and -rolling-pins, and bars to dry the dolly’s clothes on, and chairs, and -tables, and dishes, with balls and canes, and old Santa Claus himself -bearing his Christmas-tree with the gifts to put upon it. There was a -negro, too, with his woolly head and calico frock, looking so life-like -and real that some of the smaller children drew back from him in terror, -fancying he was alive. - -Downstairs, in the bay window, and on a table where it could be -distinctly seen, was the “Beauty of the Fair,”—a little stained -bedstead, which an ingenious gentleman had whittled out with his -penknife. It was a most perfect thing, with castors and mattress tufted -with pink, with ruffled sheets and pillow-cases, the ruffles all nicely -fluted and showing well against the covering of white Marseilles. Upon -it lay a handsome doll, in her muslin dress and scarlet cloak, ready for -the opera. The two were to go together, and many a little girl hoped she -might be made the happy possessor of so beautiful a gift. In a corner of -the parlor, the books which a kind New York publisher had given, were -arranged, together with the Fate Eggs, which looked so pretty, suspended -from the branch of evergreen made to resemble a tree. The books and the -eggs were to be Jennie’s charge,—dear little Jennie, with the pale, -sweet face, whom everybody loves and pities so much,—for Jennie is lame; -and when the other children of her age are at their merry play, she can -only lean upon her crutches and watch the sport in which she can take no -part. Near Jennie’s corner the candy and flower tables stood, and Annie -and Carrie were to preside there, and send out little peddlers with -baskets of candy and bouquets to sell. - -I must not forget to tell you of the famous fish pond, as it was -something new in Carrollton, and proved a great success. A corner of the -room was divided off with a heavy curtain, on which the printed words, - - FISH POND - -were pinned, while standing near were fishing rods and lines, with hooks -made out of wire. With these the children were to fish, throwing the -lines over the curtain and into a box filled with toys of various kinds, -which a boy fastened upon the hooks as fast as they came over. - -At last everything was ready. The drapery had been taken from the -windows and the pictures from the walls; the furniture had been removed -from the rooms, which looked bare and empty enough, I assure you. There -were curtains before the doors of the library where the tableaux were to -be, and on the piano stood the big _shoe_ where Louise was to sit and -sell her three dozen dolls. There were loaves and loaves of cake in the -kitchen, which served as the restaurant, and gallons of ice-cream in the -freezers. And all over the town the excited children were getting ready, -and watching for the sun to set and the clock to point the hour when it -was time for them to start. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR. - - -It seemed a very inhospitable thing to close the doors of one’s house, -and let in only those who paid for the admittance; but it had been -decided that such should be the rule, and so at precisely six o’clock -every door was locked, and the boys who were to tend them waited with an -air of great importance for the ring which was to herald the first -arrival, and put the first dime in their box. They had not long to wait, -for the children were prompt to time, and came in groups of half-dozens, -and dozens, and scores, until the boys who kept the doors became -confused and bewildered, and gladly gave up their post to some one who -was older, and could better stem the tide of human beings pouring in so -fast, and filling the lower rooms till there was hardly a place to -stand. It was a great jam,—the greatest which had ever been in town. -Four hundred people were present, and, in an inconceivably short space -of time, the tables upstairs were cleared, and then the crowd came -surging down to the parlors, and gathered round the candy-table, which -was emptied in a few moments,—for the little peddlers, Lily and Kitty -and Jennie and Lena and Ada and Emma and Nellie, did their part well, -and no one could refuse to buy when asked by so beautiful little girls. -There were pictures, too, contributed by one of our finest artists, and -these sold rapidly, until only two were left,—one of Horace Greeley, and -another of some scene in Germany. - -Then came the tableaux. The first, called the “Red, White, and Blue,” -was a group of three little girls,—Lizzie, Susie, and Lulu,—each wearing -a white dress, and a sash of the color she represented, ornamented with -stars. Around them were gathered the children,—three of whom sang the -popular air, “Red, White, and Blue,” while all joined in the chorus,—the -boys’ voices rising loud and shrill with their “Three cheers for the -Red, White, and Blue!” - -I wish you could have seen the next tableau, called the “Bridal of Tom -Thumb,” where Maria, in her long tarletan dress and flowing veil, with -the orange blossoms in her hair, stood for Lavinia Warren: and little -Maggie Holmes, only three years old, represented Minnie,—her soft, blue -eyes looking shyly out from under their long lashes at the people, who -set up loud shouts of laughter at the sight of the comical-looking -party. There was Wallie, as Tom Thumb, in his swallow-tailed coat, with -his white vest and white cravat, just putting the ring on Maria’s -finger; while beside him was Little Josey Allen, similarly attired, and -making the drollest figure you ever saw, as, with his thumb in his white -vest, he stood erect and still,—making a better Commodore than the -Commodore himself,—while Willie Campbell, in surplice made of a sheet, -was supposed to perform the ceremony. As you may imagine, Maria and -Maggie, Wallie and Josey, were the stars of the evening; but the poor -little girls, in their long, trailing dresses, were almost as helpless -as the ladies of China are with their little feet; and they had to be -carried around in gentlemen’s arms, and shown to the people who had been -unable to see them distinctly. - -“Santa Claus” came next; and Mason, with his white hair, and beard, and -furs, made a capital St. Nick, and elicited peals of laughter as he -drove in his eight reindeer, each with pasteboard horns tied on his -head, and his name pinned on his back in large capitals. There were -DASHER and DANCER, and PRANCER and VIXEN. There were COMET and CUPID, -and DUNDER and BLITZEN; and the little bells about their necks made a -soft, tinkling sound, as they shook their horned heads, and pranced in -imitation of deer, while waiting for their master to fill the sleeping -children’s stockings with toys. Then, with a bound, St. Nick sprang into -his sleigh, and the little cortege passed on through the parlor and hall -and sitting-room and dining-room, and so out of sight. - -There was a post-office, too, and the mail was drawn by eight little -boys, with red plumes on their heads, and driven again by Mason, who -showed great skill in the management of his horses and reindeer. Close -beside the boys ran little Sammie Field, with the words -“THIS-IS-A-COLT,” pinned on his back; and I assure you that kicking colt -attracted quite as much attention as the eight plumed horses did. The -letters, which sold for five and ten cents each, made a great deal of -fun, and added to the general hilarity of the evening. - -You should have seen Ella, dressed as an old woman, and trying to thread -the point of her needle by a tallow candle of enormous length, and which -was called “The Light of other Days.” Louise, too, in broad frilled cap -and glasses, with her dollies all over her, represented the “Old Woman -in the Shoe,” and attracted crowds around her, until every doll was -sold, and the great shoe was nearly empty. The Fish Pond was very -popular, and was drained in half an hour,—the boys and girls going -nearly crazy over it, and contending with each other for a chance to -fish, at five cents a bite. It proved a great success, as did everything -pertaining to the fair which closed with “JOHNNY SCHMOKER,” sung and -acted by the children, and a tableau arranged by the young ladies. - -It was rather late when at last the fair was over, and the children went -home very tired, and a few of them a little cross, it may be, though -some were very happy, as was proved by little black-eyed Johnny, who had -come up from Rochester, and who, after the fair was over, and he was -going to bed, asked his mother if she did not think that children were -sometimes as happy in this world as they would be in heaven; “Because, -mother,” said he, “I know I was as happy to-night at the fair as I shall -ever be in heaven.” - -When the ladies, who had worked so hard and been sometimes so -disheartened, heard of that, they felt that the fair had paid, if only -in making one child so happy. That it paid, too, in a more tangible -form, was shown when the receipts were footed up, and found to amount to -over two hundred and sixty dollars. You may be sure there was great -rejoicing the next day when it was known that we had enough to get the -Font, together with the bishop’s and rector’s chairs, which we so much -needed. Means were immediately taken to have them in readiness by -Christmas, so that the children could then present them to the church. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - POOR LITTLE HUNTER - - -The fair was held on the third of October, and of all the boys there, -none was happier, or enjoyed it more, than little Hunter Buckley, who -never dreamed that this was the last festivity in which he would ever -join with his comrades,—that before the winter snows were falling, or -the Font for which he had worked was set up in the church, he would be -buried away from sight and sound,—where the songs of the children could -not reach him, nor the sobs of his poor mother, who mourned so bitterly -for her little darling boy. His death was very sudden. In the morning he -was perfectly well, and his mother little thought, when, after -breakfast, he bade her good-by, and started for the village, that never -again would his feet come down the grassy lane, or his loved voice sound -in her ears; that when he came back to her it would be as the dead come -back,—lifeless and still. Yet so it was, for in a few hours the news ran -through the village that Hunter Buckley was dead,—smothered in the wheat -where he was playing; and which was running through a large tunnel into -a boat loading at the wharf. It was a careless thing to play there; but -he had done it before, and thought of no danger now, until the suction -became so great that it was impossible to escape, and he was drawn into -that whirlpool of grain. - -I saw him the next day, looking, except that he was paler, exactly as he -had the Sunday before, when he sat in Sunday school, and listened to the -lessons his teacher taught. - -The next day was the funeral; and six young boys carried his coffin up -the aisle and laid it on the table; while, in silence and awe, his -companions listened to the words the clergyman spoke,—words of -admonition to them,—words of commendation of the dead,—and words of -comfort for the weeping friends, upon whom so heavy a sorrow had fallen. -Those were sad notes which the organ played then, and more than one -voice trembled as it joined in the hymn sung over the dead boy, and then -they carried him out to the long, black hearse, which bore him to the -graveyard where Berkie had gone before him. - -Since that time they have made another grave, and the boys of the Sunday -school have followed Walter Hewitt there. He died when the winter snows -were heaped upon the ground, and now lies in the same yard where Hunter -and Berkie are,—three little boys, who will sleep there in their coffins -until the resurrection morn, when Jesus comes to claim his own and take -them to himself. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - CHRISTMAS, 1867. - - -There was no rector in the parish that winter; but the people kept up -lay-services and the Sunday school, and were resolved that the children -should not go without the usual festival. So the evergreens were brought -from the lake, with a beautiful pine-tree, and a few of the ladies -worked industriously, day after day, fashioning wreaths and crosses and -anchors, which were hung upon the walls and festooned about the chancel, -where the tree was placed, its long branches reaching out in every -direction, as if asking for the many hundred gifts which came pouring in -so fast. There were dolls and tops, and bows and arrows, and Christmas -cakes all sugared over the top, and stamped with the owner’s name. There -were books and cards, and marbles and balls, and a beautiful -slipper-case, which Lulu gave to her teacher. There were boxes with -candy and boxes without, and horses and cows, and monkeys in red, and -tea-kettles and pails, and golden fishes, which gleamed so brightly -among the dark-green leaves of the tree. There was a white ermine muff, -and a picture called the “Christmas Bell,” bought for Berkie’s mother by -her class; while, swinging in his pretty cage, was a beautiful Canary, -who, when the gas was lighted and he had recovered a little from his -fright at being brought from the depot with a shawl over his cage, began -to look about him, and wink his bright eyes at the children. Then, as he -began to feel more at home and to get an inkling of what it all meant, -he opened his mouth and poured forth one sweet song after another until -it seemed as if his little throat would burst. - -But the handsomest gift of all was the font, which had come the night -before and been firmly fixed in its place just outside the chancel. It -was of Italian marble, very graceful in its proportions, and on the top, -in black letters, were the words “Presented by the children of St. -Luke’s Sunday School, Christmas, 1867,” followed by “Suffer the little -children to come unto me, and forbid them not.” This was, of course, the -center of attraction, and both the children and the grown people -gathered around it, commenting on its beauty, and wondering who would be -the first child baptized from it. The new chairs, too, were there, made -of solid oak, and upholstered with crimson, so that the church looked -very handsome with its new furniture, and the Christmas-tree, with the -tapers shining from its branches and lighting up the hundreds of pretty -things upon it. - -I have told you before that we had no clergyman; but our good doctor -read a part of the evening service, and then made a few remarks to the -children, who, I am afraid, did not listen very closely, they were so -intent upon the tree and what they would probably get from it. Our -organist had taken great pains to drill the children in their carols, -and when they sang of “The Wonderful Night,” we could almost see the - - “Angels and shining immortals - Which, crowding the ebony portals. - Fling out their banners of light,” - -It is a splendid carol, and if you do not already know it, I advise you -to get the “New Service Book” and learn it before another Christmas eve. - -The distribution of gifts commenced at last, and never were children -happier than those who, as their names were called, went up one after -another to the chancel, and came back with loaded hands, and hearts -throbbing with a keener, purer delight than they will ever know after -the years of childhood are past, and they have grown to be women and -men. The tree was stripped at last, and all over the church there was -the hum of eager, excited voices, mingled occasionally with a blast from -a whistle or horn blown by some boy who could not wait till he reached -home before testing his musical instrument. Then there came a hush, as -the closing prayer was said, and the grand old chant was sung “Glory to -God on high.” How the music rolled through the church as the organ -pealed its loudest strains, and the boys and girls joined in the song, -while the little bird, frantic by this time with all it had seen and -heard, fairly shook its golden sides as it trilled its clear, shrill -notes, and mingled its own loud voice in the last Christmas song! - -Half an hour later, and the church was silent and empty, the organ was -hushed, the echo of the singing had died away, the tree was shorn of its -decorations, the children were all at home, sleeping many of them, and -dreaming, perhaps, of that boy-baby whose birth the angels sang, whom -wise men came to worship, and over whose cradle hovered the shadow of -the cross. But with the early dawn I know they will awake, looking at -their treasures and living over again the joy of the preceding night. - -Blessed childhood, when guarded and hedged around with the influences -which religion brings! Which of us does not recall with a pang of regret -those halcyon days when the summer was so long and bright because of the -flowers and birds, and the autumn so fair and sweet because of the -ripening fruits and nuts, and the winter so glorious because of the -beautiful snow? And who does not love the children and wish to make them -happy? I most certainly do; and as, while writing this story of The -Font, the actors in the fair have one by one passed in review before me, -I have kissed and blessed them all, and asked that God would keep them -to a green old age, when, perhaps, they may read, with strange, curious -feelings, what I have written of them. - -And to the children I have never seen, but who may read this story, I -would say, I love you, too;—love you because you are children and parts -of God’s great family, and I pray him that you may one day meet in the -better world with every one of those who helped to buy the Font and her -who wrote its story. - - - - - ADAM FLOYD. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - ADAM. - - -It was the warmest day of the season, and from the moment when the first -robin chirped in the maple tree growing by the door, to the time when -the shadows stretching eastward indicated that the sultry afternoon was -drawing to a close, Adam Floyd had been busy. Indeed, he could not -remember a day when he had worked so continuously and so hard, neither -could he recall a time when he had been so perfectly happy, except upon -one starlight night when last winter’s snow was piled upon the ground. -The events of that night had seemed to him then like a dream, and they -were scarcely more real now, when pausing occasionally in his work and -leaning his head upon his broad, brown hands, he tried to recall just -the awkward words he had spoken and the graceful answer she had given; -answer so low that he would hardly have known she was speaking, had not -his face been so near to hers that he could hear the murmured response, - -“I am not half good enough for you, Adam, and shall make a sorry wife; -but, if you will take me with all my faults, I am yours.” - -That was what she had said, the only she in all the world to Adam Floyd, -now that the churchyard grass was growing over the poor old blind -mother, to whom he had been the tenderest, best of sons, and who had -said to him when dying, - -“I’m glad I’m going home, my boy, for now you can bring Anna here. She -is a bonny creature, I know by the sound of her voice and the touch of -her silky hair. Tell her how with my last breath I blessed her, and how -glad I was to think that when she came, the old blind woman’s chair -would be empty, and that she would be spared a heavy burden which she is -far too young to bear. God deal by her as she deals by you, my noble -boy.” - -The March winds were blowing when they made his mother’s grave, and -Adam’s heart was not as sore now as on that dismal, rainy night, when he -first sat alone in his little cottage and missed the groping hand -feeling for his own. Anna was coming within a week, Anna who had said, -“I am not half good enough for you.” How the remembrance of these words -even now brought a smile to the lips where the sweat drops were standing -as he toiled for her, putting the last finishing strokes to the home -prepared for his future bride, Anna Burroughs, the Deacon’s only -daughter, the fairest maiden in all the goodly town of Rhodes—Anna, who -had been away to school for a whole year, who could speak another -language than her own, whose hands were soft and white as wool, whom all -the village lads coveted, and at whom it was rumored even Herbert -Dunallen the heir of Castlewild, where Adam worked so much, had cast -admiring glances. Not good enough for him? She was far too good for a -great burly fellow like himself, a poor mechanic, who had never looked -into the Algebras and Euclids piled on Anna’s table the morning after -she came from school. This was what Adam thought, wondering why she had -chosen him, and if she were not sorry. Sometimes of late he had fancied -a coldness in her manner, a shrinking from his caresses; but the very -idea had made his great, kind heart, throb with a pang so keen that he -had striven to banish it, for to lose his darling now would be worse -than death. He had thought it all over that August day, when he nailed -down the bright new carpet in what was to be her room. “Our room,” he -said softly to himself, as he watched his coadjutor, old Aunt Martha -Eastman, smoothing and arranging the snowy pillows upon the nicely made -up bed, and looping with bows of pure white satin the muslin curtains -which shaded the pretty bay window. That window was his own handiwork. -He had planned and built it himself, for Anna was partial to bay -windows. He had heard her say so once when she came up to Castlewild -where he was making some repairs, and so he had made her two, one in the -bed-room, and one in the pleasant parlor looking out upon the little -garden full of flowers. Adam’s taste was perfect, and many a passer by -stopped to admire the bird’s nest cottage, peeping out from its thick -covering of ivy leaves and flowering vines. Adam was pleased with it -himself, and when the last tack had been driven and the last chair set -in its place, he went over it alone admiring as he went, and wondering -how it would strike Anna. Would her soft blue eyes light up with joy, or -would they wear the troubled look he had sometimes observed in them? “If -they do,” and Adam’s breath came hard as he said it, and his hands were -locked tightly together, “If they do, I’ll lead her into mother’s room; -she won’t deceive me there. I’ll tell her that I would not take a wife -who does not love me; that though to give her up is like tearing out my -heart, I’ll do it if she says so, and Anna will answer——” - -Adam did not know what, and the very possibility that she might answer, -as he sometimes feared, paled his bronzed cheek, and made him reel, as, -walking to his blind mother’s chair, he knelt beside it, and prayed -earnestly for grace to bear the happiness or sorrow there might be in -store for him. In early youth, Adam had learned the source of all true -peace, and now in every perplexity, however trivial, he turned to God, -who was pledged to care for the child, trusting so implicitly in him. - -“If it is right for Anna to be mine, give her to me, but, if she has -sickened of me, oh, Father, help me to bear.” - -This was Adam’s prayer, and when it was uttered, the pain and dread were -gone, and the childlike man saw no cloud lowering on his horizon. - -It was nearly time for him to be going now, if he would have Anna see -the cottage by day-light, and hastening to the chamber he had occupied -since he was a boy, he put on, not his wedding suit, for that was safely -locked in his trunk, but his Sunday clothes, feeling a pardonable thrill -of satisfaction when he saw how much he was improved by dress. Not that -Adam Floyd was ever ill-looking. A stranger would have singled him out -from a thousand. Tall, straight and firmly built, with the flush of -perfect health upon his frank, open face, and the sparkle of -intelligence in his dark brown eyes, he represented a rare type of manly -beauty. He was looking uncommonly well, too, this afternoon, old Martha -thought, as from the kitchen door she watched him passing down the walk -and out into the road which lead to the red farm-house, where Deacon -Burroughs lived, and where Anna was waiting for him. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - ANNA. - - -Waiting for him, we said, but not exactly as Adam Floyd should have been -waited for. Never had a day seemed so long to her as that which to Adam -had passed so quickly. Restless and wretched she had wandered many times -from the garden to the brook, from the brook back to the garden, and -thence to her own little chamber, from whose window, looking southward -could be seen the chimney of the cottage, peeping through the trees. At -this she looked often and long, trying to silence the faithful monitor -within, whispering to her of the terrible desolation which would soon -fall upon the master of that cottage, if she persisted in her cruel -plan. Then she glanced to the northward, where, from the hill top, rose -the pretentious walls of Castlewild, whose young heir had come between -her and her affianced husband; then she compared them, one with the -other—Adam Floyd with Herbert Dunallen—one the rich proprietor of -Castlewild, the boyish man just of age, who touched his hat so -gracefully, as in the summer twilight he rode in his handsome carriage -past her father’s door, the youth, whose manners were so elegant, and -whose hands were so white; the other, a mechanic, a carpenter by trade, -who worked sometimes at Castlewild—a man unversed in etiquette as taught -in fashion’s school, and who could neither dress, nor dance, nor -flatter, nor bow as could Dunallen, but who she knew he was tenfold more -worthy of her esteem. Alas, for Anna; though our heroine, she was but a -foolish thing, who suffered fancy to rule her better judgment, and let -her heart turn more willingly to the picture of Dunallen than to that of -honest Adam Floyd, hastening on to join her. - -“If he were not so good,” she thought, as with a shudder she turned away -from the pretty little work-box he had brought her; “if he had ever -given me an unkind word, or suspected how treacherous I am, it would not -seem so bad, but he trusts me so much! Oh, Adam, I wish we had never -met!” and hiding her face in her hands, poor Anna weeps passionately. - -There was a hand upon the gate, and Anna knew whose step it was coming -so cheerfully up the walk, and wondered if it would be as light and -buoyant when she was gone. She heard him in their little parlor, talking -to her mother, and, as she listened, the tones of his voice fell -soothingly upon her ear, for there was music in the voice of Adam Floyd, -and more than Anna had felt its quieting influence. It seemed cruel to -deceive him so dreadfully, and in her sorrow Anna sobbed out, - -“Oh, what must I do?” Once she thought to pray, but she could not do -that now. She had not prayed aright since that first June night when she -met young Herbert down in the beech grove, and heard him speak jestingly -of her lover, saying “she was far too pretty and refined for such an odd -old cove.” It had struck her then that this cognomen was not exactly -refined, that Adam Floyd would never have called Dunallen thus, but -Herbert’s arm was round her waist, where only Adam’s had a right to -rest. Herbert’s eyes were bent fondly upon her, and so she forgave the -insult to her affianced husband, and tried to laugh at the joke. That -was the first open act, but since then she had strayed very far from the -path of duty, until now she had half promised to forsake Adam Floyd and -be Dunallen’s bride. That very day, just after sunset he would be -waiting in the beech wood grove for her final decision. No wonder that -with this upon her mind she shrank from meeting her lover, whom she knew -to be the soul of truth and honor. And yet she must school herself to go -with him over the house he had prepared for her with so much pride and -care. Once there she would tell him, she thought, how the love she once -bore him had died out from her heart. She would not speak of Herbert -Dunallen but she would ask to be released, and he, the generous, -unselfish man, would do her bidding. - -Anna had faith in Adam’s goodness, and this it was which nerved her at -the last to wash the tear-stains from her face and rearrange the golden -curls falling about her forehead. “He’ll know I’ve been crying,” she -said, “but that will pave the way to what I have to tell him;” and with -one hasty glance at the fair young face which Adam thought so beautiful, -she ran lightly down the stairs, glad that her mother was present when -she first greeted Adam. But the mother, remembering her own girlish -days, soon left the room, and the lovers were alone. - -“What is it, darling? Are you sick?” and Adam’s broad palm rested -caressingly upon the bowed head of Anna, who could not meet his earnest -glance for shame. - -She said something about being nervous and tired because of the -excessive heat, and then, steadying her voice, she continued: - -“You have come for me to see the cottage, I suppose. We will go at once, -as I must return before it’s dark,” - -Her manner troubled him, but he made no comment until they were out upon -the highway, when he said to her timidly, “If you are tired, perhaps you -would not mind taking my arm. Folks will not talk about it, now we are -so near being one.” - -Anna could not take his arm, so she replied: “Somebody might gossip; I’d -better walk alone,” and coquettishly swinging the hat she carried -instead of wore, she walked by his side silently, save when he addressed -her directly. Poor Adam! there were clouds gathering around his heart, -blacker far than the dark rift rising so rapidly in the western sky. -There was something the matter with Anna more than weariness or heat, -but he would not question her there, and so a dead silence fell between -them until the cottage was reached, and standing with her on the -threshold of the door, he said, mournfully, but oh! so tenderly, “Does -my little Blossom like the home I have prepared for her, and is she -willing to live here with me?” - - - - - CHAPTER III. - IN THE COTTAGE. - - -She seemed to him so fair, so pure, so like the apple blossoms of early -June, that he often called her his little Blossom, but now there was a -touching pathos in the tones of his voice as he repeated the pet name, -and it wrung from Anna a gush of tears. Lifting her blue eyes to his for -an instant, she laid her head upon his arm and cried piteously: - -“Oh, Adam, you are so good, so much better than I deserve. Yes, I like -it, so much.” - -Was it a sense of his goodness which made her cry, or was it something -else? Adam wished he knew, but he would rather she should tell him of -her own accord, and winding his arm around her, he lifted up her head -and wiping her tears away, kissed her gently, saying, “Does Blossom like -to have me kiss her?” - -She did not, but she could not tell him so when he bent so fondly over -her, his face all aglow with the mighty love he bore her. Affecting not -to hear his question she broke away from his embrace and seating herself -in the bay window, began talking of its pretty effect from the road, and -the great improvement it was to the cottage. Still she did not deceive -Adam Floyd, who all the while her playful remarks were sounding in his -ear was nerving himself to a task he meant to perform. But not in any of -the rooms he had fitted up for her could he say that if she would have -it so she was free from him, even though the bridal was only a week in -advance and the bridal guests were bidden. Only in one room, his dead -mother’s, could he tell her this. That had been to him a Bethel since -his blind mother left it. Its walls had witnessed most of his secret -sorrows and his joys, and there, if it must be, he would break his heart -by giving Anna up. - -“I did not change mother’s room,” he said, leading Anna to the arm-chair -where none had sat since an aged, withered form, last rested there. “I’d -rather see it as it used to be when she was here, and I thought you -would not mind.” - -“It is better to leave it so,” Anna said, while Adam continued, - -“I’m glad you like our home. I think myself it is pleasant, and so does -every one. Even Dunallen complimented it very highly.” - -“Dunallen; has he been here?” and Anna blushed painfully. - -But Adam was not looking at her. He had never associated the heir of -Castlewild with Anna’s changed demeanor, and wholly unconscious of the -pain he was inflicting, he went on, “He went all over the house this -morning, except indeed in here. I could not admit him to the room where -mother died. Did I tell you that he had hired me for a long and -profitable job? He is going to make some repairs at Castlewild before he -brings home his bride. You know he is engaged to a young heiress, -Mildred Atherton.” - -It was well for Anna that her face was turned from Adam as she replied, - -“Yes, I’ve heard something of an engagement made by the family when he -was a mere boy. I thought perhaps he had tired of it.” - -“Oh, no; he told me only to-day that he expected to bring his wife to -Castlewild as early as Christmas. We were speaking of you and our -marriage.” - -“Of me?” and Anna looked up quickly, but poor, deluded Adam, mistook her -guilty flush for a kind of grateful pride that Dunallen should talk of -her. - -“He said you were the prettiest girl he ever saw, and when I suggested, -‘except Miss Atherton,’ he added, ‘I will not except any one; Milly is -pretty, but not like your _fiancee_.’” - -Anna had not fallen so low that she could not see how mean and dastardly -it was for Herbert Dunallen to talk thus of her to the very man he was -intending to wrong so cruelly; and for a moment a life with Adam Floyd -looked more desirable than a life with Herbert Dunallen, even though it -were spent in the midst of elegance of which she had never dreamed. -Anna’s good angel was fast gaining the ascendency, and might have -triumphed had not the sound of horse’s feet just then met her ear, and -looking from the window she saw Herbert Dunallen riding by, his dark -curls floating in the wind and his cheek flushing with exercise. He saw -her, too, and quickly touching his cap, pointed adroitly towards the -beechwood grove. With his disappearance over the hill her good angel -flew away, and on her face there settled the same cold, unhappy look, -which had troubled Adam so much. - -“Darling,” he said, when he spoke again, “there is something on your -mind which I do not understand. If you are to be my wife, there should -be no secrets between us. Will you tell me what it is, and if I can help -you I will, even though—though——” - -His voice began to falter, for the white, hard look on Anna’s face -frightened him, and at last in an agony of terror, he grasped both her -hands in his and added impetuously: - -“Even though it be to give you up, you whom I love better than my -life—for whom I would die so willingly. Oh, Anna!” and he sank on his -knees beside her, and winding his arms around her waist, looked her -imploringly in the face. “I sometimes fear that you have sickened of -me—that you shrink from my caresses. If it is so, in mercy tell me now, -before it is too late; for, Anna, dear as you are to me, I would rather -to-morrow’s sunshine should fall upon your grave and mine, than take you -to my bosom an unloving wife! I have worked for you, early and late, -thinking only how you might be pleased. There is not a niche or corner -in my home that is not hallowed by thoughts of you whom I have loved -since you were a little child and I carried you in the arms which now -would be your resting place forever. I know I am not your equal, I feel -it painfully, but I can learn with you as my teacher, and, my precious -Anna, whatever I may lack in polish, I _will_, I _will_ make up in -kindness!” - -He was pleading now for her love, forgetting that she was his promised -wife—forgetting everything, save that to his words of passionate appeal -there came no answering response in the expression of her face. Only the -same fixed, stony look, which almost maddened him; it was so unlike what -he deserved and had reason to expect. - -“I shall be lonely without you, Anna—more lonely than you can guess, for -there is no mother here now to bless and cheer me as she would have -cheered me in my great sorrow. She loved you, Anna, and blessed you with -her dying breath, saying she was glad, for your sake, that the chair -where you sit would be empty when you came, and asking God to deal by -you even as you dealt by me.” - -“Oh, Adam, Adam!” Anna gasped, for what had been meant for a blessing -rang in her ears like that blind woman’s curse. “May God deal better by -me than I meant to deal by you!” she tried to say, but the words died on -her lips, and she could only lay her cold hands on the shoulder of him -who still knelt before her, with his arms around her waist. - -Softly, gladly came the good angel back, and ’mid a rain of tears which -dropped on Adam’s hair, Anna wept her hardness all away, while the only -sound heard in the room was the beating of two hearts and the occasional -roll of thunder muttering in the distance. In reality it was only a few -moments, but to Anna it seemed a long, long time that they sat thus -together, her face bent down upon his head, while she thought of all the -past since she could remember Adam Floyd and the blind old woman, his -mother. He had been a dutiful son, Anna knew, for she had heard how -tenderly he would bear his mother in his strong arms or guide her -uncertain steps, and how at the last he sat by her night after night, -never wearying of the tiresome vigil until it was ended, and the -sightless eyes, which in death turned lovingly to him, were opened to -the light of Heaven. To such as Adam Floyd the commandment of promise -was rife with meaning. God would prolong his days and punish those who -wronged him. He who had been so faithful to his mother, would be true to -his wife—aye, truer far than young Dunallen, with all his polish and -wealth. - -“Adam,” Anna began at last, so low that he scarcely could hear her. -“Adam forgive me all that is past. I have been cold and indifferent, -have treated you as I ought not, but I am young and foolish, I—I—oh! -Adam, I mean to do better. I—” - -She could not say, “will banish Dunallen from my mind”—it was not -necessary to mention him, she thought; but some explanation must be -made, and so, steadying her voice, she told him how dearly she had loved -him once, thinking there was not in all the world his equal, but that -during the year at a city school she had acquired some foolish notions -and had sometimes wished her lover different. - -“Not better at heart. You could not be that,” she said, looking him now -fully in the face, for she was conscious of meaning what she said, -“but—but—” - -“You need not finish it, darling; I know what you mean,” Adam said, the -cloud lifting in a measure from his brow. “I am not refined one bit, but -my Blossom is, and she shall teach me. I will try hard to learn. I will -not often make her ashamed. I will even imitate _Dunallen_, if that will -gratify my darling.” - -Why would he keep bringing in that name, when the sound of it was so -like a dagger to Anna’s heart, and when she wished she might never hear -it again? He was waiting for her now in the beech woods she knew, for -she was to join him there ere long, not to say what she would have said -an hour ago, but to say that she could not, would not wrong the noble -man who held her to his bosom so lovingly as he promised to copy -_Dunallen_. And as Anna suffered him to caress her, she felt her olden -love coming back. She should be happy with him—happier far than if she -were the mistress of Castlewild, and knew that to attain that honor she -had broken Adam’s heart. - -“As a proof that you trust me fully,” she said, as the twilight shadows -deepened around them, “you must let me go home alone, I wish it for a -special reason. You must not tell me no,” and the pretty lips touched -his bearded cheek. - -Adam wanted to walk with her down the pleasant road, where they had -walked so often, but he saw she was in earnest, and so he suffered her -to depart alone, watching her until the flutter of her light dress was -lost to view. Then kneeling by the chair where she had sat so recently, -he asked that the cup of joy, placed again in his eager hand, might not -be wrested from him, that he might prove worthy of Anna’s love, and that -no cloud should ever again come between them. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - IN THE BEECH WOODS. - - -Herbert Dunallen had waited there a long time, as he thought, and he -began to grow impatient. What business had Anna to stay with that old -fellow, if she did not mean to have him, and of course she did not. It -would be a most preposterous piece of business for a girl like Anna to -throw herself away upon such as Adam Floyd, carpenter by trade, and -general repairer of things at Castlewild. Whew-ew! and Herbert whistled -contemptuously, adding in a low voice, “and yet my lady mother would -raise a beautiful rumpus if she knew I was about to make this little -village rustic her daughter-in-law. For I am; if there’s one redeeming -trait in my character, it’s being honorable in my intentions toward -Anna. Most men in my position would only trifle with her, particularly -when there was in the background a Mildred Atherton, dreadfully in love -with them. I wonder what makes all the girls admire me so?” and the vain -young man stroked his mustache complacently, just as a rapid footstep -sounded near. - -It was Anna’s, and the next moment he held her in his arms. But she -would not suffer him to keep her there, and with a quiet dignity which -for an instant startled him beyond the power to speak or act, she put -his arm away, and standing apart from him, told him of her resolution, -and reproached him with his duplicity, asking him how he could tell Adam -that he was about to be married. - -“Because I am,” he replied. “I am not to blame for his believing silly -little Milly to be the bride elect. Won’t it be famous, though, for you -to order round your former lover? I’ve engaged him for a long job, and -you ought to have seen how glad he was of the work, thinking, of course, -how much he should earn for you. I came near laughing in his face when -he hoped I should be as happy with Miss Mildred as he expected to be -with you.” - -“You shan’t speak so of Adam Floyd!” and Anna’s little foot beat the -ground impatiently, while indignant tears glittered in her blue eyes as -she again reiterated that Adam Floyd should be her husband. - -“Not while I live!” Herbert responded almost fiercely, for he saw in her -manner a determination he had never witnessed before. - -As well as he was capable of doing he loved Anna Burroughs, and the fact -that she was pledged to another added fuel to the flame. - -“What new freak has taken my fickle goddess?” he asked, looking down -upon her with a mocking sneer about his mouth as she told him why she -could not go with him. - -He knew she was in earnest at last, and, dropping his jesting tone, he -made her sit down beside him, while he used every possible argument to -dissuade her from her purpose, working first upon her pride, flattering -her vanity, portraying the happiness of a tour through Europe, a winter -in Paris, and lastly touching upon the advantages of being lady supreme -at Castlewild, with a house in the city, for winter. And as changeable, -ambitious, Anna listened, she felt her resolution giving way, felt the -ground which she had taken slipping from beneath her feet without one -effort to save herself. - -“It seems terrible to wrong Adam,” she said, and, by the tone of her -voice, Herbert knew the victory was two thirds won. - -“Adam will do well enough,” he replied. “People like him never die of -broken hearts! He’s a good fellow, but not the one for you; besides, you -know he’s what they call pious, just like Milly; and, I presume, he’ll -say it was not so wicked for you to cheat him as to perjure yourself, as -you surely would, by promising to love and honor and all that when you -didn’t feel a bit of it!” - -“What was that you said of Miss Atherton?” Anna asked eagerly, for she -had caught the word pious, and it made her heart throb with pain, for -she knew that Herbert Dunallen could not say as much of her! - -Once, indeed, it had been otherwise, but that was before she had met him -in the woods,—before she ceased to pray. Oh, that happy time when she -had dared to pray! How she wished it would come back to her again; but -it had drifted far away, and left a void as black as the night closing -around her or the heavy thunder clouds rolling above her head. - -Tightly her hands clenched each other as Herbert answered jestingly. - -“She’s one of the religious ones, Milly is; writes me such good letters. -I’ve one of them in my pocket now. She’s coming to see me; is actually -on the way, so to-morrow night, or never, my bride you must be.” - -“Miss Atherton coming here! What do you mean?” Anna asked, and Herbert -replied, - -“I mean, Mildred has always been in a fever to see Castlewild, and as -she is intimate with Mrs. Judge Harcourt’s family, she is coming there -on a visit. Will arrive to-morrow, her note said; and will expect to see -me immediately after her arrival.” - -Herbert’s influence over Anna was too great for her to attempt to stop -him, so she offered no remonstrance, when he continued! - -“I suppose Milly will cry a little, for I do believe she likes me, and -always has; but I can’t help it. The match was agreed upon by our -families when she was twelve and I fifteen. Of course I’m awfully sick -of it, and have been ever since I knew you,” and Herbert’s lips touched -the white brow where only half an hour before Adam Floyd’s had been. - -Thicker, and blacker, grew the darkness around them, while the thunder -was louder and nearer, and still they sat together, Anna hesitating, -while Herbert urged upon her the necessity of going with him the -following night, if ever. - -Mildred in the neighborhood would be as formidable an obstacle to him as -Adam was to Anna, while he feared the result of another interview -between the affianced pair. With all his love for Anna he was not blind -to the fact that the last one with whom she talked had the better chance -of eventually winning. He could not lose her now, and he redoubled his -powers of persuasion, until, forgetting everything, save the handsome -youth beside her, the wealthy heir of Castlewild, Anna said to him, - -“I will meet you at our gate when the village clock strikes one!” and as -she said the words the woods were lighted up by a flash of lightning so -fearfully bright and blinding that with a scream of terror she hid her -face in her lap and stopped her ears to shut out the deafening roll of -the thunder. The storm had burst in all its fury, and hurrying from the -woods, Herbert half carried, half led the frightened Anna across the -fields in the direction of her father’s door. Depositing her at the -gate, he paused for an instant to whisper his parting words and then -hastened rapidly on. - -On the kitchen hearth a cheerful wood fire had been kindled, and making -some faint excuse for having been out in the storm, Anna repaired -thither, and standing before the blaze was drying her dripping garments, -when a voice from the adjoining room made her start and tremble, for she -knew that it was Adam’s. - -He seemed to be excited and was asking for her. An accident had occurred -just before his door. Frightened by the lightning which Anna remembered -so well, a pair of spirited horses had upset a traveling carriage, in -which was a young lady and her maid. The latter had sustained no injury, -but the lady’s ankle was sprained, and she was otherwise so lamed and -bruised that it was impossible for her to proceed any farther that -night. So he had carried her into his cottage and dispatching the driver -for the physician had come himself for Anna as the suitable person to -play the hostess in his home. - -“Oh, I can’t go,—mother, you!” Anna exclaimed, shrinking in terror from -again crossing the threshold of the home she was about to make so -desolate. - -But Adam preferred Anna. The lady was young, he said, and it seemed to -him more appropriate that Anna should attend her. Mrs. Burroughs thought -so, too, and, with a sinking heart, Anna prepared herself for a second -visit to the cottage. In her excitement she forgot entirely to ask the -name of the stranger, and as she was not disposed to talk, nothing was -said of the lady until the cottage was reached and she was ushered into -the dining-room, where old Martha and a smart looking servant were busy -with the bandages and hot water preparing for the invalid who had been -carried to the pleasant bed-room opening from the parlor. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - MILDRED ATHERTON. - - -“How is Miss Atherton?” Adam asked of Martha, while he kindly attempted -to assist Anna in removing the heavy shawl her mother had wrapped around -her. - -“Who? What did you call her?” Anna asked, her hands dropping helplessly -at her side. - -“Why, I thought I told you. I surely did your mother. I beg pardon for -my carelessness. It’s Mildred Atherton,” and Adam’s voice sank to a -whisper. “She was on her way to visit Mrs. Harcourt. I suppose it would -be well to send for Dunallen, but I thought it hardly proper for me to -suggest it. I’ll let you get at it somehow, and see if she wants him. -You girls have a way of understanding each other.” - -Knowing how, in similar circumstances, he should yearn for Anna’s -presence, Adam had deemed it natural that Mildred’s first wish would be -for Herbert, and one reason for his insisting that Anna should come back -with him was the feeling that the beautiful girl, whose face had -interested him at once, would be more free to communicate her wishes to -one of her own age. - -“Mildred Atherton,” Anna kept repeating to herself, every vestige of -color fading from her cheeks and lips, as she wondered how she could -meet her, or what the result of the meeting would be. - -“Sarah, where are you? Has everybody left me?” came from the bed, where -the outline of a girlish form was plainly discernible to Anna, who -started at the tones of what seemed to her the sweetest voice she had -ever heard. - -“Go to her,” Adam whispered, and Anna mechanically obeyed. - -Gliding to the bedside, she stood a moment gazing upon the beautiful -face nestled among the snowy pillows. The eyes were closed, and the -long, silken lashes shaded the fair, round cheek, not one half so white -as Anna’s, notwithstanding that a spasm of pain occasionally distorted -the regular features, and wrung a faint cry from the pretty lips. Masses -of soft black curls were pushed back from the forehead, and one hand lay -outside the counterpane, a little soft, fat hand, on whose fourth finger -shone the engagement ring, the seal of her betrothal to the heir of -Castlewild! Oh, how debased and wicked Anna felt standing by that -innocent girl, and how she marveled that having known Mildred Atherton, -Herbert Dunallen could ever have turned to her. Involuntarily a sigh -escaped her lips, and at the sound the soft black eyes unclosed, and -looked at her wonderingly. Then a smile broke over the fair face, and -extending her hand to Anna, Mildred said, - -“Where am I? My head feels so confused. I remember the horses reared -when that flash of lightning came, the carriage was overturned, and some -young man, who seemed a second Apollo in strength and beauty, brought me -in somewhere so gently and carefully, that I could have hugged him for -it, he was so good. Are you his sister!” - -“No, I am Anna Burroughs. He came for me,” Anna replied, and looking her -full in the face, Mildred continued, - -“Yes, I remember now, his nurse or housekeeper told me he had gone for -the girl who was to be his wife; and you are she. It’s pleasant to be -engaged, isn’t it?” and Mildred’s hand gave Anna’s a little confidential -squeeze, which, quite as much as the words she had uttered, showed how -affectionate and confiding was her disposition. - -The entrance of the physician put an end to the conversation, and -withdrawing to a little distance where in the shadow she could not be -well observed Anna stood while the doctor examined the swollen ankle, -and his volatile patient explained to him in detail how it all happened, -making herself out quite a heroine for courage and presence of mind, -asking if he knew Mrs. Harcourt, and if next morning he would not be -kind enough to let her know that Mildred Atherton was at the cottage. -The doctor promised whatever she asked, and was about to leave the room, -when Adam stepped forward and said, - -“Is there any one else whom Miss Atherton would like to see—any friend -in the neighborhood who ought to be informed?” - -Eagerly Anna waited for the answer, watching half jealously the crimson -flush stealing over Mildred’s face, as she replied, - -“Not to-night; it would do no good; to-morrow is soon enough. I never -like to make unnecessary trouble.” - -The head which had been raised while Mildred spoke to Adam lay back upon -the pillow, but not until with a second thought the sweet voice had said -to him, - -“I thank you, sir, you are so kind.” - -As a creature of impulse, Anna felt a passing thrill of something like -pride in Adam as Mildred Atherton spoke thus to him, and when as he -passed her he involuntarily laid his hand a moment on her shoulder she -did not shake it off, though her heart throbbed painfully with thoughts -of her intended treachery. They were alone now, Mildred and Anna, and -beckoning the latter to her side, Mildred said to her. - -“He meant Herbert Dunallen. How did he know that I am to be Herbert’s -wife?” - -There was no tremor in her voice. She spoke of Herbert as a matter of -course, while Anna could hardly find courage to reply. - -“Mr. Floyd works at Castlewild sometimes, and probably has heard Mr. -Dunallen speak of you.” - -“Mr. Floyd—Adam Floyd, is that the young man’s name?” was Mildred’s next -question, and when Anna answered in the affirmative, she continued, “I -have heard of him. Herbert wrote how invaluable he was and how superior -to most mechanics—his prime minister in fact. I am glad the accident -happened here, and Herbert too will be glad.” - -For a moment Mildred seemed to be thinking, then starting up, she said, -abruptly, - -“And it was Anna—Anna Burroughs, yes, I’m sure that’s the name. Would -you mind putting that lamp nearer to me, and coming yourself where I can -see just how you look?” - -Anna shrank from the gaze of those clear, truthful eyes, but something -in Mildred’s manner impelled her to do as she was requested, and moving -the lamp she came so near that Mildred placed a hand on either side of -her burning face and gazed at it curiously; then, pushing back the -golden hair, and twining one of the curls a moment about her finger, she -laid it by her own long, black shining tresses, saying sadly, “I wish my -curls were light and fair like yours. It would suit Herbert better. He -fancies a blonde more than a brunette, at least he told me as much that -time he wrote to me of you.” - -“Of me?” Anna asked anxiously, the color receding from her cheek and -lip. “Why did he write of me, and when?” - -The dark eyes were shut now and Anna could see the closed lids quiver, -just as did the sweet voice which replied, “It’s strange to talk so -openly to you as if we were dear friends, as we will be when I come to -Castlewild to live. It is my nature to say right out what I think, and -people sometimes call me silly. Herbert does, but I don’t care. When I -like a person I show it, and I like you. Besides, there’s something -tells me there is a bond of sympathy between us greater than between -ordinary strangers. I guess it is because we are both engaged, both so -young, and both rather pretty, too. You certainly are, and I know I am -not bad looking, if Aunt Theo. did use to try and make me think I was. -Her story and the mirror’s did not agree.” - -Anna looked up amazed at this frank avowal, which few would ever have -made, even though in their hearts they were far vainer of their beauty -than was Mildred Atherton of hers. Was she really silly, or was she -wholly artless and childlike in her manner of expression? Anna could not -decide, and with a growing interest in the stranger, she listened while -Mildred went on: “In one of his letters last May Herbert said so much of -Anna Burroughs, with her eyes of blue and golden hair, calling her a -‘Lily of the Valley,’ and asking, all in play, you know, if I should -feel very badly if he should elope some day with his Lily. It shocks -you, don’t it!” she said, as Anna started with a sudden exclamation, -“But he did not mean it. He only tried to tease me, and for a time it -did make in my heart a little round spot of pain which burned like fire, -for though Herbert has some bad habits and naughty ways, I love him very -dearly. He is always better with me. He says I do him good, though he -calls me a puritan, and that time when the burning spot was in my heart, -I used to go away and pray, that if Herbert did not like me as he ought, -God would incline him to do so. Once I prayed for you, whom I had never -seen,” and the little soft hand stole up to Anna’s bowed head smoothing -the golden locks caressingly, “You’ll think me foolish, but thoughts of -you really troubled me then, when I was weak and nervous, for I was just -recovering from sickness, and so I prayed that the Lily of the Valley -might not care for Herbert, might not come between us, and I know God -heard me just as well as if it had been my own father of whom I asked a -favor. Perhaps it is not having any father or mother which makes me take -every little trouble to God. Do you do so, Anna? Do you tell all your -cares to him?” - -Alas for conscience-stricken Anna, who had not prayed for so very, very -long! What could she say? Nothing, except to dash the bitter tears from -her eyes and answer, sobbingly, - -“I used to do so once, but now—oh, Miss Atherton! now I am so hard, so -wicked, I dare not pray!” - -In great perplexity Mildred looked at her a moment, and then said, -sorrowfully. - -“Just because I was hard and wicked, I should want to pray—to ask that -if I had done anything bad I might be forgiven, or if I had intended to -do wrong, I might be kept from doing it.” - -Mildred little guessed how keen a pang her words “or _intended_ to do -wrong” inflicted upon the repenting Anna, who involuntarily stretched -her hands toward the young girl as towards something which, if she did -but grasp it, would save her from herself. Mildred took the hands -between her own, and pressing them gently, said: - -“I don’t know why you feel so badly, neither can I understand how -anything save sin can make you unhappy when that good man is almost your -husband. You must love him very much, do you not?” - -“Yes,” came faintly from Anna’s lips, and laying her face on the pillow -beside Mildred’s, she murmured, inaudibly: “God help me, and forgive -that falsehood, I will love him, if I do not now.” - -Anna did not know she prayed, but He who understands our faintest desire -knew it, and from that moment dated her return to duty. She should not -wrong that gentle, trusting girl. She could not break Milly’s heart with -Adam’s as break it she surely should if her wicked course were persisted -in. And then there flashed upon her the conviction that Herbert had -deceived her in more ways than one. He had represented Mildred as tiring -of the engagement as well as himself—had said that though her pride -might be a little wounded, she would on the whole be glad to be rid of -him so easily, and all the while he knew that what he said was false. -Would he deal less deceitfully by her when the novelty of calling her -his wife had worn away? Would he not weary of her and sigh for the -victim sacrificed so cruelly? Anna’s head and heart both seemed bursting -with pain, and when Mildred, alarmed at the pallor of her face, asked if -she were ill, there was no falsehood in the reply, “Yes, I’m dizzy and -faint—I cannot stay here longer,” and scarcely conscious of what she was -doing, Anna quitted the room, leaning for support against the banisters -in the hall and almost falling against old Martha who was carrying hot -tea to Mildred Atherton. - -“Let me go home, I am sick,” Anna whispered to Adam, who, summoned by -Martha, bent anxiously over her, asking what was the matter. - -It was too late to go home, he said. She must stay there till morning; -and very tenderly he helped her up to the chamber she was to occupy, the -one next to his own, and from which, at a late hour, she heard him, as, -thinking her asleep, he thanked his Heavenly Father for giving her to -him, and asked that he might be more worthy of her than he was. - -“No, Adam, oh, no—pray that I may be more worthy of you,” trembled on -Anna’s lips, and then lest her resolution might fail, she arose and -striking a light, tore a blank leaf from a book lying on a table, and -wrote to Herbert Dunallen that she could never meet him again, except as -a friend and the future husband of Mildred Atherton. - -Folding it once over, she wrote his name upon it, then, faint with -excitement, and shivering with cold, threw herself upon the outside of -the bed, and sobbed herself into a heavy sleep, more exhausting in its -effects than wakefulness would have been. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - THE RESULT. - - -There was another patient for the village doctor, besides Mildred, at -the cottage next morning. Indeed, _her_ case sank into insignificance -when compared with that of the moaning, tossing, delirious Anna, who -shrank away from Adam, begging him not to touch her, for she was not -worthy. - -They had found her just after sunrise, and sent for her mother, whose -first thought was to take her home; but Anna resisted at once; she must -stay there she said, and expiate her sin, in Adam’s house. Then, -looking, into her mother’s face, she added with a smile, - -“You know it was to have been mine in a week!” - -Adam did not see the smile. He only heard the words, and his heart beat -quickly as he thought it natural that Anna should wish to stay in what -was to be her home. - -The hot August sun came pouring into the small, low room she occupied, -making it so uncomfortable, that Adam said she must be moved, and taking -her in his arms he carried her down the stairs, and laid her upon the -bridal bed, whose snowy drapery was scarcely whiter than was her face, -save where the fever burned upon her fair skin. On the carpet where it -had fallen he found the crumpled note. He knew it was her writing, and -he looked curiously at the name upon it, while there stole over him a -shadowy suspicion, as to the cause of Anna’s recent coldness. - -“Herbert Dunallen!” He read the name with a shudder, and then thrust the -note into his pocket until the young man came. - -Oh, how he longed to read the note and know what his affianced bride had -written to Dunallen; but not for the world would he have opened it, and -Anna’s secret was safe, unless she betrayed it in her delirium, as she -seemed likely to do. - -A messenger had been dispatched to Castlewild, informing its young heir -of Mildred Atherton’s mishap. In the room he called his library, Herbert -sat, arranging his papers, and writing some directions for his head man -of business. - -“Something from Adam Floyd,” he exclaimed, as he tore open the envelope, -“Oh, bother,” was all the comment he made, as he read the hastily -written lines, which gave no hint of Anna’s sudden illness. - -He was not in the least prepared for that, and the sudden paling of his -cheek when, on his arrival at the cottage, he heard of it, did not -escape the watchful Adam, who quietly handed him the note, explaining -where he had found it, and then went back to Anna, in whose great blue -eyes there was a look of fear whenever they met his—a look which added -to the dull, heavy pain gnawing at his heart. He did not see Herbert -when he read Anna’s note—did not hear his muttered curse at woman’s -fickleness, but he saw the tiny fragments into which it was torn, -flutter past the window where he sat by Anna’s side. One, a longer strip -than the others, fell upon the window sill, and Adam picked it up, -reading involuntarily the words “Your unhappy Anna.” - -Down in the depths of Adam’s heart there was a sob, a moan of anguish as -his fears were thus corroborated, but his face gave no token of the -fierce pain within. It was just as calm as ever, when it turned again to -Anna who was talking in her sleep, first of Herbert and then of Adam, -begging him to forget that he ever knew the little girl called Anna -Burroughs, or carried her over the rifts of snow to the school-house -under the hill. It seemed strange that she should grow sick so fast when -yesterday she had been comparatively well, but the sudden cold she had -taken the previous night, added to the strong excitement under which she -had been laboring, combined to spend the energies of a constitution -never strong, and the fever increased so rapidly that before the close -of the second day more than one heart throbbed with fear as to what the -end would be. - -In spite of her lame ankle Mildred had managed to get into the -sick-room, urging Herbert to accompany her, and feeling greatly shocked -at his reply that “camphor and medicine were not to his taste.” - -Herbert had not greeted his bride elect very lovingly, for to her -untimely appearance he attributed Anna’s illness and decision. He could -change the latter he knew, only give him the chance, but the former -troubled him greatly. Anna might die, and then—Herbert Dunallen did not -know what then, but bad as he was he would rather she should not die -with all that sin against Adam unconfessed, and out in the beech woods -where the night before he had planned with her their flight, and where -after leaving Mildred he repaired, he laid his boyish head upon the -summer grass and _cried_, partly as a child would cry for the bauble -denied, partly as an honest man might mourn for the loved one whose life -he had helped to shorten. - -Regularly each morning the black pony from Castlewild was tied at the -cottage gate, while its owner made inquiry for Anna. He had discernment -enough to see that from the first his visits were unwelcome to Adam -Floyd, who he believed knew the contents of the note written him by -Anna. But in this last he was mistaken. All Adam knew certainly was -gathered from Anna’s delirious ravings, which came at last to be -understood by Mildred, who in spite of Mrs. Judge Harcourt’s entreaties -or those of her tall, handsome son, George Harcourt, just home from -Harvard, persisted in staying at the cottage and ministering to Anna. -For a time the soft black eyes of sweet Mildred Atherton were heavy with -unshed tears, while the sorrow of a wounded, deceived heart was visible -upon her face; but at length her true womanly sense of right rose above -it all, and waking as if from a dream she saw how utterly unworthy even -of her childish love was the _boy man_, whose society she shunned, -until, irritated by her manner, he one day demanded an explanation of -her coolness. - -“You know, Herbert,” and Milly’s clear, innocent eyes looked steadily -into his. “You know far better than I, all that has passed between you -and Anna Burroughs. To me and her lover, noble Adam Floyd, it is known -only in part, but you understand the whole, and I am glad of this -opportunity to tell you that you are free from an engagement which never -should have been made, and of which you are weary. I did love you so -much Herbert, even though I knew that you were wayward. I loved you, and -prayed for you, too, every morning and every night. I shall do that yet, -wherever you are, but henceforth we are friends, and nothing more. Seek -forgiveness, first of God, and then of Adam Floyd, whom you thought to -wrong by wresting from him the little ewe-lamb, which was his all.” - -Herbert looked up quickly. Wholly unversed in Scripture, the _ewe-lamb_ -was Greek to him, but Mildred was too much in earnest for him to jest. -She had never seemed so desirable as now, that he had lost her, and -grasping her hand from which she was taking the engagement ring, he -begged of her to wait, to consider, before she cast him off. - -“I was mean with Anna, I know, and I meant to run away with her, but -that is over now. Speak to me, Milly; I do not know you in this new -character.” - -Milly hardly knew herself, but with regard to Herbert she was firm, -giving him no hope of ever recovering the love he had wantonly thrown -away. - -After that interview, the black pony stayed quietly in its stable at -Castlewild, while Herbert shut himself up in his room, sometimes crying -when he thought of Anna, sometimes swearing when he thought of Mildred, -and ending every reverie with his pet words, “oh botheration.” - -Each morning, however, a servant was sent to the cottage where, for -weeks, Anna hovered between life and death, carefully tended by her -mother and Mildred Atherton, and tenderly watched by Adam, who deported -himself toward her as a fond parent would toward its erring but -suffering child. There was no bitterness in Adam’s heart, nothing save -love and pity for the white-faced girl, whom he held firmly in his arms, -soothing her gently, while Mildred cut away the long, golden tresses, at -which, in her wild moods, she clutched so angrily. - -“Poor shorn lamb,” he whispered, while his tears, large and warm, -dropped upon the wasted face he had not kissed since the night he and -Mildred watched with her and heard so much of the sad story. - -But for the help which cometh only from on high, Adam’s heart would have -broken, those long bright September days, when everything seemed to mock -his woe. It was so different from what he had hoped when he built -castles of the Autumn time, when Anna would be with him. She was there, -it is true; there in the room he had called _ours_, but was as surely -lost to him, he said, as if the bright-hued flowers were blossoming -above her grave. She did not love him, else she had never purposed to -deceive him, and he looked drearily forward to the time when he must -again take up his solitary life, uncheered by one hope in the future. - -She awoke to consciousness at last. It was in the grey dawn of the -morning, when Adam was sitting by her, while her mother and Mildred -rested in the adjoining room. Eagerly she seemed to be searching for -something, and when Adam asked for what, she answered: “The note; I had -it in my hand when I went to sleep.” - -Bending over her, Adam said: “I found it; I gave it to him.” - -There was a perceptible start, a flushing of Anna’s cheek and a -frightened, half pleading look in her eyes; but she asked no questions, -and thinking she would rather not have him there, Adam went quietly out -to her mother with the good news of Anna’s consciousness. - -Days went by after that, days of slow convalescence; but now that he was -no longer needed in the sick-room, Adam stayed away. Tokens of his -thoughtful care, however, were visible everywhere, in the tasteful -bouquets arranged each morning, just as he knew Anna liked them—in the -luscious fruit and tempting delicacies procured by him for the weak -invalid who at last asked Mildred to call him and leave them alone -together. - -At first there was much constraint on either side, but at last Anna -burst out impetuously, “Oh, Adam, I do not know what I said in my -delirium, or how much you know, and so I must tell you everything.” - -Then, as rapidly as possible and without excusing herself in the least, -she told her story and what she had intended to do. - -For a moment Adam did not speak, and when he did it was to ask if -Mildred had told her about Herbert. But his name had not been mentioned -between the two girls and thus it devolved upon Adam to explain. Herbert -had left the neighborhood and gone abroad immediately after Anna’s -convalescence was a settled thing. - -“Perhaps he will soon come back,” Adam said, and Anna cried, “Oh, Adam, -I never wish him to return, I know now that I never loved him as—I—oh, I -wish I had died.” - -“You were not prepared, and God spared you to us. We are very glad to -have you back,” Adam said. - -These were the first words he had spoken which had in them anything like -his former manner, and Anna involuntarily stretched her hand toward him. -He took it, and letting it rest on his broad, warm palm, smoothed it a -little as he would have smoothed a little child’s, but what Anna longed -to hear was not spoken, and in a tremor of pain she sobbed out, - -“In mercy, speak to me once as you used to. Say that you forgive me, -even though we never can be to each other again what we have been!” - -“I do forgive you, Anna; and as for the rest I did not suppose you -wished it.” - -Raising herself up, Anna threw her arms impetuously around his neck, -exclaiming, - -“I do wish it, Adam. Don’t cast me off. Try me, and see if I am not -worthy. I have sinned, but I have repented too. Never were you so dear -to me! Oh, Adam, take me back!” - -She was getting too much excited, and putting her arms from his neck, -Adam laid her upon the pillow, and said to her gently, - -“Anna, my faith in you has been shaken, but my love has never changed. -You must not talk longer now. I’ll come again by and by, and meantime -I’ll send Miss Atherton. She knows it all, both from Herbert and -yourself. She is a noble girl. You can trust her.” - -At Adam’s request Mildred went to Anna, and sitting down beside her, -listened while Anna confessed the past, even to the particulars of her -interview with Adam, and then added tearfully, - -“Forgive me, and tell me what to do.” - -“I should be an unworthy disciple of Him who said forgive, until seventy -times seven, if I refused your request,” was Mildred’s reply, as she -wound her arm around Anna’s neck, and imprinted upon Anna’s lips the -kiss of pardon. - -Then, as Anna could bear it, she unfolded her plan, which was that the -invalid should return with her to her pleasant home at Rose Hill, -staying there until she had fully tested the strength of her love for -Adam, who, if she stood the test should come for her himself. As a -change of air and scene seemed desirable, Anna’s mother raised no -serious objection to this arrangement, and so one October morning Adam -Floyd held for a moment a little wasted hand in his while he said -good-bye to its owner, who so long as he was in sight leaned from the -carriage window to look at him standing there so lone and solitary, yet -knowing it was better to part with her awhile, if he would have their -future as bright as he had once fancied it would be. - - * * * * * - -Eight years have passed away, and on the broad piazza of Castlewild a -sweet-faced woman stands, waiting impatiently the arrival of the -carriage winding slowly up the hill, and which stops at last, while -Mildred Atherton alights from it and ascends the steps to where Anna -stands waiting for her. And Mildred, who for years has been abroad, and -has but recently returned to America, has come to be for a few weeks her -guest, and to see how Anna deports herself as the wife of Adam Floyd, -and mistress of beautiful Castlewild. - -There is a sad story connected with Anna’s being there at Castlewild, a -story which only Mildred can tell, and in the dusky twilight of that -first evening when Adam was away and the baby Milly asleep in its crib, -she takes Anna’s hand in hers and tells her what Anna indeed knew -before, but which seems far more real as it comes from Mildred’s lips, -making the tears fall fast as she listens to it. Tells her how -Providence directed her to the room in a Paris hotel, where a fellow -countryman lay dying, alone and unattended save by a hired nurse. The -sick room was on the same hall with her own, and in passing the door -which was ajar, she was startled to hear a voice once familiar to her -and which seemed to call her name. Five minutes later and she was -sitting by Herbert Dunallen’s bedside and holding his burning hands in -hers, while he told her how long he had lain there with the fever -contracted in the south of France, and how at the moment she passed his -door he was crying out in his anguish and desolation for the friends so -far away, and had spoken her name, not knowing she was so near. - -After that Milly was his constant attendant, and once when she sat by -him he talked to her of the past and of Anna, who had been three years -the wife of Adam Floyd. - -“I am glad of it,” he said. “She is happier with him than she could have -been with me. I am sorry that I ever came between them, it was more my -fault than hers, and I have told Adam so. I wrote him from Algiers and -asked his forgiveness, and he answered my letter like the noble man he -is. There is peace between us now, and I am glad. I have heard from him, -or rather of him since, in a roundabout away. He lost his right arm in -the war, and that will incapacitate him from his work. He can never use -the hammer again. I do not suppose he has so very much money. Anna liked -Castlewild. In fact I believe she cared more for that than for me, and I -have given it to her;—have made my will to that effect. It is with my -other papers, and Milly, when I am dead, you will see that Anna has her -own. I did not think it would come quite so soon, for I am young to die. -Not thirty yet, but it is better so, perhaps. You told me that you -prayed for me every day, and the memory of that has stuck to me like a -burr, till I have prayed for myself, more than once, when I was well, -and often since shut up in this room which I shall never leave alive. -Stay by me, Milly, to the last; it will not be long, and pray that if I -am not right, God will make me so. Show me the way, Milly, I want to be -good, I am sorry, oh, so sorry for it all.” - -For a few days longer he lingered, and then one lovely autumnal morning, -when Paris was looking her brightest, he died, with Milly’s hand in his, -and Milly’s tears upon his brow. - -And so Castlewild came to Anna, who had been three years its mistress -when Milly came to visit her, and on whose married life no shadow -however small had fallen, except, indeed, the shadows which are common -to the lives of all. When her husband came home from the war a cripple, -as he told her with quivering lips, her tears fell like rain for him, -because he was sorry, but for herself she did not care; he was left to -her, and kissing him lovingly she promised to be his right arm and to -work for him if necessary, even to building houses, if he would teach -her how. But poverty never came to Adam Floyd and Anna, and probably -never would have come, even if there had been no will which left them -Castlewild. That was a great surprise, and at first Adam hesitated about -going there. But Anna persuaded him at last, and there we leave them, -perfectly happy in each other’s love, and both the better, perhaps, for -the grief and pain which came to them in their youth. - - - THE END - OF - ADAM FLOYD. - - - - - JOHN LOGAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT REPAIRING OLD HOUSES. - - -My wife was Priscilla Lord, daughter of the Hon. Erastus Lord, but I -always call her Cilly for short, and she rather likes that pet name, -inasmuch as it is not spelled with an S. We had been married and kept -house ten years, and it had never occurred to me that we were not as -comfortable, and cozy, and happy as our neighbors, until one Saturday -night in the month of May, when I was superintending the packing of my -shirts, and socks, and neckties, preparatory to a business trip which I -was to make for the firm which employed me, and which was to last four -weeks positively, if not longer. Then, after sewing on the last button, -and darning the last sock, and wondering why men always wore out their -heels and toes so fast, Cilly suddenly informed me that we were neither -cozy nor comfortable, nor respectable, in the present condition of -things. - -I was taking off my boots, and sat staring at her with one uplifted in -the air, while she went on to say that the view from our bed-room was -just horrid, looking out upon nothing but a lane, and a board fence, and -Mrs. Patterson’s kitchen—that we had no china closet proper at all, -which was a shame for people of our means—that we had to pass through -the dining-room to go down cellar, which was a great inconvenience—that -we had no conservatory, and the bay window was always crowded with -plants in the winter, giving a littered appearance to the room—that the -west piazza was altogether too short a walk for her mother, who had -lived with us for the past year, and who needed a longer promenade, -especially in bad weather. And she continued to inform me further that -there was space for such a nice room in the attic, which we really -needed in the summer when the house was full, and Lizzie was there with -all her children and the nurse. - -I liked Lizzie, and liked the children, and liked to have them with us, -especially as there were no little Logans of my own playing in the yard; -but I thought three spare rooms ought to be enough for them, until I -reflected that my mother-in-law, Mrs. Erastus Lord, now occupied one of -the spare rooms, leaving a surplus of only two, so I still kept silent -until Cilly, thinking she had succeeded in convincing me that of all -tucked-up, inconvenient, disreputable houses in town, ours was the -worst, went on to say that she thought and her mother thought, and her -grandma thought, (grandma was the old Mrs. Lord of all, Mrs. Erastus, -senior,) that we ought to “go through a set of repairs;” I think that’s -the way she worded it, and as brother John had left her two thousand -dollars “_to do just exactly what she pleased with_” she had made up her -mind to repair, and was going to do it while I was away, so as to save -me all the trouble of the muss, and—and—Cilly got a little confused here -and stammered a good deal, and finally went on rapidly: “You see, I have -quite decided, and mother has seen the men, and they are coming Monday -morning, and it will all be done beautifully before you get back, and -you’ll never know the old hut at all.” - -I felt a little hurt to hear her stigmatize, as the old hut, what we had -thought so pretty and nice when we took possession of it ten years ago, -but had no time to protest before she added: - -“I didn’t mean to tell you, as I wished to see how surprised you would -be when you returned; but I was afraid something might happen, the -carpenters get sick, or you come home sooner than you intended, and so I -had to tell you. See, here is the plan. I had an architect come and make -it the day you were in New York. Isn’t it lovely, and such an -improvement?” - -I looked at the paper which she held toward me, and saw on it a drawing -which reminded me of one of the boats of the White Star Line, it was so -long and narrow, with chimneys and smoke-stacks and gables jutting out -everywhere. - -“Don’t you like it John?” Cilly asked, with a most rueful face, and I -replied: - -“Why, yes, I dare say it is nice, but you see I haven’t the least bit of -building genius, and less imagination, so I’ve no idea what it’s to be.” - -“Why, John, what a stupid; that’s the new piazza, and maybe the front -door will have to be moved, and that’s the new gable, and that’s the -conservatory, and here is our room right over the kitchen.” - -“Over the kitchen!” and I involuntarily sniffed as I thought of onions, -and codfish, and boiled cabbage, each one of which was a favorite dish -of mine, though I did not like the smell in my sleeping room. - -Cilly understood my meaning and hastened to say: - -“Oh, we have fixed all that; there’s to be deafening, a double floor and -a whole lot of mortar, and we shall never hear a sound nor smell a -smell, Jane is so quiet; and it will be so pleasant with a broad balcony -and a door to go out. I wish you would try to have a little interest in -it, John.” - -So I tried to be interested, but could not forbear asking her if she had -the slightest conception of all it involved, this raising the roof and -Cain generally; and then she cried, and the Lord part of her got the -ascendant, and she said I was _mean_, and an _old fogy_, and a -_conservative_, and a—well, she called me several names, and then we -made it up, and I told her to fix away, and knock things endways if she -wanted to, and that’s about the way matters stood Monday morning, when I -said good-bye to her at half-past six and hurried to the train. She was -up to see me off, the carpenters were coming at seven, and she must be -ready to receive them. - -“You won’t know the house when you get home,” she said, “it will be so -changed and improved; and if you are at all puzzled to find it, look for -the very biggest and handsomest place on the street. Good-by.” - -She was so elated with her repairing that I do not think she was a bit -sorry to have me go, and this did not console me much, or make me take -any more kindly to the repairs. I did not hear from her for three or -four days, and then she was in high spirits. Such nice men as the -carpenters were, and such fun to superintend them: she began to think -nature had intended her for a builder, or at least a designer of houses. - -I groaned a little for fear my hitherto quiet, satisfied Cilly should -develop a propensity for building, and ruin me entirely. It was in her -family on both sides, for old Mrs. Erastus Lord had ruined her husband -that way, while Mrs. Erastus, junior, had sunk over twenty thousand -dollars on a place which originally cost five thousand, and which when -completed looked as if it had been taken up and shaken by a high wind -and thrown down promiscuously. But I hoped better things of my little -Cilly, and resuming her letter, read that the piazza was going up so -fast, and they had not yet done a single bit of damage, except to knock -a hole through one of the front door lights, and kill the ivy, which was -just growing so beautifully, and which had come all the way from -Kenilworth. - -The next letter was not quite so hilarious and assured, though Cilly was -still hopeful and plucky, notwithstanding that four windows had been -broken, and the arm of my Apollo Belvidere, which I had bought in -Florence, and a whole lot of plaster, had fallen from the ceiling of the -room where she was sitting, and a man’s leg came right through, lathing -and all. I think the leg disturbed her more than all the other mishaps, -though her mother told her it was nothing at all to what she must -expect, but she didn’t think it was nice, and it was such a muss to have -four carpenters, three masons, two tinners, three painters, besides a -boy to lath, and a man to clean up, and the two thousand dollars would -not begin to pay for it all, and I must make some arrangements, whereby -she could get some more money, and if I could she’d like me to stay away -as long as possible, not that she did not miss me awfully, and the days -seemed a month each, but she did want the house done before I returned, -and it went on so slowly, though mother said they were the best workmen -she ever saw. - -This was the substance of Cilly’s letter, and I did not hear from her -again except a few hurried lines saying she was well, and the house -progressing, and both drains stopped up, and a chimney blown down, and -the hard finish in one of the rooms spoiled by the rain which beat in -just as they got the eaves-trough off. This was about as I had expected -it would be, but I was sorry for Cilly, and sorry that my business kept -me away from her six weeks instead of four, as I had at first proposed. -But the day came at last for me to go home, and I almost counted the -minutes, until there came a whiz and a crash, and we were off the track, -with baggage car smashed but nobody hurt. This made it very late, -midnight in fact, when we reached Morrisville, and, valise in hand, I -stepped out upon the platform. It was the darkest night I think, I ever -knew, and the rain was falling in torrents. Fortunately, however, there -was a solitary cab in waiting, and I took it and bade the negro drive me -to No.— Guelph street. But he was a stranger in the place, and stared at -me stupidly until I explained where Guelph street was, and then -remembering what Cilly had said about looking for the handsomest and -largest house, bade him drive to the best and most stylish house in the -street, if he knew which that was. - -“Yes, sar, I done knows now,” and with a grin he banged the door, -mounted his box and drove me _somewhere_, and I alighted, paid my fare, -and _heard_ him depart, for I could not see him, or the house either, -except with the eye of faith, but of course it was mine, and I groped my -way through the gate and up to the front door, to which I tried to fit -my night-key, in vain, and after fumbling awhile at the key hole, and -trying a shutter to see if it was unfastened, I was hunting for the bell -knob, when suddenly a window from above was opened; there was a clicking -sound, and then the sharp ring of a pistol broke the midnight stillness. -I was not hit, but a good deal scared, and yelled out: - -“For Heaven’s sake, Cilly, what do you mean by firing away at a chap -like this?” - -“John Logan, is that you? We thought it was a burglar. What are you here -for?” some one called from the window, while at the same moment the gas -flashed up in the hall and showed me where I was. - -Not at my house at all, but at the large boarding house at the upper end -of the street, kept by a dashing grass widow. Hastily explaining my -mistake, I said good night to Bob Sawyer, one of the boarders, whose -loud laugh discomfited me somewhat as I felt my way into the street and -started toward home. - -This time I was sure I was right by the trees near the gate, but the -front door was gone—moved, and not wishing to venture into unknown -regions, I concluded to try the bath-room door, for our rooms were -adjoining it, and I could easily speak to Cilly without alarming her. So -I tried it, and after floundering over piles of rubbish, and tearing my -trousers on broads full of nails, and plunging up to my knees in what -seemed to be a muddy ditch, and which smelled awfully, I suddenly found -myself plump in the cistern, with the water up to my chin; at the same -time I heard a succession of feminine shrieks, conspicuous among which -was Cilly’s voice, crying out: - -“Oh, we shall all be murdered. It is a burglar. Throw something at him.” - -And they _did_ throw—first a soap dish, then the poker, then the broom, -and lastly a pair of my old boots. - -“Cilly, Cilly!” I screamed; “are you mad? It’s I, John, drowning in the -cistern.” - -Then such a Babel as ensued; such a scrambling down stairs, and opening -of doors, and thrusting out of tallow candles into the darkness. But I -was out of the cistern by this time, and, wet as a drowned rat, -confronted Cilly in her night-gown and crimping-pins, and asked her -“What the deuse was up?” - -“Oh, John!” she sobbed; “everything is up; the drain,” (that explained -the smell), “the floor, and the pump, and the walk, and I’ve had such a -dreadful time, and mother’s down with the rheumatism, and Jane has -sprained her ankle, and Mary has gone, and I have got such a cold, and -the town is full of burglars, and I thought you were one, and I wish we -hadn’t repaired, it’s all so nasty and awful.” - -The next day, which was Sunday, I had ample time to survey the premises. -There was a double piazza on three sides, which was an improvement; but -the hall door was changed, which wasn’t. Then the little conservatory, -hitched on to the double bay window, which looked like its father, was -doubtful. But all this was nothing to the confusion which reigned at the -back of the house; I only marveled that I had not broken my neck. The -walk was up, the drain was up, the pump was up, the pipes were up, the -cistern floor was up, and the kitchen roof was up, as well, looming into -the sky, but the room was far from being finished. - -Nothing had worked as she hoped it would, Cilly said, and everything -went wrong, especially the eaves-troughs, and conductors, and pipes, and -it always rained just at the wrong time, and the cellar filled with -water, and everything floated like a boat, and the plastering came down -on the stove when Jane was getting dinner, and the soot came down from -the chimney on Mary’s clean clothes, and just as she got them all washed -again and hung out, they came with a lot of lumber and she had to take -them down, and things got so bad that she left in disgust, and Jane had -fallen into the drain and sprained her ankle, and mother was sick in -bed, and the carpets all up, and, worse than all, the Dunnings were -coming next week from New York, and it was more than Cilly could bear. - -Of course, I told her I’d help her bear it, and I put my shoulder to the -wheel and wrote to the Dunnings to defer their visit, and began to -investigate matters, which I found had become a little loose, to say the -least of it. The men were good enough and faithful enough, and the -troubles Cilly had encountered were only the troubles incident upon -repairing any old house, a job which is quite as trying to one’s -patience, and as exasperating as putting up a stove pipe when no one -joint fits another, particularly the elbows, and the result is that new -pipe is almost always bought to take the place of the old. So with our -house; nothing was right, nothing would do again. No matter how good or -how long the piece of conductor, or lead pipe, or bit of siding or -floor, it would not fit, and it went to swell the pile of rubbish which, -in our back yard was almost mountain high, and reminded me of the -excavations in Rome, when I first looked out upon the debris that dreary -Sunday morning. But Monday showed a better state of things. I saw that -the open drain and cistern hurt Cilly the most, and so I had them closed -up first and then plunged into the midst of the repairing, myself, and -was astonished to find how rapidly I began to develop a talent for the -business. I believe, after all, there is something exhilarating in the -smell of fresh plaster, and something exciting in walking over piles of -old lath, and bits of broken siding, and base boards, and moldings, and -matched stuff, and so on through the whole list of terms in a -carpenter’s vocabulary. I came to know them all, from _mitering_ to -_nosing_, though I never rightly made out the orthography of that last -word or its derivation either, but I knew just what it was, and was -great on a squint to see if things were square or _plumb_, as Billy -called it, and I think I made them change one window three times, and a -certain door twice. What a propensity they did have for getting things -wrong, that is, according to my ideas, and poor Cilly had been driven -nearly crazy with windows just where she did not want them, and doors -opening against her furniture. Then, too, she informed me, she began to -suspect that the men thought she was strong-minded, and wanted to vote, -because she superintended them, and was always in the thickest of it, -and exactly in their way. Whether they liked masculine rule better, I -never heard. I only know that they all worked well and faithfully, and -they certainly did get on faster when they were not obliged to pull down -one day what they had done the day before. This had been Cilly’s method -of procedure, aided and abetted by her mother, whom the men stigmatized -as “the old one,” and who spied upon them from every keyhole, and came -unexpectedly upon them from every corner. She was disabled now, and -could only issue daily bulletins to which I paid no heed, and so the -repairs went on, and just three months after the first nail was driven -the last man departed, and we went to work setting to rights, which -would have been delightful business, if only we could have found our -things, but everything was lost or mislaid. Curtain fixtures were gone; -door keys were gone; stair rods were missing; screw drivers and -tack-hammers could not be found; wood-saw broken; both trowels lost; -water pails full of plaster, and all the brooms in the house spoiled, to -say nothing of the dusters and dust pans broken, and dippers lost. - -But then, we had a double piazza, and a place for flowers, and a china -closet so big that I had to spend a hundred dollars to fill it, and our -bed-room has two arches over the south windows, and a raised platform -behind them, and we have each of us a bureau in a dressing-room which -looks like a long hall, and I have four drawers all to myself for my -shirts and neckties, and a quarter of a closet, and there are east -windows and south windows, which make it so bright in the morning that -the flies bite me awfully, and we had to buy a mosquito net to keep them -off, and instead of being disturbed by Mrs. Patterson’s pump, and -looking into nothing but her back yard and kitchen, we now look into -Mrs. Alling’s barn-yard, with a most unsightly corn-crib in the center -of it, and Mrs. Alling’s roosters have a bad habit of crowing every -hour, while at about three or four o’clock in the morning, the noise is -so terrible, that I believe her hens crow too. - -But Cilly likes that—it sounds rural and like the country; and our room -is lovely, with the two broad balconies where we sometimes have tea, -when the west wind is not too strong, the sun too hot, or the mosquitoes -too thick. Then it is such a nice place to smoke, but Cilly never lets -me do that any more; she only smiles so sweetly on her gentlemen -friends, and tells them it’s a nice place, that I am tempted to try it -sometimes surreptitiously, when she and her mother are down town at some -of the temperance meetings, but her mother would smell me a mile off, -and so I forbear. - -Honestly, though, I do enjoy the balconies, and I rather like the arches -over the windows, which I call the _twins_, and which are very pretty. -They ought to be, for they cost enough. I’ve never told Cilly just how -much I paid, besides her brother’s windfall, but when the greedy -assessors tucked an extra four thousand on our house because of the -_improvements_, I wondered how they guessed so accurately. - -We have five spare rooms now, but the new one in the attic, which was -built for Lizzie’s children and the nurse, has never been occupied. The -nurse is afraid to sleep there, you have to pass through such a -menagerie of trunks, and broken chairs, and rag bags, and old hoop -skirts, and cast off pants, and last year’s bonnets, to get to it, that -it gives her the horrors, and as the children will not sleep without -her, that room was made for nothing except to show. - -Mrs. Erastus Lord, senior, is dead, and Cilly was very sorry, when she -died, and I suppose I was sorry, too; and I _know_ I was glad when Mrs. -Erastus, junior, recovered the use of her limbs, and sailed away to -Europe, where she finds the manners and customs more congenial to her -taste than here. - -Cilly and I live very quietly together now, and I do not believe she has -any thought of repairing again, though she has told me in confidence -that the next time she does so, she means to stow the furniture in the -barn, and knock the plaster off from all the old walls, which were so -badly cracked when the house was fixed the last time; but when she -actually gets to that point, as true as my name is John Logan, I’ll lock -her up in a lunatic asylum and then commit suicide. - - - - - THE PASSION PLAY - AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1880. - - -We have seen the great Passion Play, and the day is nearly over which we -have anticipated so long, and to which every plan has been made -subservient, since we crossed the ocean. And now, while the streets are -full of people and the twilight shadows are falling over Mt. Kofel, -where the tall cross shows so conspicuously, I sit down to write my -impressions of the wonderful drama, which, during the summer, has -attracted nearly 100,000 visitors to this little, quiet, old-fashioned -town, among the hills of Bavaria. The high and the low, the rich and the -poor, the titled lord and the lowly peasant meet here together, jostling -side by side, sharing the same fatigue and discomfort, and deeming -neither too great a price to pay for the object they have in view. - -Before speaking of the play in detail, it may not be out of place to say -something of the way to reach Oberammergau, and of the town itself; and -so, first, the journey there. - -Nearly all the Americans and English who visit Oberammergau, make Munich -their starting-point; consequently the city is at this season crowded to -its utmost capacity, and reminds one of Philadelphia during the -Centennial. Naturally a great deal of anxiety is felt by the tourist -with regard to his pilgrimage to the valley of the Ammer, especially as -he hears such exaggerated accounts of the difficulties to be encountered -on the way, and he is at times half tempted to give it up as something -unattainable. When we reached Munich, on Friday, August 20th, and made -inquiries at our hotel as to the probability of our getting tickets for -August 29th, we were looked upon as lunatics for entertaining such a -thought. - -It was impossible under any circumstances to procure a place for the -29th, we were told by the clerk. There would be at least 6,000 people -there, with accommodations for 2,000, and our only way was to wait -quietly at the hotel until Sunday, the 29th; then take Gaze’s tickets, -which were to be had in the office for forty-five marks each, and go to -see the play on Monday, as it was sure to be repeated. - -Gaze, let me say, is an enterprising English tourist agent, who has -opened a hotel at Oberammergau, and advertizes to board and lodge you -for two days and carry you to and from the railway station at Murnau, -where you leave the cars, for forty-five marks, which are equal to -$11.25 of American money,—a pretty good price, it seemed to us, to pay -for two days’ board and a drive of sixteen miles; but we accepted it as -inevitable, and settled down quietly to wait, until Providence threw in -our way an English clergyman, who changed our plans entirely. - -“Don’t believe one word they tell you at the hotels,” he said. “They -wish to keep you here as long as possible. Don’t listen to them. Don’t -touch a Gaze ticket. Don’t touch a Cook ticket. Don’t touch anybody’s -ticket, but just run your own canoe.” - -On second considerations I am inclined to think he did not use that last -expression, which I believe is purely American, but that was what he -meant, and he went on to say: “Write to the burgomaster yourself and ask -for the highest priced tickets. You’ll not get them, but you will get -something. Neither will he answer your letter, but your name will be -recorded and remembered when you prefer your claim. Go on Friday by the -early train to Murnau, where you will find hundreds of carriages waiting -to take you to Oberammergau, and once there, get a place for yourself at -half the sum charged by Gaze or his agents.” - -We followed the Englishman’s advice and wrote to the burgomaster, and on -Friday took the train for Murnau, distant from Munich sixty miles, and -from Oberammergau sixteen. Here we expected our troubles to commence, -for we doubted a little our English friend’s story of the carriages -waiting for us there; but he was right. There were hundreds of -them,—vehicles of every kind,—some good enough for a princess, and some -which looked as if Eve herself might have driven in them, had driving -been one of her pastimes. I even noticed a cow and a horse harnessed -together, but I hardly think they were there for the purpose of getting -passengers. At all events we did not take that establishment, but -chartering one, which had a pair of strong looking horses, we were soon -started on what proved to be the pleasantest drive we ever experienced, -and one we shall never forget. - -There are two routes from Murnau to Oberammergau,—one through the little -village of Oberau and up the famous Mt. Ettal, which is so steep and -long that passengers are obliged to walk up it, or as a writer has -expressed it, “Rich and poor have to struggle with the steepness of Mt. -Ettal for over half an hour, while a pair of the best horses are -struggling hard to draw up an empty carriage.” Marvelous stories are -told of people who have had the apoplexy, and of horses which have died -toiling up this hill, and as none of our party had a fancy to try it, we -chose the other, and to my mind the pleasanter route of the two. It is a -little longer than the one through Ettal, but the road winds alternately -up and over hills neither too long or tiresome, and down through grassy -valleys fresh from a recent shower and sweet with the perfume of new -mown hay, and into which little brooks came tumbling from the mountains -which shelter Oberammergau and which are always in view. Long before we -reached the town I singled out one tall peak which from its peculiar -shape attracted my curiosity and which I found to be the far-famed -Kofel, on which the cross is erected and which bends over the little -hamlet as if in benediction. For this peak the people have a kind of -superstitious reverence, and when asked to repeat their play in America, -they replied, “We would do so gladly, but we must bring our Kofel with -us.” - -As we came down into the valley and passed through Unterammergau our way -lay through a long avenue, bordered on either side with trees of -mountain ash, whose clusters of scarlet berries gave a bit of coloring -to the picture, and thus enhanced its beauty. I wish I could convey to -your minds a correct idea of the loveliness of that valley, and make you -see it, as we saw it that summer afternoon, when the sunlight fell so -softly upon the steep hillsides where the grass was green and smooth as -velvet, and little feathery wreaths of mist were floating on the -mountain tops, reminding one of the patches of snow seen in midsummer in -the Alps of Switzerland. Through the valley the Ammer runs swiftly, -making sundry turns and windings, as it goes singing on its way toward -the deep ravines, which lie beyond Unterammergau. At the end of the -ash-bordered avenue we crossed a little bridge and were at last in -Oberammergau. - -It is not a pretty town, or a clean one either, notwithstanding that a -writer from whom I have before quoted, says, that “it is the cleanest -town in the Bavarian Alps.” Not having seen all the towns in the -Bavarian Alps, I am not prepared to dispute the assertion, but if -Oberammergau is the cleanest, what must the others be? The streets are -very narrow and crooked, and wind here and there in a crazy kind of -manner very bewildering to the stranger, who constantly loses his way. -But there is never any difficulty in finding it again, as the church, -with its peculiar dome, not unlike a Turkish mosque, is a good landmark, -as is also Gaze’s hotel, which stands very nearly in the center of the -town. This last building looks as if it might have been an old barn -before it was converted to its present use. It is very noisy around it, -and dirty, too, in the extreme. The streets do not look as if they were -ever picked up, and the open sewers are simply a nuisance to the eye and -an offense to the nostrils, as are also the stables, of which there are -quite as many as houses. Every dwelling has its barn, where the cows and -horses are kept, and every barn has its manure heap, piled and boarded -with great care, and standing close to the street, and oftentimes under -the very windows of the houses. The fleas are everywhere, and attack you -at all points, and travel over you until you feel like tearing your hair -in utter desperation. And yet we have been told by some that they have -not seen a flea. Truly their lot was cast in a more fortunate locality -than ours. - -The houses of Oberammergau are for the most part small, old-fashioned -and peculiarly shaped, and very few have flowers or trees in front. They -stand mostly in the street, as it were, and are neither homelike nor -inviting in their outward appearance. Of course there are exceptions to -this rule, and we noticed several places where it would be a delight to -stay. But these had probably been engaged for weeks, and when we drove -to one of them which had a pretty yard in front, we were received with a -shake of the head. At last, however, we found rooms in a sort of -_dependence_ to a restaurant near Gaze’s hotel, and though the stables -were here, and more smells than poor, abused Cologne ever boasted, and -though directly under our window there was a beer garden, where I knew -the peasantry would probably spend most of the night, we concluded we -were fortunate to get even such quarters, and tried to feel contented -and cheerful, until in walking about the town we came upon a tiny little -cottage standing in a patch of turnips, with the muck heap behind the -house instead of in front of it. There were some boxes of flowers in the -window, and the face of the old lady who sat on a bench by the door was -so pleasant and attractive that we accosted her, and were told that “we -could have the upper floor if we liked,—would we step in and look?” - -There were but four rooms in the whole house, two below, the kitchen and -the living room,—and two above, but these were scrupulously clean, and -so odd-looking and delightful every way, that we decided at once to take -them. Now, men are supposed to be more courageous than women, but the -head of our party proved the contrary in this instance, and did not -hesitate to say that alone and unprotected he dared not face the woman -with the tumbled hair and dirty hands, who had smiled so blandly when we -took the rooms we were about to give up. He must have help, he said, for -though the Oberammergauers have the reputation of being very heavenly in -their dispositions, he suspected our late hostess might be an exception -to the general rule, and with her voluble French and German and English, -all utterly incomprehensible, prove more than a match for him. So we -went in a body, and I, as the one most interested in the change, -undertook to explain to her very meekly that though her rooms were -excellent in their way, and she herself everything to be desired in a -landlady, I was afraid the beer garden under my window might disturb me, -and we had found rooms in a quieter part of the town, where I should be -more likely to sleep. I might have spared myself the sweetness and -apologies, for they were lost upon her. With fierce gestures and -flashing eyes she poured out a torrent of words, which, as nearly as I -could judge, meant, that of all the mean people it had been her fortune -to meet, we were the meanest and the worst; that her beer garden was as -still as the grave, and if I could not sleep over it, the sooner I got -out of her house, the better; then, taking Mr. Holmes’s traveling bag, -she hurled it into the hall in a fashion which made Walter turn pale, -and showed that she meant business. It was in vain that I tried to -appease her; I only made matters worse, as she grew more furious and -looked as if fully capable of taking me up bodily and throwing me from -the window into her beer garden, the cause of the trouble. So we hurried -away with our bags and bundles and were soon in possession of our new -apartments, to which we ascended by means of a step-ladder, shutting the -trap door behind us. - -What funny little rooms they were, with scarcely space to turn round or -stand upright! We had but one sheet, and our covering was a feather bed, -while one towel served for the day. There were little bits of windows -which opened like doors, and our looking-glass was about a foot square. -There were madonnas and saints and crosses on the wall, and presses -which smelled of mint and musk, and boxes and drawers, and curiosities -of various kinds, but the linen was white as snow, and the bare floor -was clean as soap and water could make it, as was every part of the -house, and with a deep feeling of thankfulness for our good luck, we -disposed of our baggage as well as we could, and went out to see the -town. - -The next day, Saturday, was the day for the arrivals, and from early -morning until night they poured steadily in, until the town was full as -it could hold. Where all the people staid is a mystery. In our little -cottage the family slept in the woodshed, while on the night preceding -the play, some of their friends slept on the floor of the living room. A -full description of the variety of accommodations would fill a volume. -Some of our friends reported no sheet at all upon their beds; others -slept on pillows of hay, while others again boasted two sheets and a -lounge, with preserves and cake for supper. It was very amusing to watch -the new arrivals and see the fastidious lady hold high her silken skirts -and glance ruefully at her dainty boots, as she was set down before a -door which did not look very inviting; to see, too, the Tyrolese peasant -woman, who had walked into town with her basket of provisions on her -arm, and with no idea where she was to sleep. She had no anxiety with -regard to her wooden shoes, nor did she hold up her cotton gown, for it -was already above her ankles and expanded by a hoop, such as was worn -years ago. Her home was far up among the Tyrol mountains, and she had -come miles to see the play; but she was brisk as a bee, and after -greeting her acquaintances, whose costumes, like her own, were of most -wonderful fashion, she started with them across the meadow and up the -steep declivity, in the direction of Mt. Kofel to say her prayers before -the monument. - -This is a marble group, representing a scene from the crucifixion—Christ -upon the cross, with his mother and John standing on either side. It is -the gift of the present king, Ludwig of Bavaria, to the Oberammergauers, -in commemoration of the play of 1870, which he witnessed. It is said to -be the work of Halbig, of Munich, and as a work of art is very -beautiful. As it is very large and stands high, it attracts the -attention at once, and hundreds of the tourists climb the hill to -examine it, while most of the peasantry go there to pray before it, -kneeling, some upon the ground and some upon the wooden benches placed -there for that purpose. The view from the monument is very fine, and of -itself repays one for the fatigue of the ascent. Leading from it to the -village is a higher and dryer, though longer road than the one across -the meadow, and this we took on our return, following it until we -reached the Church of Oberammergau. - -It stands very near the swiftly running Ammer, in which some peasants -were washing their clothes when we crossed the bridge and entered the -church yard, where the curious crosses and headstones which marked the -graves of the dead made us linger a while to examine them and read the -names and dates upon them. It would seem that almost a third of the -persons buried there were Langs. Indeed, the Lang family is a very large -one in Oberammergau. The burgomaster is a Lang; St. John is a Lang; Mary -Magdalen is a Lang; Caiaphas is a Lang, and several of the singers are -also Langs. - -The church itself is not very large or pretentious outwardly, and we -were surprised to find so much ornamentation inside. There was too much -gilding, it seemed to us, and the effect was rather tawdry than -otherwise. There were a few good pictures, and under a glass case in an -angle near the altar is the skeleton of a woman, elaborately and richly -dressed, but looking ghastly and horrible to those unaccustomed to such -sights. The church is chiefly interesting as being in one sense the -training school for the Passion Play. With its ceremonies, its -processions, its music and its singing, it prepares the actors for the -parts they take, and keeps the scenes of the betrayal and crucifixion -constantly in their minds. Its pastor, the good and aged Daisenberger, -should be mentioned here as being closely identified with the play as it -now appears upon the stage. He was the son of a peasant and is now -eighty-two years of age. His youth was spent in the monastery of Ettal, -with Othmar Weiss, who revised the old Passion Play and adapted it to -more modern ideas. In 1845 Daisenberger became the head of the church in -Oberammergau and made many changes in the play, striking out whatever he -thought objectionable or absurd, and materially elevating its tone. He -has also written several plays of a more secular character, which are -repeated during the long winter months and constitute the only amusement -of the little town. At these dramatic representations he directs and -arranges in person, and when he is gone, his place cannot well be -filled. The selection of the actors for the Passion Play devolves upon a -committee of forty-five householders, with Daisenberger at their head, -and the election takes place the last week of the December previous to -the play. All the members attend divine worship first, as they never do -anything without a prayer for guidance, and this it is which makes the -great drama seem so sacred and holy. To them it is not to be lightly -entered into, and the characters are chosen from the best citizens, -whose lives are known to be perfectly upright and without reproach. - -Precisely at seven o’clock on the evening preceding a play, the actors -assemble at the extreme end of the village, opposite the house of Tobias -Flunger, the Christus of 1850, and there form a procession, which, -headed by the band playing a lively tune, marches through the principal -streets to the meadow near the theatre, where they disband and return to -their several homes. It has been said that there is no rest in -Oberammergau on the night before a play, but we did not find it so. It -was very quiet around our cottage, and after ten o’clock scarcely a -sound was heard till morning, when at five o’clock the booming of the -cannon planted at the foot of Mt. Kofel awoke the slumbering people and -told them that the business of the day had commenced. The first gun was -followed by several others in quick succession until everybody was -awake. The actors—and, including the musical characters, there are -nearly five hundred in all—hurried to the church, where mass was -performed, as a preparation for what was to follow, while the visitors -hastened to get their breakfasts, so as to be at the theatre when the -doors opened. - -There are but few reserved seats, and as these are taken weeks in -advance, our tickets merely entitled us to seats in a certain _platz_, -or division, without designating any particular spot. - -The theatre is plain and unpretending outwardly, being built wholly of -boards, with no attempt at ornament of any kind. Inside it is also very -simple and has evidently never had much money expended upon it. Its -auditorium is 118 feet wide by 168 feet deep, and it occupies an area of -nearly 20,000 square feet, and is capable of seating an audience of from -5,000 to 6,000 people. There are visible to the spectator five distinct -places of action. First is the proscenium for choruses and processions, -and as this part of the stage is not under cover, the singers are always -exposed to the weather, and stand, a part of the time, with the sun -shining directly in their faces. When it rains they have no alternative -but to bear it, and we were told that they sometimes sang with umbrellas -over their heads. - -The second place is the central stage for the _tableaux vivants_ and the -usual dramatic scenes; the third and fourth, which are reached by -stairs, are the palace of Annas and the palace of Pilate, while the -fifth represents the streets of Jerusalem. - -Thus there is plenty of room, and never any undue crowding, even when -hundreds are on the stage, as in some of the tableaux. In front of, and -facing the theatre proper, is the long area occupied by the spectators -and divided into compartments varying in price from eight marks ($2) to -one mark (25 cents). The eight-mark seats are reserved, and have backs, -but all the others are simply benches, with nothing to lean upon, and -those nearest the stage, in the one-mark places, have no cover of any -kind; consequently, when it rains or the sun is very hot, those -unfortunate enough to be in that locality are neither comfortable nor -happy, especially as umbrellas are not allowed to be raised on account -of those behind, whose view would be obstructed. And yet, in default of -getting any thing better, these places are eagerly sought after, and -some stand through the entire play rather than not see it. - -The broad space overhead is left open for the sake of the beautiful -landscape, which adds greatly to the effect. Casting your eye over and -beyond the stage, you see directly in front the quiet valley, with the -Ammer flowing through it; to the right are steep hillsides clothed with -grass, and dotted here and there with trees of fir, while to the left -and farther back Mt. Kofel lifts his cross-crowned head, and looks down -upon the play. A more lovely background could not be devised, and when -the eye was tired with the scenes upon the stage it was such a rest to -let it wander away to the green fields beyond, even if it did detect a -wicked Oberammergauer fishing complacently in the river, unmindful of -the commandment respecting the Sabbath day. Perhaps he thought he was -quite as well occupied as we, and others may think so, too, but these -have never seen the Passion Play, and do not know how forcible is the -lesson it teaches, or how real it makes what before has seemed so misty -and vague to those who cannot easily grasp the man Christ and make him -seem human and life-like. - -By half-past seven the theatre was full of eager, curious people, -gathered from all parts of the world, and from every station in life, -from the nobility of aristocratic England down to the lowly peasant of -the Tyrol. Even royalty is sometimes represented, but the “blue box” set -apart for it was vacant to-day, for the Duke of Edinburgh, though -expected, it was rumored, did not come, and only Lord Houghton and Lady -Stanley and Lady George Gordon drew the eyes of the curious in that -direction. At last, the booming of the cannon was heard again, and then -over the waiting thousands there fell a hush of expectancy, while the -orchestra played a sweet and simple overture. Could we then have looked -behind the curtain which shut the stage from us, a novel and touching -sight, such as is not often seen upon the boards of a theatre, would -have met our view. Five hundred people kneeling in silent prayer and -asking God’s blessing upon what they were about to do. Again the booming -of the cannon was heard, followed quickly by the third and last. It was -eight o’clock; the curtain was drawn, the chorus of singers appeared -upon the stage, and the “Passion Play” we had come so far to see, had -commenced. - -As most of our readers know, the Passion Play is performed in -fulfillment of a vow made by the people in 1633, when a fearful -pestilence was ravaging the villages in the valley. For a long time -Oberammergau was free from the plague, owing to the strictness of the -sanitary precautions; but it was brought to them at last by a laborer, -who had been working in an infected district, and who succeeded in -entering the town to see his wife and children. In a day or two he was -dead, and so rapidly did the disease spread, that in thirty-three days -eighty-four persons belonging to the village died. Then it was that the -terrified inhabitants met together and made a solemn vow that if God -would remove the dreadful scourge they would perform the Passion Play -every ten years. From that time there were no more deaths in -Oberammergau, and the play was acted the following year, 1634. The -decaded period, however, was not chosen until 1680, and since that time -the play has been performed every ten years, with more or less -interruptions. It must, however, have been known to the peasantry of -Bavaria before 1633, as history speaks of it at a much earlier period. -Since 1634 it has undergone many changes and modifications and been -stripped of much that was absurd and offensive. Once the devil was a -constant actor upon the stage, and used to dance around Judas during the -temptation, and when at last the betrayer hanged himself, a host of -demons rushed upon him, as if to bear him away to endless torment. -Later, too, the spectators were wont to groan and hiss when he appeared, -and even pelt him with dirt and stones, so that it was difficult to find -a man with sufficient nerve to take the part of _Judas_. Now, however, -this is changed, and the good taste of the Geistlicher-Rath -Daisenberger, is perceptible in every part of the play. In 1870 the play -was broken up by the Franco-German war. Forty of the Ammergauers were -called into the Bavarian army, and among them Joseph Maier, the -_Christus_ of that year. When the news of peace reached the valley, -fires were lighted on every mountain top from the Adenwald to the Tyrol, -and the villagers resolved to give a repetition of the play by way of -thanksgiving. It was a great success, and thousands of tourists went to -witness it, all of whom were loud in their praises of Joseph Maier, -whose acting cannot be excelled, and who, after the burgomaster, is -looked up to by the peasantry as a man second only in importance to the -good Daisenberger himself. But of him I shall speak more particularly by -and bye. I wish now to describe the opening scene, which heralded the -beginning of the play. - -The chorus of Schutzgeister, or Guardian Angels, as they are called, is -a peculiar feature of the Ammergau stage and adds greatly to the -interest. The chorus consists of twenty-six singers, and the leader is -styled the Prologue, or _choragus_. Immediately after the third and last -cannon they appear, thirteen on a side, and march slowly and solemnly -into line. Their dresses are of various colors, and over them a white -tunic or colored mantle is worn, giving them a picturesque and oriental -appearance. Among them are several young women, some of whose faces are -very pretty and sweet, and they seem to feel that it is a religious duty -rather than a pleasure to stand thus before the five thousand pairs of -eyes gazing so fixedly at them. Each act of the play is preceded by one -or two _tableaux vivants_, as symbols or prophecies of scenes in the -life of Christ, and it is the part of the _choragus_, or chief singer, -to describe these tableaux and the lesson they are intended to teach. -This he does in song, his companions taking up the chorus at intervals, -and making the whole very impressive and interesting, especially as some -of the solos are finely rendered, in voices clear and sweet, if not -highly cultivated. The song or recitation ended, the _choragus_ steps -backwards and with half the singers marches to the left of the stage, -while the other half retire to the right, where they stand motionless as -statues, while the curtain is withdrawn from the inner stage, and the -tableau is exposed to view for two or three minutes, while, watch as -closely as you may, you cannot detect the slightest movement in the mass -of humanity so artistically grouped together. - -The first tableau represented Adam and Eve being driven from the -Paradise, which lay in the background, while, conspicuous in the center -of the garden, was the tree of life, laden with fruit, and among its -branches, the tempter, in the form of a serpent, was coiled. The second -tableau, which follows immediately after the close of the chorus, -revealed a large cross planted on a rock, with crowds of children -dressed in white kneeling around it in a worshiping attitude. The -prayers the children are supposed to be saying, are sung by the chorus, -who retire from the stage, and the first act of the great drama -commences. - -Shouts of rejoicing and notes of glad singing were faintly heard, -seeming at first so far away that one could easily believe they came -from the green hilltops, seen over and beyond the theatre; nearer and -nearer they came, until the long procession appeared in view, and the -shouts and singing grew louder, as the thronging crowds, carrying palms -in their hands, welcomed to Jerusalem their master. Then it is that you -see _Joseph Maier_—the central figure of the play—the one on whom every -eye is fixed whenever he appears, and the sight of whom makes your heart -throb faster as you remember that the scenes you look upon were once a -reality, when Jerusalem opened wide her gates, and her streets resounded -with the loud hosannas of the multitude doing honor to the man riding in -their midst. A better _Christus_ than Joseph Maier could not have been -selected. Tall, finely formed, with a sad, pale face, and long, flowing -hair, he impresses you at once, and your first thought is what a -splendid looking man, and how well fitted for his part—a conviction -which deepens as the play progresses, and you watch him in all the -varied situations he has to fill. Not a trace of self-consciousness is -ever perceptible in his manner, which is always dignified and -self-possessed, like one who feels himself the master. His voice is -clear, and full, and rich, and you find yourself constantly listening -for it, especially toward the last, when the musical tones are full of -anguish or tender expostulation and disappointment, as he says to his -sleeping disciples: “Could ye not watch with me one hour?” - -As a general thing, he was well sustained. Judas was inimitable, and -considering the character he had to take, may almost be said to be -better than Joseph Maier himself. With the latter every heart was in -sympathy, while for Judas there naturally could be but one feeling, and -that of indignation, but so powerfully was he tempted by the artful -Pharisees, and so hard and long did he struggle against the temptation, -and so bitter was his repentance when the deed was done, that you have -only a deep sympathy for him as he stands alone by himself and gives -vent to his remorse. I can see him now so plainly as he walked the -stage, wringing his hands in his despair, and catching at his long gray -hair as he lamented his folly, and with bitter cries mourned for the -dear friend he had betrayed. You do not see him hang himself, but you -see him make a rush at the mountain ash, placed there for that purpose, -and which hardly looks as if it would sustain him. But the curtain falls -in time to shut out any inconsistencies, and poor Judas “goes to his own -place,” and is seen no more. - -Next to _Judas_ in point of acting comes rash, impetuous and cowardly -_Peter_, who, even if you did not know the story, would impress you as a -loving, true hearted man, sure to weep bitterly over the denial called -forth by fear, and to be among the first to seek the tomb of the risen -Saviour. - -_John_, the beloved, was a little too tame and quiet for the part he -took, while _Magdalen_ was an utter failure. One great feature of the -play was the perfect self-forgetfulness of the actors, but this did not -apply to _Magdalen_, whose self-consciousness was so apparent and whose -voice was so unnatural and peculiar that we were sorry when she appeared -and glad when she left the stage. Her personal appearance was quite -contrary to one’s idea of the _Magdalen_, to whom the old masters always -gave long, flowing hair of a reddish or golden hue, for hers was dark -and so short and thin that to wipe one’s feet with it was an utter -absurdity. She might, of course, have called in art to her assistance, -and worn hair of wondrous length and thickness, but such deceptions are -unknown to the Magdalen of Oberammergau, whose locks were all her own, -as were the few attractions she possessed. The Madonna, on the contrary, -was excellent, with a fair, sweet face, which would lead us to question -the propriety of selecting so young a person for the mother of Christ, -if we did not know that the Bavarian peasantry believe in the perpetual -youth and beauty of the Virgin Mary. The parting scene between the -mother and her son before he goes up to Jerusalem is very touching and -sad, for Mary’s heart is wrung with dismal forebodings of some evil -which will befall her child, and her voice is full of pathos and -entreaty, while with infinite love and tenderness he bends over her -trying to reassure and comfort her. This is the third act, and after the -supper in Simon’s house, where Mary anointed the Saviour’s head, and -Judas was filled with horror at the useless expenditure of the three -hundred pence. - -The second act, of which I omitted to speak, represented the high -priests in session, and consulting together how to secure the person of -Christ. Conspicuous among these was _Caiaphas_, who was admirably -represented by one of the Langs, and who never for an instant forgot the -part he was acting, or ceased to be other than the proud and despotic -man thirsting for the blood of the lowly Nazarene. - -In the fourth act we had the temptation of Judas, and in the fifth the -institution of the Lord’s Supper, when Christ washed his disciples’ -feet, and foretold that one of them should betray him. Next we saw the -Garden of Gethsemane, over which the shadows of night hung darkly, and -where the Saviour, in his great agony, prayed for the cup to pass from -him, if possible; while, a little apart, his disciples were sleeping -heavily. In the distance and gradually approaching nearer, the sound of -loud, excited voices and hurried footsteps was heard, as the Roman -soldiers, with the Pharisees and chief priests, approached, led by -Judas, who even then seemed to hesitate before giving the kiss of -betrayal. The text of the history is here followed very closely, and -ends with the captivity of the Saviour, who is borne away by the -soldiers. - -By this time it was nearly twelve, and an intermission of an hour was -given, in which the spectators hurried to their lunch and were again in -their places by the time the cannon in the meadows announced that the -drama was about to be resumed. - -As in the morning we followed the Saviour from his entry into Jerusalem -up to his betrayal, so in the afternoon we followed him to his -crucifixion and death, and saw him first before Annas, then before -Caiaphas, and then before Pilate, who strove so hard to save him, and -who, hoping to awaken the sympathy of the people for the man whose life -they sought, ordered Barabbas to be brought forth and placed side by -side with the noble captive. Where they picked up Barabbas is a marvel. -With long grey hair, which looked as if it never had been combed, and a -face from which you instinctively recoiled, he was led upon the stage by -a halter or chain,—a marked contrast to the calm, quiet dignity of -Joseph Maier, who, bound and bleeding from his recent scourging and the -crown of thorns, stood beside him before the rabble thirsting for his -blood and crying out, “Give us the Nazarene and let Barabbas go.” - -Matters now are hurried on with great rapidity, and as the end comes -nearer and nearer, the hush which all along has pervaded that vast -concourse grows more and more profound, and the tension to which the -peoples’ nerves are strung reaches its climax, when in the fifteenth act -you see the long procession winding its way up to Calvary, with the -white-faced, worn-out Saviour tottering under the weight of his heavy -cross, while the brutal soldiery urge him to greater speed, and the -infuriated mob rend the air with their shouts of hatred and derision. -Then the tears which have so long been kept back overflow, and the heart -throbs with a keen sense of love and pity and sympathy, not for _Joseph -Maier_, but for the man Christ, to whom this, which now is only acting, -was once a terrible reality, and who really trod the weary road to -Calvary, and bore not only the ponderous cross but the sins of the whole -world. Every one was more or less affected, and the silence of the -audience was almost painful in its intensity, though broken occasionally -by a suppressed whisper or low cry, as the crowd increased and the -boisterous shouts grew louder and the mob hurried the Saviour on, until -from sheer exhaustion he fell upon the ground, and the cross was finally -laid upon the shoulders of Simon of Cyrene, who conveniently appeared -with a carpenter’s basket on his arm. This ascent to Calvary is, I -think, more effective and affecting than the crucifixion, which is, -however, a most marvelous piece of acting, and seems terribly real as -you gaze at the central figure upon the cross, and fancy you see the -death struggle from the beginning, until the white, worn face drops -downward, and you are glad with a great gladness that all is over. - -Thenceforward there is more stir among the people, and the tired ones, -who have sat so long, unmindful of fatigue, change their positions and -breathe more freely as they wait for the scene of the resurrection. -This, some critics say, might be omitted—that the play is long enough -without it; but I hardly agree with them, for what would the crucifixion -avail without the rising from the dead? And when at last the rock is -rolled away and Jesus is alive again and speaks to the loving Mary, you -experience something of the same thrill you feel on Easter morning, and -your thoughts go back to the dear home church across the sea, where you -have so often heard the Easter bells and joined in the Easter songs. -Loudly and joyfully the singers take up the chorus, “He is risen, He is -risen,” and if your tongue were tuned to their language you would almost -join them in their exultant strains. But a tableau representing the -ascension is to follow, and you sit quietly till that is over; then, -singing the final hallelujah chorus, the Schutzgeister slowly retire -from the stage and the play is over, and we leave the theatre with a -feeling that we have witnessed something which for all time to come, -will, like some earnest, heart-stirring sermon, repeat itself over and -over again in our minds, until we are made better by it. - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. P. 48, changed “Adelaide said, ingly” to “Adelaide said, jingly”. - 2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - 5. 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